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

White Privilege on a Dead End Street

We were several cars parked side by side on a newly built cul-de-sac. We had planned to meet here for a party. We were a group of thirty teenagers. We were all white. We had all parked our cars facing away from the dead end and back toward the tree lined road we had just entered from. Most of us were not eighteen yet, which was the legal drinking age at the time, but our cars were loaded with coolers of beer. The road that we were on was part of a new wave of development that had begun on the lake where we lived. Local developers had begun buying land on or near the lake and building small neighborhoods of a dozen or so houses. This one was a little larger with one road splitting into three cul-de-sacs and would probably end up with about 30 or more houses. The roads were complete and even had curbing in place, but not a single house was under construction yet. The closest homes were not visible from where we were parked, but we knew they were just around the corner. We knew lots of kids our age that lived in those houses, but no one had invited them to join us.

Like us, these kids lived on the lake. They rode the same school bus that we had ridden on before we got our driver’s licenses and our own cars. We knew them and they knew us. Many of them were probably friends with us, in that way that blacks and whites were in those days. Friends at school. We did not visit their homes and they did not visit ours. We might see each other after a football game at a pizza place, but they sat on one side and we say on the other. It is so strange looking back at that now. For the most part, there appeared to be no tension between our groups. We would joke with each other. We were definitely classmates, but there were unspoken rules and lines that were not to be crossed. And even though we were parked on a cul-de-sac in their neighborhood, it would have been very unusual to see any of them at a non-school sponsored gathering like this. 

So, here we were. A bunch of white kids, mostly guys, hanging out on a dead-end street after dark in a new development that was encroaching into an area that had previously only been for African Americans. Someone, with a major stereo system, had opened up their trunk and cranked up Back in Black. There was only one way to listen to the iconic AC/DC album and that was loud!  I guess it never occurred to us that we might be disturbing nearby residents. Being at the end of an unlighted and undeveloped street created an illusion of isolation. And even though we knew the nearby neighbors were there, it felt like no one lived close by.  Or was it that we somehow felt that it did not matter that people lived close by, because we were white, and they were not? This question has haunted me for a long time. It haunts me, because I don’t want to know the answer.

On that evening, I believe that my group of friends had broken one of those unspoken rules between us and our black friends from school. We were being loud and obnoxious on a street that was clearly a symbol of things to come. A symbol of white privilege eating its way into their lives and property from the edges. It was a sign of the unstoppable force of gentrification that would eventually force them out of their family homes. And here we were, oblivious in our own white privilege, using this street as if we owned it.

 

“Alll Aboarrrrd! Hahahaha” screamed Ozzy over the loudspeakers as we hooted and hollered and passed out beers. We owned the night. We owned this street. We owned this lake and we were living it up.

For a few minutes.

Our stomachs dropped as someone yelled “Cops!” I looked back toward the street entrance and saw six head lights and three spotlights side by side and heading toward us. There was no way out. We were caught. Our own hubris had not allowed us to see this predictable outcome.  We were not in a town, but in the county. As the headlights got closer, I could see it was the bright yellow cars driven by the county police. The spotlights were blinding and I could not quite make out just how many police had arrived and initially thought that all three cars were the regular patrol cruisers.

The cops parked the cars and blocked us in.  A few guys had hopped in their cars and started them as if they were going to make a get-away. Not a chance. We were fish is a barrel.  I had a twelve pack of beer in the floorboard of my car. There was no way to hide it or dispose of it without being seen. The officers got out and began shouting instructions at us. “Nobody move, stay where you are.” They were shining flashlights directly at us. Their guns remained in their holsters. One cop came over to my car and shined his flashlight into my car. He was trying to sound intimidating and said, “I see you have some fire-water in there.” I said nothing, but the use of that term for beer struck me as funny. Was he playing with us? 

As my eyes adjusted to the lights, I could now clearly see the police cars. One of them was the new Chevy Blazer that the cops known as The Lake Patrol used to tow their police boat in and out of the water.  I had worked at marinas on the lake for years. I had gotten to know some of the officers that drove the boat. I wanted that job one day. They wore shorts and just drove around in the boat all day. The lake was pretty quiet in those days. It seemed like a dream job.  I quickly scanned the area observing each officer desperately trying to find one that I recognized. And there he was. The boat Captain.

“Hey Harry!” I shouted. Harry looked up and at me. He immediately broke into a smile. I will never forget the words that followed, “Hey man! What are you doing down here?” His voice was cheerful. He was happy to see me. He came jaunting over to me with his hand out for a shake. I shook his hand. He then spoke in a soft voice to me and asked why we were there. I told him the truth. We were looking for a private place to have a party. He told me to hang tight a minute and walked over to another officer. They had a short discussion.

