Christmas on Providence Drive

When we are children, the world becomes a place of wonder at Christmas time. Everyone seems to be in on it. City and town councils have the streets specially decorated with lights and greenery. Seasonal music surrounds us in the stores and malls. Neighbors bake cookies and treats and leave them at each other’s doorsteps. People smile and wave at one another and exchange season’s greetings. Today I am letting go of my cynicism about Christmas. There are plenty of folks writing about that. I will choose today to remember with fondness the beauty and wonderment that I have experienced at Christmas. This is for my mother, Margaret Franklin, who loved and sometimes lived for all things Christmas. 

 My earliest memories are of Christmas on Providence Drive in Charlotte. There are only a few years that I recall when our entire family all lived in the same house. We lived in a cozy little cottage style home nestled between Cotswold and Eastover. My parents, two older brothers, and my big sister all shared one bathroom. Of course, as the baby of the family, I was always up first. I would race down from my attic room, before daylight, to wake my parents. They would say that I was too early, but they would let me wait at the foot of their bed until they were ready. Most likely, Randy was the next one up. This is when Mom and Dad would give the OK to start getting up. Mom would make us wait while she fixed coffee for her and Dad. Dad would knock on Hope’s door off the hallway where we waited. The door out to the living room would be closed. Just on the other side waited the tree surrounded by wrapped gifts from our parents and bigger unwrapped gifts from Santa. Mom would wake Tommy from his basement room and bring him through the dining room into the hall with us. Dad would crack the door to the living room just enough to go through and start the Christmas music on the old Zenith console stereo. Without fail, Mom would start saying in an excited tone, “Did Santa come?” over and over to get us extra revved up. Then Dad would open the door wide, and I would race in to see what Santa had brought. One year a new bicycle, another a Lionel train set. It was always something special and we were lucky that our parents saved and scrimped to be able to make this magic happen for four kids. We would shout out our excitement over the big gifts, and then Mom would remind us to check our stockings. The stockings were packed mostly with candy, but the toe was always rounded out nicely by a real Florida Orange or two. If it was the weather was cool enough, there would be a fire in the fireplace to warm us as we all took turns opening our gifts. Then it was time to take our gifts to our rooms and lay them all out on our beds so that we could show them to whoever might visit that day. 

At their house, Mamaw and Papaw would do the same in anticipation of our visit to see them a little later in the morning. They were prolific greeting card senders, so they also received more Christmas cards than anyone I knew. They had so many, that they would run strings across the room, near the ceiling and hang the cards for all to see. Then it was time to have Christmas dinner. On Christmas day, lunch is called dinner. This was one of the rare occasions that the grandchildren were allowed to go into the formal rooms at Mamaw and Papaws’ house. The food would be out buffet style on the fancy dining room table. I could see the virtually untouched and poshly furnished living room from here. We got a glimpse, which made the day a bit more magical, and then were shuffled back into the Den and breakfast area. Sometimes we were there at the same time as our cousins. We would have each brought along a special gift to show each other. We would all be allowed to go in my grandparents’ bedroom to see their gifts neatly arranged and displayed on their king-sized bed. They had the only king-sized bed I had ever seen. It seemed so luxurious. Mamaw and Papaw grew up on farms near small towns, but they enjoyed nice things. After the hoopla, we would say our farewells. Papaw would do his special double handed, thumb twirling wave at us as we drove away. Mamaw would blow kisses and occasionally hold up one foot and wave at us with it. We always honked the horn as we drove away. 

 The rest of the day would be up to each of us individually. I would hop on the new bike or run as fast as I could to the neighborhood kids houses and we would all compare the loot we hauled in that day. Supper would be leftovers from Christmas dinner, packed and sent home with us by Mamaw. It was a big day, and we were all exhausted but happily content as we got ready for bed. 

 My mother was happiest when family spent time together. She was so proud of us all and she made sure that we all felt special. Our happiness was her happiness. And on Christmas she always did all she could to make us the happiest kids on earth.

I miss the way Mom and Dad talked.

I miss the way my parents talked. I love accents. 

Colloquial pronunciations, phrases, and speech patterns seem to be disappearing. I believe that mass communication like radio and TV have played a part in watering down our familiar ways of speaking. When I was a kid in the 70’s, I watched The Brady Bunch and The Partridge family. The actors spoke as if they had no accent at all. Some of it rubbed off on my generation. Migration played a role in softening our accents as well. During my elementary school years, there was only one family that I knew that was from somewhere besides Charlotte. It was a place called New York City. The Carney’s were our next-door neighbors and they spoke very differently from us. When their nephew, Jerry, would visit from New York, it was like some exotic foreigner had come to town. We asked him about the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building. We were astonished that Jerry had been to neither of them. I wish that I had managed to hang on more to the gentile and lyrical way my parents spoke. I mean, I still pronounce many words just like my parents did, but it does not sing and flow or follow the same cadence. The way they waxed poetic about the pinkness of the sky as we took a sunset boat ride up the main channel of Lake Norman. The sun would disappear just beyond the tree-lined shore. Their words sauntered like a walk along a meandering path. My parents were both born and raised in Charlotte, North Carolina in the 40s and 50s. People from other parts of the United States probably thought that all southerners sounded the same. They could not discern a Piedmont accent from an Appalachian or Coastal accent. To some we just all sounded southern, which is fine, but do not confuse southern with Country. Country is not just in the south. North Carolina is blessed with three distinct geographical regions. For most of our history, geography kept Carolinians somewhat isolated. Our coastal areas were difficult to navigate due to treacherous shoals and shallow sounds. Before modern highways, the Appalachian Mountains were only reached by those who had previously resided hilly country in some other part of the world. Charlotte sits squarely in the Piedmont. Charlotteans, and residents of the other mid-size cities in the Piedmont developed a style of elocution that was Charleston elegant, without the haughtiness. My parents spoke in an elegant, yet humble tone. I find that a difficult line to walk the talk, but it was second nature to them. I can hear a Charlotte accent a mile away. Several months ago, an elderly gentleman came into a store where I was working. His accent was exactly like my fathers. I asked if he happened to grow up in Eastover or Myers Park, both are old Charlotte areas where my father had spent his childhood. The man seemed happy I noticed and said that he had indeed grown up in Eastover. He even shared a memory of having a grade school crush on my father’s sister Mary Josephine! My Aunt Jo. When I hear someone from Charlotte speak in that old Charlotte way, it melts my heart. Sometimes I hear my parents in the voices of their friends that are still with us, like Nancy Thomas and Catherine Barnhardt Browning. I hear the warmth of my mother’s tone in the natural drawl spoken by my cousins Marimac and Suzanne. They managed to hang on to more than I did. My siblings and I sound like each other. We certainly use phrases that came directly from our parents. Yet, Charlotte has grown so much that most folks are from somewhere else. All those new bits and pieces of language work their way in to and meld with our own and create something new. I guess that is the way language works. But I would give the world to hear Mom to say that something is, “just wuhndehrful,” once more. I want to hear her kind, soft southern voice say, “It’ll be bettahr in the morning. Ev’rything seems worse at night. I want to hear my Dad say that he can’t talk on the phone right now because, “I’m holdin’ court on the patio.” Oh to hear him say any of these things one more time! “I’m watching the Golf Toonament.” “Pass the Wooster, please.” “These pi-tachios are great”. I want him to tell me how much he always loved my “muhther.”

Sweet Treats at the 7-11

When I was ten years old, I was filled with delicious anticipation whenever I took a little spin on my bike to the 7-11.  The pockets of my camp pants would be heavily weighted down change that I had scrounged around for. It was amazing how careless adults were with their money!  Pennies, Nickels, dimes, and an occasional Quarter or two were everywhere in our house. In junk drawers, under cushions, in little knick-knack dishes, and old beer steins. Once I was satisfied that I had found all the dough I could, I was off to purchase as much candy as my newly found treasure would buy. But, it could not be just any candy. It had to be a carefully chosen mix of good candy that also offered a high return on investment. My profit was sweetness and the goal was to buy an assortment that would last a very long time. It was the 1970s, and the candy racks were filled with varieties that have mostly disappeared from the shelves today.

There was logic behind each selection I made. My pocket change would only go so far. I knew that to get my money's worth, I would have to purchase a certain amount of what the old folks called penny candy. These were more like nickel or dime candy in my day. My go-to for this category were called bb-bats!  bb-bats were basically a kind of flavored taffy on a paper stick. They came in fruit flavors that had that off-kilter, uncanny, artificial taste to them. Banana was my favorite. Strawberry was a distant second. I would get about four or five of these and still have plenty of coins remaining.

Next, I had to decide what my major purchase would be. Which candy bar or two would I spend up to 35 cents on? This was a make or break decision. I could have gone for a classic like a Snickers, but that would be a mistake. It would be at the top end of the price range and it was shorter than some other bars to boot. My decision usually boiled down to this: 

Choice A: I could go with a Marathon bar. It was 8 inches long!  And we knew that because they printed a ruler right on the package.  We had been taught in school that the metric system was coming to America any day then. So, the good folks at the Marathon bar company had included centimeters on the ruler as well. I now knew that 8 inches equaled twenty centimeters.

 I believe that is the only metric conversion that I still know today.

Choice B:  The less obvious, but equally compelling option of the enigmatic
Nestle's Choco-Lite bar. Was it a weird texture? Was there something a little off with the flavoring? The answer was yes, on both counts. It was described as being filled with crispy chips. I do not know what chips they are talking about. In my experience there was nothing but little air holes dispersed throughout the whole candy bar. The wrapper boasted that it would give me a special chocolaty feeling. Notice they said chocolaty, not chocolate. But, it had a couple of things going for it.  First, it was usually priced a bit lower than the other bars. And second, I have to admit that there was something to that bit about a special chocolaty feeling. It seemed to make the sweetness linger a little longer on my tongue.

Usually, I had enough to purchase both bars, as long as I bypassed some of the other similarly priced non-bar candy.  So, my other option might be to get the Marathon bar. It would take a long time to chew through 8 inches of the chocolate coated and extra-chewy caramel filling. Instead of the chocolaty air-hole bar, I could go with something much more sugary. I often went for the Fun Dip. Whoever invented this was a genius! It was basically a laminated foil pouch filled with flavored sugar crystals. The brilliance was in the method that the good folks at fun dip invented for eating the sugary powder. In a separate compartment in the pouch was a little stick made of compressed sugar. So, you would lick the sweet stick to wet it with your saliva, and then dip the sticky-stick into the flavored sugar. It was like magic the way the colorful sugar crystals would then cling to the stick. Then you return the coated, sugary utensil back to your mouth to suck the flavored crystal right off of it. This process was then repeated over and over until all the fun dip was gone. You had no choice at this point then but to finish off the much diminished stick.

There were other choices that could be made. Some of my other options included a candy that offered more than just a sweet flavor. Zotz were little hard candies with a wicked surprise. Soon after you popped it in your mouth, you would feel a little bit of some fizzy, sweet and sour, substance begin to leak from inside the hard shell. Not long after that, the candy shell would give way to a complete release of its fizzy center. It virtually exploded in your mouth, and soon you would feel like a rabid dog foaming at the mouth.  Everyone raves about Pop-Rocks, but they had nothing on Zotz. 

Some others that might make it in my mix were candies like Now & Laters, which we called something that sounded like Ni-ar-laters. They were basically little, sour blocks of taffy. I also enjoyed Sugar Daddy's. Not the most politically sensitive name for a candy. Speaking of politically incorrect, I occasionally bought candy cigarettes. They were a clear attempt to normalize smoking, but back then I just thought they made me look cool. They tasted like sweet chalk, but flavor was not really the point.

The candy that disappointed me the most were called Bottle Caps. They were shaped like the caps on soda bottles. They were supposed to have soda flavorings. They were  flavors like cola or root beer,  and orange or grape soda. They tasted awful. It was a great concept, but can you imagine if they had done this right? What if they had combined efforts with one of the major soda makers. You could have had more genuine flavors. They could have capitalized on the name recognition of Coca-Cola or Pepsi-Cola. A real missed opportunity.

These days I can not eat candy in the kind of quantities I did as a kid. I believe it would be the end of me if I did. 

I still have a sweet tooth though. 

And I still get that delicious anticipatory feeling when I drive my car to  the 7-11 to grab a zero-sugar Monster drink and a one dollar  pack of two freshly baked cookies, no bag please. 

Check out Marathon bar commercial here.

I Remember Places

“There are places I remember 

in my life, though some have changed 

Some forever not for better 

Some have gone and some remain.”

John Lennon

There are places that I remember in clear detail.  In my life, hardly any places remain as they were. However, I can call them up from the files in my brain and magically transport myself to them as they existed before. My mother re-entered the workforce when I was about ten years old. I had lots of time to explore and roam free, by myself. We lived in Charlotte on a street of small cottages between Eastover and Cotswold. These neighborhoods were divided by, Briar Creek, one of Charlotte’s main waterways. On our side of Briar Creek, there was a pocket of woods with trails, a tributary creek, four small lakes, and a real waterfall.

I spent countless hours exploring every inch of these woods without supervision. I could never become bored in these woods. There were always things to do. I could build little boats made of twigs and send them sailing down the creek. Would my small vessels make it past the boulders, through the rapids, to land safely in a large and calm pool that beavers had created by building a dam? It was a perilous journey for a boat made of twigs. Some made it, some did not.

I look back on the woods now with reverence. For me, it is a sacred place. It may not exist now as it did then, but it remains the same in my mind. I can go back anytime I want and traverse the trails that my feet took so many steps along. I can close my eyes and step into the Morrison’s yard where I would cut across to make my way to the foot of the waterfall. In my mind, I can hear the water spilling over the concrete dam and crashing over the rocks that have been unearthed by the current. I can visualize the old split rail fence that had collapsed in places making it easy to cross into the woods. 