Harry came back to me and said, “We had some complaints about the noise from the neighbors. Y’all just need to find a different place to take this party.” And that was it. They all got back in their police cars and left. Suddenly, I was everyone’s hero. “Scott saved us.” They said. But  I did not feel  like a savior. I felt like we just got lucky. I felt like we unfairly got away with something because I knew the right people. I was white and blonde headed. I worked at a job that gave me access to the right people.

Today, as an adult, I know that things would have gone down much differently had I been a black teen, with my black friends, parked on a dead end adjacent to a white neighborhood. I would not have personally known the police captain. And even if I had, he would not have seen me as a non-threatening white kid with a bright future ahead of him.  I could be the same person in every way except skin color, but all he would have seen was a black kid breaking the law. I have no doubt that, at the very least, arrests would have been made. And I don’t want to even think about how it might have ended beyond that.

This story is only one tiny example of the white privilege that I have been the beneficiary of. As white people, we are all heirs to the legacy of slavery and Jim Crow. Let’s just admit it and let’s do everything we can to speak up and out for equal justice for all.

The Garbage Truck and The Tidy Wagon

Collecting garbage. Photo by Tom Franklin

I have never been unemployed since I started my first job at age thirteen.  The pandemic, a couple of underlying conditions, and a “Stay at Home” order changed that. On Friday I filed for unemployment.  Since I am self-employed as an independent contractor, I would not have qualified to receive unemployment under the old rules, but fortunately Congress added a provision that covers contractors and gig workers.  Filing for unemployment got me thinking about my past jobs. I am thankful for each one of them. Even the ones that weren’t the greatest because I learned something new with each one.

Way back in 1976, my family moved from Charlotte to Lake Norman. We had been camping there for years on a leased campsite in Outrigger Harbor. Outrigger was a combination marina and tiki themed family campground. 

There was a tiki themed restaurant called, wait for it…

Lake House 1976. Photo by Tom Franklin

“The Tiki Terrace!” The owner, Mr. Buck Teague, had also acquired an old barge and built a full kitchen and tiki themed dining hall on it. It had spiral stairs that lead to an upper deck pilot house. The captain would take groups on dinner cruises on a very different Lake Norman than the one you may know now. In the evenings the little outboard motor that powered the barge named “The Outrigger” would be the only noise, besides the ducks and geese, heard from the surrounding shores. I loved the place and knew that as soon as I was old enough, I would apply to work as the attendant on the gas dock.

Me and Mom at Outrigger Campsite. Photo by Tom Franklin

I was eager to start saving money so that I could buy a car as soon as I turned sixteen. My father talked to Mr. Teague and he explained that at age thirteen, I was too young to work on the gas dock yet. That job was currently filled by a high school-er named Sam Wallen. However, Sam needed help with some of his other duties and also needed to start training his replacement since he would be off to college the following year. Dad took me to the Social Security building in Charlotte where I applied for a work permit. I was allowed to work up to twelve hours per week. I was excited, even though the law also allowed my employer to pay me less than minimum wage because I was under sixteen.  I started at $1.85 per hour.

Photo by Tom Franklin

I was paired up with Sam for the entire summer. Summers, and especially weekends, were very busy at Outrigger. I learned pretty quickly that my job was to be a jack of all trades. If it needed to be done, then Sam and I did it. Sam ran the gas dock on the weekends, but his other duties were done before and after opening the docks, as well as throughout the week.  The two main parts of my job were cleaning the campground bathhouses and collecting the garbage from the campsites. I had barely been there a week when Sam told me it was time for me to learn to drive the garbage truck!  I thought he was joking. Sam was a very smart guy, so I was certain he knew that I was not old enough to drive!  But Sam was a young Libertarian and he explained that regular rules of the road did not apply, because the entire place was on private property. America the beautiful! 

The garbage truck had a manual transmission. Sam said the best way to learn to use the clutch was starting from a dead stop while on an incline. He had parked on a moderately steep hill and left the hand-pulled parking brake on. Sam sat in the passenger seat beside me. He gave very clear instructions: Step lightly on the gas. Slowly let the clutch out until you feel the point of friction.

Wait! I had no idea what that meant. Sam said that I will know it when I feel it. He was right.

Back to the lesson: Hold the gas and the clutch at the point of friction. Notice how it feels. While continuing to hold at the point of friction, release the parking brake. If the truck starts to roll backwards, then give it a bit more gas while holding position on the clutch until you find the point of balance.