There was an easy spot to rock-hop across the creek to get to the main part of the woods. This was where the trail began. Then it went up a steep hill beside the waterfall, past the first lake which was created by the dam. This is where the trail turned back in the opposite direction and leveled off. From there I made my way to the second lake; an old, abandoned rock quarry. There were two huge boulders that served as a kind of overlook. Sometimes, I might just sit there for a while. If the water was clear, you could sometimes spot an old cart that was used to haul rocks deep beneath the surface. A little further down the trail was a spot known as “Skipper’s Island.” This is where the older kids would hang out when they skipped school, hence the name. Skipper’s Island was really a peninsula that jutted out into the third lake, which was more of a wetland than a lake. It was not deep, and the ground was always soggy around it. Neither the rock quarry nor the lake at Skipper’s Island were connected to the creek.

From Skippers Island, I could backtrack down the trail which then continued to follow the bends in the creek. This part of the trail was high above the creek. The water had cut deep into the earth creating two opposing red-clay walled cliffs. From the trail, you could look over the cliff's edge and see the deep pool built by  beavers.  The water was green and murky. I once saw some sort of giant lizard leap from the top of the cliff and land right in the pool. No one believed me when I told them about it.

Moving along, the trail made its way down a slope and through a wide gulley. The gulley opened to an old wood and rope bridge that connected back to the other edge of the Morrisons yard. Sometimes I might cross the bridge and head back home. Sometimes I would continue following the creek. The trail was not as reliable the rest of the way, but it was easy rock hopping once I was this far downstream of the waterfall. Near the bridge was an area called, “Sand Circle.” A sandy spot encircled by trees that had fallen during a tornado that touched down there. The sand was yellow and flecked with shiny mica. There were freshwater clam shells everywhere. I liked to dig through the sand to find large pieces of mica. For me, it was like finding gold.

At this point, the creek was shallow enough to ford. Once on the opposite side of the creek, the trail was narrow and uneven. This was where I was most likely to slip and would end up getting soaked in creek water. But the last leg of the trail was worth the risk. As I rounded the last bend, lake number four would come into view. It was the largest lake. The trail side of the lake was wooded. The other side was not. There was a large and lush lawn that gently sloped upwards to a stately two-story brick home. To me, it was a mansion. There were mansions on the trail side as well, but they were hidden by the dense woods. I would make my way along the shoreline, wondering what would happen if someone saw me. Would they yell at me to get off their property? No one ever saw me though.

Stonebridge was the final stop and it was at the far end of the lake. Just in front of the bridge was a dam built from stones that matched the bridge. The water did not cascade over this dam like the one at the waterfall. Instead, it trickled out of old pipes that jutted out of the dam. The bridge crossed over the creek and was adjacent to the dam. I would make my way across the road and down the embankment to stand under the bridge. In my memory, it was always cooler under that bridge than anywhere else. I felt safe there. I felt safe in the these woods. I can’t imagine my childhood without them. 

I usually followed Stonebridge Lane back to Vernon Drive. It was an easy walk from there to our cottage on Providence Drive. Remnants of the woods remain, but most of my woods are gone. For some people, the woods were just an opportunity for development and profit. For me, they were so much more. The woods were my refuge. The time I spent in the woods gave me confidence to be self-reliant. 

The woods were my friend.

There are places we remember. I remember the woods.

Me and Uncle Ted

I want to tell you all about my Uncle Ted or Theron C. Teagle, Sr. Many people knew him much better than I. But each of us all have our own private relationships with the people in our lives. So, each of us have as many stories of who we are, as there are people in our lives. Even those that we have only brief encounters with may develop a story of who we are if the encounter is especially unique or emotional. Uncle Ted died this past Monday at age 94. He was the widower of my late Aunt Mary Josephine, my father's sister. Together, they were Aunt Jo and Uncle Ted. Uncle Ted was the last living member of my parent's generation of our family. His passing makes the absence of my own parents seem even more distant. He was the last one to have real live memories of my father as a boy, the little brother to his girl, Mary Jo. 

If we had held a contest of superlatives among the Franklin-Teagle clan, Uncle Ted would have won "best-looking" hands down. The Franklins tend to grow into adults that are a bit soft around the middle. Uncle Ted stood out at the family gatherings. There was no softness in his middle. As a former Golden Gloves Boxer, he looked the part. Broad shoulders, a straight and strong posture, and square jawed. In some photos he looks like he could be a famous movie star. He might appear a bit intimidating at first glance. But if you caught his attention, his face would soften, and his eyes took on a kind and welcoming shape.

 

As a child, I was shy and a bit nervous around groups that were as large as the gatherings of our extended family. I was the youngest of all my cousins and teenagers could be a bit too much for a six- or seven-year-old me. They were all kind to me, and all attempted to involve me in their activities. Uncle Ted seemed to have a knack for spotting when I might be feeling overwhelmed or occasionally left out. He would call, " Scott! Come over here. I want to talk with you a little bit." And I would go and talk with him. Maybe I am imagining it, but he seemed to be especially fond of me. That is probably the benefit of being the baby of the family.  Uncle Ted was not the type to suddenly pick me up or try to get to the bottom of what might be bothering me.

 

Instead, he would talk to me in a way that showed he had interest in me. He asked me questions. He asked what I thought about this or that. Sometimes, when he sensed that I was comfortable enough, he might put out his hands and say, "Come sit up here with me." And I felt safe in his strong arms. And I was fascinated by the tattoo of an anchor on his forearm. He did not want to talk about it too much. He said that I should never get one because you must live with it the rest of your life. On the rare occasion that I have considered a tattoo, I hear Uncle Ted's ominous warning about not being able to get rid of it.

 

It was not until the age of FaceBook that I began to see that not all our family members were on the same page politically. Politics were not really discussed at polite gatherings. Unfortunately, this new virtual space became an impolite gathering space. Impolite subjects are discussed and debated and argued. I can tell you that as far as politics was concerned, Uncle Ted and I were on opposite sides of most issues. But that does not change the way I knew him. I knew him as a man who took the time, always, to make sure that he and I would have one on one time at every family gathering. He continued to be interested in what I was up to and how me and my family were doing. He did not just inquire about our lives, he listened. And you knew he was listening because he had follow-up questions to every answer given.

I called Uncle Ted a few months ago. It had been a couple of years since I had last talked with him. He sounded exactly as he always had. At 93 years old he was clearly more mentally sharp than I have ever been in my life.  I had questions. I asked him about my dad as a boy. Uncle Ted was able to clarify some facts for me about the various spots in Charlotte that Dad and my grandmother had lived after my grandfather died at a very young age. We talked about Charlotte and how it has changed, we talked about my real estate business that I had just started. Uncle Ted gave me some excellent business advice. He had a real grasp for the economic changes happening in Charlotte versus Columbia where he lived most of his later half of life. It was one of the nicest conversations that I had in a while. We even said "I love you" to each other as we hung up our phones. Those were the last words between us. And the most important ones that we ever said to one another.

 

 

 

A Vote for a Boat

Ken and Tommy

The voting room.

Mom and Dad had called a family meeting. We were all expected to attend. That would be me, my sister, and my two brothers. This was in the 1970's when I was 8 or 9 years old. Our parents were not usually "family meeting" type people. For most issues there was not a reason to have meetings or even discussions. It was as if Mom and Dad were of one mind that was always on the same page. We did not typically vote on decisions effecting the family. Under normal conditions, our parents were autocrats. Benevolent, but make no mistake, they called the shots.  The uniqueness of my parents calling a family meeting is partly why the details seem so clear in my mind. Although the topic of the meeting is more likely the reason that I can recall the scene so vividly. Our family was about to vote on something that would change our lives.

 

For months, our family had been making plans and saving money to go on a trip to Puerto Rico. We even had one of those big, glass milk jugs to throw our spare change in to help pay for the trip. Everyone had been pitching in to make it possible for us to travel to this tropical paradise. The reason Puerto Rico was chosen was that my Aunt Jo and Uncle Ted Teagle had moved there with their four kids. Uncle Ted had a job assignment that required they spend a couple of years living on what seemed like a magical island to me. My cousin Ted even had a pet monkey. (Or at least I think he did). We were all excited about going to see our cousins and vacationing on the beaches among the palm trees.

 

But here we were sitting around our dining room table about to have a meeting. We weren't having dinner or playing a board game like would normally happen at tis table. Mom got our attention and said that Dad had an announcement to make, and that after he made it, we were going to take a vote. This was getting interesting. We were all going to decide something together, as a family. Dad cleared his throat and said, "I spoke with Mary Jo this morning and they are moving back to the Carolinas sooner than expected. In fact, they will be back here a couple of weeks before we are scheduled to be in Puerto Rico." Suddenly it was like a scene from The Brady Bunch, everyone talking over each other and asking Dad what we were going to do. At least one of my siblings was already saying that they still wanted to go on the trip, automatically assuming that is what we were about to vote on.  And it was, but there was an important twist to this family decision. A twist that would change the course of the next couple of decades of my life.

 

After a few minutes of the noisy debate about taking the trip even if our cousins were not there anymore, Dad hollered, "Simmer down!". That one always worked. As we quieted down, Dad went on, "Now I know that everyone has been really looking forward to making this trip. And even though the Teagles would not be there, we could still go to Puerto Rico. And I am sure we would make great memories there that would last some time." He glanced over at Mom and continued, "Between what is in the milk jug and the money your mother and I set aside, we have the money it would take to pay for the trip and a place to stay." We were all starting to feel a little glum about right now. My enthusiasm for visiting this magic island kind of deflated when I heard that we would not know anyone there. I think my siblings were suspicious that this vote was going to be about more than just whether we go on this trip. There had been times before when dad would bring home a brochure all about some new and fancy car. Dad would say and it looks like we can afford it. But, without fail, he would ultimately decide on something more practical and more in line with what we could really afford. It looked like this meeting may have been headed in that direction. We were thinking: Here it comes...responsible with money... blah blah, blah...we must be practical...blah,blah,blah.

 

Dad

We were wrong. Dad continued, "Like I was saying, we could go on the trip, and we would have one wonderful memory." He paused. He looked at Mom, who was beaming back at him. Mom was excited about something. You could tell that she wanted to just blurt out whatever it was that dad was taking his time getting to. Dad said, "One great memory, or we could use this money we saved, buy a boat and make lots of memories on lake Norman. We could even take it to the waterway when we go to the beach."  Now we were all excited. Dad reminded us that we still had to vote. He said we would vote by secret ballot so that no one would be worried about putting down what they really wanted on the slip of paper that Mom handed out. 

 

We all cast our ballots and put them into a candy dish that Mom held out for each of us to place our vote in. We were all giddy by this point. Dad was smiling and made some sort of funny, but official sounding proclamation about the civic demonstration of democracy at work. Then he began to count the votes, "The first vote says." And he turned the paper so we could see my 8-year-old handwriting spelling out BOAT. We all laughed. The next vote was also boat. It ended up being unanimous.

 

Dad did not change his mind this time. We had been spending lots of time at Lake Norman but were dependent on others to let us join them on their boats. Now we would have our own.  We had a permanent campsite at a campground and marina on Lake Norman. I think that my brother Tommy went with Dad to get the boat. Tommy showed back up at the campsite having driven the car and the new boat trailer back from the boat lot. Dad was navigating his way down the main channel and due to arrive in our cove at any moment.

 

And here he came. I fell in love with the boat immediately. It was a 16' Larson Tri-hull, bowrider with an 85 horsepower Mercury outboard motor. When Dad rounded the bend back toward our cove it looked like the boat was going so fast. I know now that its top speed was 32 mph, but that is still a fun speed on a boat. The Larsen was yellow and white. It had a cool zigzag in the stripe that ran down the side of it. I would go on to have many adventures in that boat.

 

The vote my family took that night changed almost everything that was to come in my life. It was a determining factor in my parent's decision to move to Lake Norman when I was twelve years old. That meant I would have to change schools. I would be leaving my friends from the old neighborhood. I'd have to make new friends. But those were just small things. The real change, for me, set in motion by that vote, was my lifelong love of boats, lakes, and waterways. Boats may be a hole in the water that you throw money in as my father used to say. But the innumerable memories of skiing along behind Mom and Dad's evening sunset boat rides, taking all my friends to the lake side reggae shows, and anchoring in private coves for a cool swim were worth every penny we put in that hole in the water.  

Where Butterflies Perch on Teeth

"...where butterflies perch on teeth..." Bob Dylan, Nobel Acceptance Speech

 

Where Butterflies Perch On Teeth 

 

On this snow quiet morning

before the new day's dawning

I finally had the time to review

my "watch later" list on YouTube.

I wandered aimlessly

through recordings of reality,

videography, pixelated digitally.

Clips put aside with the intention

of watching when I could pay attention.

On this snow quiet morning

before the new day's dawning,

I unexpectedly and happily found

profound words captured in the sound

of the voice of a prophetic poet

Bob Dylan, the Nobel laureate.

In his cadence, his rhythm, and rhyme

he uttered words that were so sublime,

they secured his literary designation,

and were themselves, a revelation.

On this snow quiet morning

as the new day is dawning,

I understand the meaning beneath

 "where butterflies perch on teeth."

 

 

 

 

Looking for Clarity in the Fall

November is National Native American Heritage month. By mid-November we are way past the Autumnal equinox and only a month or so away from the onset of Winter. November is also the month when Americans gather their families around a bountiful meal and re-count a false narrative about the peaceful and cooperative nature of the relationship between early English settlers and the aboriginal people of North America. It makes for a lovely and hopeful story. In fact, Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays. 

I have been thinking about the Native people who lived on this land before the Europeans arrived. I wonder if there is a way to turn our traditional Thanksgiving into a day to reflect upon the genocide that resulted from the European practice of colonialism. We should honor the Tribes and Nations and the descendants of the first Americans by committing to learn more about them as a people that still live among us now. We often act as if these people just moved on and we hardly acknowledge their existence. 

So, here we are in mid-November. I find myself wishing that my mind was as clear as the Carolina blue skies. I can find small moments of clarity, if I stop and breathe in the cool air and take the time to notice how especially brilliant the fall colors are this year. When I try to write these days, I find that the moments of clarity show up amidst a bundle of thoughts that refuse to connect with each other like I want them to. So, I decided that I will just write anyway and put it out in the world to be read or ignored. Here is what that looks like:

 

It feels like Fall arrives suddenly. And it is welcome when it arrives. Sure, summer is great. For a while. Summer is that party guest at your home that never seems to know when the party is over. Summer wears out its welcome. 