Hold on again!  What does that mean? Sam said I would know when the truck stopped rolling backwards but did not move forward either. I was starting to get nervous. What if I just kept rolling backwards right into the lake, or one of the sailboat owners’ Jaguar or Mercedes?  Sam said not to worry. He would pull the parking brake if needed. It took several tries in which either Sam had to pull the brake, or I stalled out the engine. But when I got it, I had it. It was like magic. I had the power to make this giant garbage truck balance under my command! The rest came easy. Sam was the best driving instructor I ever had.

I spent that summer driving the garbage truck, while Sam rode on the sideboard. He would hop off when I stopped at groups of trash cans. He’d run and collect from one side, while I grabbed the bags out of the cans along the other side. The trash cans were 55-gallon drums with holes punched in the bottom so that water would not collect in them. They had metal lids that were heavy enough to stay in place most of the time. We would throw the smelly bags of garbage into the open sliding doors on the back of the truck.  Then we grabbed new bags and put them in the barrel. We secured them with a special way of looping the excess bag into a knot that cinched tightly on the drum.

Outrigger Harbor had another truck that we used every day. It was an old mail truck. A Jeep TP40. It had a roll-up door on the back. The back was filled with cleaning supplies, toilet paper, and plungers. They called it “The Tidy Wagon.”  And that is what we did. We drove the old mail truck to each of the four bathhouses and tidied them up. We actually did more than tidy up. We scrubbed them. We cleaned all the toilets twice a day. We scrubbed the showers. We detailed the sinks.  Mr. Teague said he wanted the toilets so clean that he could eat soup out of them! If anything was stopped up, we plunged it. Sam taught me how to adjust the jets on the tank-less toilets if the flush was too weak or too strong. Another lesson in balance.

There was always plenty of work to do. Cutting grass, washing windows at the Tiki Terrace, using a sling to clear the weeds from the shoreline. It was a great job. I loved most everything about it. I continued to work on the weekends once school started. Sam left for college the next year, so gas attendant was added to my responsibilities. I continued working there until my second year in high school. My friend Brian joined me the next summer. I taught him to drive a manual transmission just like Sam had taught me. The summer after that my older brother, Randy worked with me. I also taught him how to drive a stick drive using “The Sam Wallen Method.”

Dad shot this during Outrigger's annual regatta.

By the time I was sixteen, I had saved $2,250. I spent every last dime on the worst car ever made by Audi, a special edition 1978 Fox with gold pinstriping and the words “Blue Fox” written in gold script on each side! But that is another blog post.

  

  

Photo Dad took at Outrigger Harbor.

Those were magical days filled with honest work.  I learned something about the value of labor and just how much work it takes to save a little money.  And now I am stuck at home. 

For the first time since getting that work permit, 
I have no choice but to sit things out a bit.

I’ll be back in the game soon enough.

Puff and Circumstance

Peter, Paul, and Mary

“With this coronavirus pandemic, we've "lost our innocence". We no longer think that raging, out of control diseases are impossible HERE. We've put away our "childish" things -- sporting events, concerts, plays, etc. This song is -- perhaps (smile) -- ABOUT loss of innocence, growing up, and being more serious about life. "Peter Paul & Mary released "Puff the Magic Dragon" exactly 57 years ago today -- on March 16, 1963. Come on, let's all sing it together. While maintaining social distance.”  Loyd Dillon

Each morning I look forward to Loyd Dillon’s “On this day in History” post.  His posts are consistently positive, truthful, and thoughtful. They are often humorous. They are frequently inspiring. Sometimes they are all of the above.  And then there are the ones that make you reflect on something important. Many times, his posts trigger that spot in my brain that makes me think of a funny event or touching moment.  The post that I copied and pasted at the top of this page is a great example of how just a few sentences can really make a difference in someone’s day.

When I read the first sentence about losing our innocence, I was touched by the poetic truth of it. Loss of innocence is a theme that cuts across every form of art and literature. It happens to us individually and collectively. It happens to us over and over no matter how long we have lived. In the next part he alludes to something that we cannot deny; that we have been in denial. We have been like children without a care in the world.  We have been pretending and playing with our own version of “string, sealing wax, and other fancy stuff.”  In the song, Jackie has to put those childish things away and he must distance himself from Puff, his dear and special, magical friend. And now we must practice “Social Distance.” That is our circumstance.  

But I see hope in this post as well. And it sparked a memory of a small moment that occurred when at age 50 I began taking guitar lessons from a well-known musician and performer. Jamie Hoover is a genuine rock and roll legend. I won’t list his entire resume here, but he has played music to audiences that fill an arena. He has played guitar on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno. I’m not kidding. It’s on YouTube!