Just when it feels like you can not bear another day of the smothering heat and humidity, you hear a rustling of the leaves high up in the white oaks and a crisp cool breeze brushes across your sweaty skin. You feel like your whole body just ate a Peppermint Patty! Ah, what a relief. As the sun goes down, the humid air in your house turns into a chilly dampness. You might even think that you should start a fire or turn on the heat for just a bit to knock the chill down. But you don't. Instead, you pull a nice quilt out of the cedar chest and let the new crispness in the air allow you to sleep comfortably for the first time in what has felt like an eternity. And just like that, you wake up the next morning and immediately know that Fall has arrived. 

I rarely use the word autumn at all. Autumn does not feel like a word that captures the suddenness in which Fall seems to arrive. But, if we really pay attention, we realize that Fall doesn't really arrive suddenly. It is just that the initial onset kind of takes you by surprise. Fall is a bit of a tease.  Fall gives you a taste of the cool days for a week or so and then lets Summer make a brief return visit. For some reason we all seem to love that Summer has come back to visit. This second appearance of Summer is milder. It's like Summer grew up and mellowed out a bit and comes by just to say, "see you next year."  

In the United States we call this second mini -Summer an Indian Summer.  Just last week, we had some pleasantly warm fall days. I was in a Zoom class when the instructor said that he was enjoying the Indian Summer. I have heard and used this term my whole life. But, for some reason it clanged on my ears when he said it. I am not sure why. I wondered if this term might seem offensive to Native Americans.

I remember when I was a kid that if you gave something of yours to someone and then changed your mind, the person you un-gifted might call you an Indian-Giver. I had no idea what the giving and taking back scenario had to do with American Indians. It was a common thing to say or hear.  Sometime during my education, I became aware of all he treaties, agreements, and promises that had been made by the United States to the Indian Nations. In almost every case the United States government would back out of the deal. It occurred to me that we were the real Indian-Givers. As a people, we regularly gave a promise of land, or peace, or compensation to the American Indians, and then we took it back. That perspective kind of turns the term on its head, doesn't it? Fortunately, the use of the term Indian-Giver has all but disappeared from the vernacular.

But the term Indian Summer persists. I decided to investigate it a bit. There is much speculation about its origin and why it is used to describe this short, second summer-like weather appearing in Autumn. The only thing that everyone agrees on is that it originated in America. The earliest written reference is in a French poem from the 1700s. It does not appear in writing again until an English document in the 1850s. It became and is still used as an official meteorological term for unseasonably warm weather. However, the term is now being discouraged among meteorologists due to trainings being offered by an organization called The Corporate Indigenous Training Company. They believe the term had a racist origin in that referring to a late summer that way is a way of saying Indians are always late. Since this term is primarily a white, southern saying, I am pretty sure that the folks at ICT, inc. are correct.

But let’s turn this term on its head too. The first Europeans to land on these shores were completely ignorant that the Americas even existed. Christopher Columbus thought he had sailed around the world and landed on the Western side of India. Therefore, he thought the indigenous people he found there were, in fact, Indians. We, Europeans, are stubborn people. Hundreds of years after realizing that Columbus was mistaken about finding the other side of India, we still insist that the people who were living in the Americas for thousands of years before Europeans arrived were Indians nonetheless! I think it is time to admit that we got it wrong. 

Let's let go of Indian Summer just like we did with Indian Giver. Let's find another term for it. I like halcyon days, but that will never catch on. Let's just call these mild days in autumn what they really are. A pleasant gift. A mild day with the clearest blue sky. A chance to stop and notice the world as it is and not as we pretend it to be. Take a moment to reflect on the words we choose to use and think about whether they are hurtful or disrespectful of others. Take a moment to just enjoy the weather. While it lasts. 

Let's Re-think Policing

I am certainly not a criminal justice expert. But it does not take an expert to realize that we need serious criminal justice reform in this country. My education in psychology and sociology provides me with some basic knowledge about human behavior that inform my opinions on this subject. I have also been in the business of managing people in various industries in which conflict and intense situations arise. I spent two years working in the mental health field and learned the importance of recognizing potentially explosive situations and received training in how to use de-escalation tactics to resolve dangerous situations. The organization I worked for did not allow the use of physical restraints nor did they have any security staff. Although my experience is certainly not equivalent to the hostile and volatile situations that police officers are likely to encounter, I do believe that much of the practices employed by uniformed police officers exacerbate the volatility of a situation and increase the probability of a violent encounter taking place. 

 When I worked in the mental health field, I was the Director of a program that primarily provided employment and vocational training to individuals who had barriers to finding employment in the community. The individuals we supported typically had a combination of issues they were dealing with. Most had a primary diagnosis of a developmental disability. It is common for people with developmental disabilities to have a co-morbid diagnosis of mental illness. This could be anything from anxiety to psychosis. On most days, these were some of the most deeply beautiful and loving people you could ever spend time with. However, it is imperative that the conditions under which this population works, and lives must be tailored to their general sensitivities to noise, disorder, confrontation, smells, as well as a multitude of specific and peculiar needs. If the staff neglected to maintain the appropriate conditions, it could have led to agitation, outbursts, or even imminent danger to the individual or those around them. I understand that we can not control the conditions of any given situation prior to police involvement. But I do believe that police can control the manner of their approach to a situation that would minimize their contribution to an already chaotic situation, or in many cases, not create a chaotic situation where none existed. 

 Ronnie, a participant in our program, was burdened with developmental deficits, as well as a propensity for psychotic episodes in which he heard the abusive voice of his deceased father. One day the voice told him to take a pair of scissors off a supervisor’s workstation and kill the people around him. Ronnie was clearly not in control of himself. He began waving the scissors around wildly in a threatening manner. He was screaming that he was going to stab and kill anyone that came near him. The Office Manager told all this too me in a hurried and worried manner. The workshop floor was about 25 yards from my office. The staff had already acted promptly and wisely by evacuating all the other participants to the safety of our on-site cafeteria. 

I made my way quickly to the workshop floor. Ronnie was still wildly waving the scissors and slashing them through the air. Our Production Manager and one of our Job Trainers were keeping a safe distance, but directly engaging with Ronnie. They were speaking lovingly and kindly to him. Please understand. They were not only speaking to him calmly, but with love and humanity. They were being empathic. I observed the situation and made a few quick decisions. Our Clinical Director was with me as we assessed the situation. Our Office Manager was standing nearby waiting for instructions. I turned to them both and said that we needed to call the police. The Clinical Director advised that the sight of police officers could drive Ronnie cover the edge and could make matters worse. I agreed but felt that we had to have back-up in case he spiraled further out of control despite our efforts to de-escalate. I asked the office manager to call the police, but to ask them not to turn on sirens, and to please stay nearby but out of Ronnie’s field of vision until we could determine if we needed them to intervene or not. 

I then joined the others in speaking to Ronnie in that same kind and understanding way. I told him that we needed for him to lay the scissors down. I did not yell out for him to drop the scissors. I did not draw a weapon. I did not threaten to taser him. I simply reminded him that everyone loved and cared about him and that we really needed him to put the scissors down. The police officers had arrived and, thankfully, they watched from the cafeteria doors out of Ronnie’s sight. I saw a change come across Ronnie’s face. It was like something had released him from its grip. All the tension left his face, and the tears and sobbing began. He gently laid the scissors down on a desk and the production manager moved with stealth to slip them into his pocket. Ronnie staggered to me with his arms outstretched seeking a much-needed hug. As I embraced Ronnie, he buried his face in my neck. His sobs were coming hard and fast now. There was no more danger. I caught the eye of one of the police officers and indicated with a wave that all was ok. I suggested to Ronnie that we should go out the back door and sit on the picnic tables. Some fresh air would help. 

He held tight to me as I opened the door to the open field and the blue sky that suddenly sucked any remaining tension up into its vastness. We sat down on the tabletop of the picnic table. As his sobbing subsided, Ronnie talked to me about how he missed his father. I mostly listened. 

What if we could stabilize the conditions that lead to disturbances that require police intervention? What if we established policies that eliminated poverty in the wealthiest nation on the planet? What if we provided adequate childcare and nutrition to all of our citizens? Wouldn’t this at least reduce the number of situations that police are called to? What if the police approached with less noise and sirens? What if they did not draw their weapons immediately? What if they stayed a safe distance or took cover while they assessed the situation? What if there could be a standard practice of training citizens to clear a scene so that the officers do not need to worry about the immediacy of acting? What if the police did not start yelling orders at the suspect? What if they ruled out using violence as a way to resolve a situation? What if they spoke with love and kindness to the troubled human that was lashing out, or maybe had not done anything wrong except being black in the wrong place at the wrong time? What if they said this? “You are loved by your family. We care about you. We need you to put down that knife.” 

 Of course, this will not work in every situation. But I know this. I have seen video after video of black people being killed by police officers in which this approach would have worked and someone’s child, husband, daughter, or father would still be alive.

Morning has Broken in America

It feels like Spring in America. It may be bone-chilling and snowing outside your door. Your driveway may be covered by a sheet of ice. And yet, I am overwhelmed by the feeling that Spring has arrived. The jonquils and tulips are pushing up with all their strength, causing cracks to spread through the icy layer like a spider’s web. I imagine that if I were to watch the frosty garden that I might witness the moment that the buds burst through and reveal themselves. I envision a miraculously spontaneous change of season. The gray skies turn blue and the leafless limbs turn green with new foliage just as the morning breaks. Yet nothing that I am conjuring in my mind need happen for Spring to arrive in America today. 

 “Morning has broken, like the first morning.” These words from a hymn first published in 1931, are most familiar to us from the beautiful arrangement by Cat Stevens. The hymn is a prayer of thankfulness for each ordinary day that recreates itself over and over for us. But it is also a song about redemption. A reminder that God gives us an endless supply of new opportunities to re-create ourselves by letting go of yesterday and claiming today. We can choose to open our eyes this morning as if everything that we see and hear and taste and smell in brand new to us. So, on this morning, as we let go of four years of yesterdays, we must claim our collective shot at redemption. We can be a new America that chooses love, compassion, and unity over jealousy, greed, and hate. 

It feels like Spring to me because Spring is the season of redemptive opportunity. This is a spiritual theme that is an integral part of many religious faiths. From ancient pagan practices to Judaism to Christianity, Spring is the time to begin again. America must redeem itself. Redemption has requirements. We must acknowledge our faults, actively work to heal those that we have hurt, and reconcile our spiritual accounts. We must live up to our ideals with honesty and integrity if we want the reward of a new season of hope and liberty. 

Each Spring, Jews are freed from the bondage of Pharaoh’s slavery as celebrated at Passover. Each Easter, Christians are born again and freed from the bondage of the tomb. Buddhists believe that we can have a new Spring in each moment by practicing seeing the world as if you are a newborn baby. They call this “seeing with new eyes.” It is time for our Country to see with new eyes. It is time to let go of the bondage of hate and white supremacy. Our country must be born again, while acknowledging the sins of our past, but recognizing the beauty of the idealistic words of our founding documents. Then we must make reparations. Reparations are essential to reconciliation. And without reconciliation, we can not enjoy the new life that abounds in Spring. 

 “Morning has broken like the first morning 

Blackbird has spoken like the first bird 

Praise for the singing, praise for the morning 

Praise for them springing fresh from the world”

The Sound of Silence

 

Silence:noun 

1. absence of any sound or noise; stillness. 

2. the state or fact of being silent; muteness. 

3. absence or omission of mention, comment, or expressed concern:the conspicuous silence of our newspapers on local graft. 

 “Silence” is a powerful word. The first definition that usually appears in dictionaries describes it as the absence of sound or noise. Despite its literal meaning, “silence” seems to be a favorite word among song writers. Music is our highest form of noise. Music is organized noise. Carefully chosen frequencies that form wordless poems. How ironic it is then that we actually sing the word frequently. It seems like a word that should be impossible to raise in song. Yet it is a common word in hymns and spirituals. Something about singing the word “silence” feels sacred. We can feel the power of the word, when each year at Christmas, choirs and congregations sing “Silent night. Holy night.” I imagine this type of silence as a beautiful act of reverence. Meditative. Silent like a Quaker or Buddhist. Prayerful. And yet in song, the word almost always appears in a context that conjures nighttime or darkness. Or the silence of a tomb. 

 In Simon and Garfunkel’s poetically oxymoronic “Sound of Silence”

the word is used as described in the dictionaries third meaning: absence or omission of mention, comment, or expressed concern. This is the silence of Elie Wiesel’s famous quote: “I swore never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.” In the popular song and in Wiesel’s powerful words, the concept of silence feels as sacred as it does in the Christmas hymn. And even though it is being used to mean something completely different, it is also still closely associated with darkness or night. There is a darkness that has settled upon the United States of America over the last several years. It is an ancient darkness. Familiar like an old friend as Paul Simon refers to it in his song written during another dark period in our country’s recent history. It is this type of darkness that is currently occupying my thoughts and its relationship with silence. 

 In the opening line of “Sound of Silence” Paul Simon greets the darkness fondly. The darkness has not come to him, he has sought it out. “I’ve come to talk with you again.” It makes me think about the comfort that we can find in the darkness of ignorance. Just getting through each day in this life can be difficult and it is tempting to retreat into the peacefulness of a kind of intellectual nighttime. We take refuge from worldly concerns in a tent and cover ourselves in a canvas of complacency. I think that most of us give in to the temptation of this type of retreat from truth at times. Although, many people take sanctuary in that silent place and pretend that there is no noise in the world. I’m afraid that too many of my fellow Americans have so effectively cocooned themselves away that they completely missed the alarm bells of tyranny that have been ringing out a warning ever since Donald Trump came riding down the escalator from his penthouse in Trump Tower. They told those of us who had seen the danger ahead and felt the need to broadcast our concerns that we were being too political. “Please”, they posted, “I just want to see kitty-cat videos.” They called our social media posts “rants.” They just wanted to go about their lives. They said they did not have time for politics. They could not break free from the comfort of silent complacency, so they told themselves that the dangerous rhetoric of our President was nothing to worry about. 