Jamie had been the producer of my brother Randy Franklin’s music for years. He suggested that I call Jamie for lessons. I knew a few chords, but had trouble playing smoothly through them. I especially had trouble shifting into the ever-difficult B-minor bar chord.  I told Jamie shifting from G to B-minor was one of my goals.

Jamie showed up at my first lesson with the chords to “Puff the Magic Dragon” all written out in measures. He explained that it required shifting from G to B-minor.  He did not bring the lyrics that first day. He did not know yet that I also wanted to sing while I played.  So, we started working on it. Jamie kept singing the first verse and the chorus over and over, because we could not remember the other lyrics. I worked on playing the song without singing all that week. I was beginning to get the hang of just in time for my second lesson.

This time Jamie proudly waved a song sheet he had created with the chords in measures down one page, and the corresponding lyrics down the adjacent page. He explained, this way we can play it together and sing the whole song as we go along. It even included an intro and an outro.

Yes! I was on my way. I was going to learn to play a song from start to finish! Jamie assured me that I was on my way to becoming a “Rock God!” He is a smart businessman. 

So, here we go. We play the intro. I stumble awkwardly around the chord changes at first, but Jamie reminds me to relax. “It’s just the two of us here” he said. Okay. I got this. We start playing again. We get past the intro. We get past the verse and chorus that we had just sung over and over again the last time. We go on the whole adventure with Jackie and his mighty friend. We are really cooking now. I am managing through and Jamie is playing and singing in such a way that it seems like he is actually in the song. He is Jackie Paper. He is feeling the song and so am I.

Then it happens.

We get to the loss of innocence part. That sad, sad verse.

The one where Jackie Paper came no more. And then I hear the crack in Jamie Hoover’s voice. I look up from my guitar at him and I can see that he has been moved by the lyrics that both of us had forgotten. 

His voice was definitely breaking up a bit. And in that moment, I was so caught up in the emotion of playing music with another human being, that I actually felt a tear form in the corner of my eye. It was kind of silly. We were two grown men after all. But music, no matter how simple, has that power to move our emotions. Loyd’s words, in a short post can transport us to new insights or, in this case, back in time to an odd, yet touching moment that I shared with a real live rock star sitting on the sofa in my living room.

The “Puff Story” has grown to mythological proportions. I went to see Jamie play at a club in front of 60 or more people. He saw me from the stage and says into the microphone, “No Scott, we are not going to play Puff the Magic Dragon.” He then proceeds to tell the story of two grown men getting choked up over a children’s song. His version is hilarious and in it we are sobbing out of control!  The crowd was smiling and laughing. I wasn’t embarrassed, because as I looked around the room, I could see that the people were nodding their heads as they laughed and smiled. They got it.

I look forward to being able to get back out to hear live music without having to worry about catching a pandemic virus.  I look forward to a time when we can let ourselves fall back into innocence once again. But we must always be mindful that we are the grown-ups here and we cannot be lulled so deeply into our childish ways that we fail to get on with the adult responsibilities of looking out for each other. When this is over, we should let loose and sing silly songs loudly until the sun goes down. But when we wake up in the morning, we will need to get on with doing the good work that makes the world a bit better. Good work like Loyd does with his “Day in History” posts. Good work like teaching someone else how to play music and play it with feeling.

“Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honahlee
Little Jackie paper loved that rascal puff
And brought him strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff oh

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honahlee
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honahlee

Together they would travel on a boat with billowed sail
Jackie kept a lookout perched on puff's gigantic tail
Noble kings and princes would bow whene'er they came
Pirate ships would lower their flag when puff roared out his name oh

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honahlee
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honahlee

A dragon lives forever but not so little boys
Painted wings and giant rings make way for other toys
One grey night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more
And puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar

His head was bent in sorrow, green scales fell like rain
Puff no longer went to play along the cherry lane
Without his life-long friend, puff could not be brave
So Puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped into his cave oh

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honahlee
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honahlee”

The Workshop

A workshop similar to the one I managed.

In response to the article linked here.

The Sub-minimum wage exemptions, allowed to enable places like Goodwill Industries, to provide jobs to people with disabilities is a controversial issue. And it is not quite as black and white as it seems. Yes, the Goodwill executive salaries are obscene, as are most executive salaries at large companies. And this is true of so many non-profits. I would suggest that people research executive pay at non-profits before supporting them. One way to do that is by using Charity Navigator. If they do not list themselves with Charity Navigator, then there is probably a reason for that.