 I read post after post about how sick my Facebook friends were of politics. But I was not writing about politics. I was speaking truth in an effort to counter the culture of lies and alternative facts being fostered by an administration hellbent on attaining absolute power. We could not sit silently by and let the Trump family establish a new kind of tacky aristocracy. Donald Trump and his sons were preaching the gospel of vulgarity, hate, and divisiveness. They were taking counsel from dark and sinister characters like Stephen Miller, Steve Bannon, and Roger Stone. They successfully tapped into the worst fears and prejudices of most of white America. They were gaining acolytes that saw political advantage in aligning themselves with Trump and his lies. These apostles embraced the lies and began to evangelize as prophets of the false theology of white victimization and white grievance. And all the while, too many ignored it all. They begged us to remain silent. They just wanted the sound of silence. They wanted to talk without speaking. They wanted to listen without hearing. And they decided that truth just was not that important. And so, the silent raindrops fell, and echoed in the wells of silence. Their foolish silence allowed hatred, fear, and meanness grow like unchecked cancer until it tore at the very tissue and vital organs of our democracy. 

 May our eyes all be stabbed by the flash of a neon light. And may the naked light lift away the veils that we have shrouded ourselves in. May it expose the fraudulence of the talk show radio hosts, the Fox News fearmongers, and the evilness of a sociopathic President. May it allow us to see the existential necessity of speaking truth to power. And may it render us incapable of remaining silent. Let us raise our voices in the truthful noise of songs of freedom and Justice and Peace and truth. I pray that the MAGA inspired militias stand down, that our tradition of peaceful transfer of power is not further interrupted, and that we begin the hard work of reconciliation. 

 “Hello darkness, my old friend 

I've come to talk with you again 

Because a vision softly creeping 

Left its seeds while I was sleeping 

And the vision that was planted in my brain 

Still remains 

Within the sound of silence 

In restless dreams I walked alone 

Narrow streets of cobblestone 

'Neath the halo of a streetlamp 

I turned my collar to the cold and damp 

When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light 

That split the night 

And touched the sound of silence 

And in the naked light, I saw 

Ten thousand people, maybe more 

People talking without speaking 

People hearing without listening 

People writing songs that voices never share 

And no one dared 

Disturb the sound of silence 

"Fools", said I, "You do not know 

Silence like a cancer grows 

Hear my words that I might teach you 

Take my arms that I might reach you" 

But my words, like silent raindrops fell 

And echoed In the wells of silence 

And the people bowed and prayed 

To the neon god they made 

And the sign flashed out its warning 

In the words that it was forming 

And the sign said, 

"The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls 

And tenement halls" 

And whispered in the sound of silence” 

 Paul Simon, at age 21

The Boss Can Make All The Difference

The boss can make all the difference. A great boss can make a bad job better. A bad boss can make a great job suck. I have had several bosses in my life, and I have been a boss to many people. But I have never really been my own boss, until now. Sure, my wife and I briefly owned a toy store together. That was a partnership and we made all the decisions only after having thoughtful discussions with each other. And I have worked as an independent contractor as a Realtor, but that is not quite the same as being your own boss because you can only contract with one firm, which effectively makes the firm your boss. It is only now that I have started my own real estate firm that I can make truly executive decisions. And it scares the hell out of me.

 

Having never been the boss of myself, I don’t know if I am a good boss or bad boss. Will I make a potentially great job better? Or worse?  I know who my good and bad bosses have been. And I know that many people that have reported to me thought that I was a good boss. But I am aware that some did not think I was a good at all. What can I learn from my former bosses that will help me always fall in the good boss column?

 

My first lesson learned in the good boss/bad boss scenario may have been at my very first job. I worked at a family owned campground and marina on Lake Norman. I started at age twelve and left at age seventeen. I began with one boss and left with another. My first boss was Buck Teague. Buck was big in stature and good in nature. A man with a hearty laugh, a quick and short-lived temper, and two police trained German Shepherds in the back of his pick-up truck. He built the docks himself. He built the tiki themed restaurant and tiki themed bathhouses. He built the floating restaurant known as “The Outrigger” from an old barge and a giant pontoon which supported the large covered deck that spanned the length of the barge. I think the fact that he built the whole enterprise himself was at the heart of what made Buck Teague a good person to work for. He was proud of what he had built, and he took the time to teach me how make any task into something you could take pride in. He wanted the toilets in the bathhouses to be clean enough that he could eat soup from them. He personally demonstrated for me how to use Red Devil Lye to scour the showers at seasons end, until they shined like new. Most importantly, he trusted me to operate the work vehicles used on the property. The garbage Truck, the tidy wagon (mail truck), and an old Ford Tractor. My second summer there, he allowed me to be the youngest gas dock attendant they had ever hired. It was a coveted position, but also one that came with great responsibility. Handling gas hoses around boat motors and water. And the even more risky business of handling cash around water. Buck trusted me, and he also held me accountable. He was firm and fair. He was a good boss. 

 

Buck Teague died suddenly and unexpectedly when I was fifteen. His son, Earl, became my new boss. Earl worked in the office just to the side of “The Tiki Torch” gift shop. He had helped his Dad build the docks and buildings. But I don’t think Earl ever really felt like the business was his. He inherited it and that is all together different from taking something from your imagination and making it into something real. Earl grew up in the marina that his dad built. His work attire of shorts and docksiders were worn with an air of casual arrogance.  Where his father was gregarious, Earl was aloof, hiding behind his mirrored shades. He had a slow boiling temper that was not short-lived. He could be casually cool to me one day and mean as hell the next.

Most of the time, I felt like Earl was just annoyed that he had to deal with me at all. He was constantly trying to catch me making mistakes with the gas-dock cash box. He was certain that I was not counting change correctly because the meter readings and my daily cash audit were not ever an exact match. The numbers would be off by a dollar or two in either direction. He was certain it was me and not the meters on the ancient and weathered gas pumps. He told me that I would have to start paying him for all the money I was losing. I was certain that I knew how to make change.  So, I decided to add up all the overage and underage that was detailed in the thick spiral notebook I dutifully kept records in, as taught to me by Earl’s father. I brought him the final tally which indicated that, by his logic, he owed me fifteen dollars and some change. Earl turned red in the face and I swear I saw steam coming out of his ears. He put his wife in charge of me after that. And I grew more and more unhappy in what had been a real dream job for a kid like me. I quit when I found out that they had hired a friend of mine and started him at a higher wage than I earned. I had spent nearly five years of my life scrubbing toilets, cleaning out garbage cans full of maggots, and spending long days every weekend pumping gas for their customers.  Earl was a bad boss.

 

What can I learn from Buck and Earl Teague that will help me be a good boss to myself and any future staff and brokers I will manage? Hopefully, I will benefit from building a business myself like Buck did. I am creating the brand and what I believe is a unique concept in the field of residential real estate. 

 

I should take pride in not just my fiscal ownership of the business, but my creative ownership as well. I should trust myself and others to do a good job but hold myself and others accountable. Trusting yourself is harder than it sounds. I have a newfound respect for entrepreneurs. I should be firm, but fair. A simple concept that seems to be so difficult for too many bosses

 

Earl was never really emotionally invested in the business that may have been more of a burden than a blessing to him. I’m sure he would have done it all entirely different if he had the opportunity. I will try and remember to appreciate the opportunity of designing a business and not merely managing someone else’s creation.

 

Earl had no appreciation for the time and effort I devoted to his family’s business. He never noticed that I was excellent with customers. He never saw how they smiled happily at me as I helped gently guide their boats safely into the slips on the dock. He never noticed that I had learned to tie off a boat to a cleat in a clean and efficient single motion.  He never remarked that the toilets were clean enough for him to eat soup out of.

 

 I will do my best to give myself credit for a job well done and not just beat myself up for the mistakes I am bound to make. I will strive to always notice the best qualities that the people who work for me bring to the job and I will make sure that they know that I notice.

 

I am looking back now on all of my experiences of having a boss. I am reflecting on my past actions or inactions as a boss and how they factored into whether I was perceived to be a good boss or a bad one. I want to be a great boss.  And I think I may have just taken on the most challenging employee I have ever had to manage. Myself.

Jill, Genuinely Interested. My Rare Friend.

I have a rare kind of friend. Jill has been a part of my life since my first year of middle school. She was that girl on the bus that would make sure a new kid like me felt welcome. I was shy back then. She made me feel a little more at ease. We became friends. As we transitioned from middle school to high school, we had only grown closer. I could tell Jill anything. She would never betray my confidence. She never judged me in any way that I could tell. You see, a rare kind of friend.

Jill was one of those lucky kids that had a "children's phone line" in her house. It was upstairs where she and her sister slept. I never saw that upstairs, even though I spent countless hours at her house.  Late at night, after our parents had gone to bed, I would call Jill on the kid's line. She would scoop that phone up before one ring could finish, not wanting to wake her parents. And Jill and I would talk. For just a couple of kids, we talked about big things. We dared to ask questions about the nature of things and we could get pretty philosophical for two teenagers with very sheltered and limited experience. But we talked about the teen stuff too. You know, like who she liked, or who I liked. Or who I liked that didn't like me back. Jill would always console me when that happened. She'd say that the girl was the one who was missing out. I don't think I could do much wrong in Jill's eyes. She saw something in me that I'm not sure was ever really there. But that is what a rare friend is all about.

Jill and I shared a love for writing. She was and is the better writer. (She wrote such an amazing letter to Lee Smith that the author took her to lunch!)  She was diligent and studied hard. I was  disorganized and easily distracted.  But we shared what we wrote and respected each others abilities. So, on occasion, I send her something and she sends me something. Earlier today, I sent her a recording of a song I wrote. This is something that I took up late in life, but knew I could count on Jill to be not only supportive, but a cheerleader! Even though one of her other closest friends is a nationally known musician, it never occurred to me that she might judge my amateurish attempts at this new endeavor. And true to form, she replied enthusiastically!  "OMG that is so awesome! ... What inspired this song???" 

 Note the multiple question marks!  I do that too!! 

 "When can I see you play in a club???"

I decided to send Jill an email with a link to the whole song and write a little about my inspiration to answer her three-question-mark inquiry. And I found myself opening up about my feelings that had insisted I write something about them. Just like all those late nights on the kids phone line. I hope she does not mind, but I am sharing what I wrote here:

Here is the song link.

I hope this link will work for you.  

So here is the deal. It all has to do with vacation coinciding with tragedy.

But it starts with just a vacation. I had never been to the Outer Banks until several years ago. So, I decided one year that instead of our usual beach trip to SC or Ocean Isle, we would go to OBX.  I loved it down there. Watching the sunset from Jockey’s Ridge on Kill Devil Hills was amazing. A total calm washed over me, watching twirling kites silhouetted by the sun’s descent. Magic. 

I had brought books with me all about the Outer Banks. The legends, the myths, the ghost stories. The pirates, the Wright brothers. I fell in love with  the mythical, romantic idea of this harsh and yet, beautiful place. I became fascinated by the local obsession with Virginia Dare. Her claim to fame, as you well know, was simply being born. First white child born in the new world. And then of course, tragically lost forever along with the rest of the colony. The legend is that Virginia somehow was cursed and turned into a deer. A “white doe” that roams Kill Devil Hills and Kitty Hawk to this very day.

I don’t know, but I really got caught up in these stories. I think because they represent the mythological America. This harsh land, braved by those early settlers. We came and made it a beacon of freedom to the world. But that is not really the whole story, is it?  Maybe Virginia Dare represents innocence lost. Maybe she represents European civility delivered to the Indian savages. Maybe she represents the Eurocentric superiority complex that haunts our country still.

So a couple of years later, we were at Carolina Beach (your old stomping grounds) when we heard about the church shooting in Charleston. A young white supremacist prayed with parishioners before using a gun to kill them all. I was sickened. I had felt like that kind of hatred was losing its place in the United States.I thought that bigots were old and dying off. This horrific event flew in the face of my complacency.

A couple of summers later, back at Carolina Beach,  and Heather Heyer is killed by a white nationalist just for participating in a protest that simply said that black lives matter. 

I was distraught, so I went for a walk on the beach. I sat on the sand. Every beach trip since that Outer Banks trip, I had this feeling  like I was connected back to that place and to the mystical legend of Virginia Dare. I sat in the sand looking at the ocean. I thought about Jockey’s ridge in Kill Devil Hills. The words kill and devil rang in my ears. I remembered how it felt when the wind whipped stinging sand at my skin on that giant sand dune, Jockey’s Ridge. I thought about the sting of the whips that landed on the backs of slaves. That sting that has been a part of the American experience from the start. I envisioned the African slaves in chains, in the cargo hold of a ship crossing the Atlantic. I thought about the captains of those ships being enslaved to a way of life that was cruel and rotten at its core. I thought about all of America being held captive by a system dependent upon the most unholy of sins: denying other humans their very humanity.

And I thought , “What right do I have to stand on this beach and look at that ocean?” I thought about never having to know what it feels like to be treated like chattel. Or to have to fight for the right to vote. Or to have to teach my kids to fear the police. And I thought about how me and you and all the other white folks here have benefitted from the systemic suppression of black people. We could own land. They could not. We could use whatever toilet or water fountain we wanted. We were given the benefit of doubt by the police. So I thought, I am the devil’s beneficiary. Whether I like it or not he made a plan and named us the beneficiaries of his evil deeds. And we gladly accepted the privilege it afforded us. 

The song is simple. A love story. A man betrayed by self-deception as to the purity of the woman he so desired. Or a people betrayed by self-deception as to the purity of their own country. A people that one day will wake up and realize that they have been lied to. And they will understand that they overlooked the “white lies” Virginia had told them and that they did so because it was to their benefit.

I know that seems like I think this simple song is some huge revelatory work. But I am proud of this song. And all of this is the answer to your question about what my motivation was for writing it.  

Thanks for listening Jill. You have always been someone who gets me. I appreciate that. 

Love, Scott