However, I worked for two years managing a sheltered workshop that found assembly and packing work for people with developmental disabilities. I will have to say that those workers were the happiest employees that I have ever managed. They loved having a job. They loved to have a place to socialize with others with disabilities and with their developmentally typical team leaders and job coaches. The Workshop also placed individuals in jobs outside of the workshop. A concept that was frequently used was called an enclave. Imagine a group of 7-8 individuals and a job coach working in a factory. They might be doing quality control inspections or packaging or assembly type jobs. The clients participating in this way were usually individuals that were capable of production efficiencies that were close to that of a typical person, but because of their disability required close supervision by trained staff. During my two years with this program I was able to place a group in an enclave setting and negotiated a pay rate of more than minimum wage, $10 per hour. After all, they could do the work and the team leader would supervise them at no cost to the company. We paid the job coach.

But back at the workshop, many of our clients had disabilities that would permanently preclude them from working, for pay, in any other type of setting. Maybe they were non-verbal. Maybe someone would have to help them use the toilet. Maybe they worked very hard to assemble something that a typical worker could do in 10 minutes over the course of an entire workday. The staff was trained to come up with creative ways to help the clients accomplish the tasks with as little direct intervention as possible, something that a typical factory is not incentivized to accommodate.

To employ these individuals and be able to provide the workshop services to customers at a competitive price, the sub-minimum wage certificate was essential. It would not have been essential if the government had actually paid adequately for the services we provided. The Workshop was supported by a program known as ADVP. Adult day Vocational Programs. The amount we received to provide a facility, team leaders, job coaches, and clinical support staff was a joke. If this had been adequately funded, then we would not have needed to pay sub-minimum wage.

But here is the thing that I think is not well understood. Sub-minimum wage was based on careful time studies that would measure the output of a typical individual doing the work. Then the prevailing wage for similar work would be used as a factor divided by the typical output. This would give us as fair of a per piece pay rate as possible. If they produced the same or more than a typical person could, they would actually make the prevailing wage or higher. This all had to be well documented and was subject to random audits by the local management entity (these are the folks that are supposed to be looking out for how your mental health tax dollars are being used), or LME.

For most of our clients (90%) the work was not about the pay. It was about feeling that they were contributing. It gave them such pride to tell people that they had a job. These workers literally ran back to work after break time. If we were slow and unable to find enough work, we provided daily services for them anyway. Whenever I walked the Workshop floor during these times, the clients would immediately ask, “Do you have work for us? We want work!” 

When I was doing this job, there were many forces moving to end programs like ours. Some were well intentioned disability rights groups. But these groups or their leaders never once came to visit our happy facility. They never saw the surging wave of happiness that coursed into the building each morning as the County Special Transportation Services brought them right to the employee entrance.  When I took over as Director at the Workshop, the county had cut the special transportation program from its budget. They were charging the Workshop $36,000 a year to provide transportation. There had not been enough funds to pay the county for at least the last three months. I began lobbying to get these funds immediately re-instated. I met with the County Transit Manager. I volunteered to sit on the Transportation Advisory Committee Board. I went before the commission and made a case for restoring the funding. Within a month, the county waved the unpaid invoices that we had been unable to pay and used discretionary funds to return to providing the service.  I ask you what typical workplace is going to spend the time and effort to advocate for appropriate transportation for these individuals. The answer is zero.

I personally feel that the state was looking for a way to end these services that had nothing to do with concerns about fair wages or limiting the clients potential. Disability rights advocates were insisting that workshops like ours were limiting the full potential of the clients we supported. And maybe we were. We could have placed many or most of them in jobs in the community if the state provided adequate funding for support ratios of 1 to1 or even 1 to 2. But that was not the solution being offered. The solution was to eliminate ADVP dollars completely from the budget. They also jumped on the well-intentioned movement to end sub-minimum wage exemptions as a way to shame organizations like ours into ending the Workshop programs all together.

The state changed the rules and pushed for organizations like ours to use Adult Day Support Dollars (these dollars were meant for enrichment programs provided to people with very severe disabilities that would pretty much preclude them from any type of work) to place the individuals in jobs in the community making use of “natural supports” to enable them to earn minimum wage and allow them to work to their full potential.  What are these “natural supports” in the community that the government insisted were available?  As far as I could tell, it meant that the individuals own family would have to make sure that they got to work. That the company employing them would provide the intensive support they needed just out of wanting to be good corporate citizens.  The problem was that for the most part there was only one employer in town willing to take on any of these individuals. Harris Teeter stepped up and that is a good thing. However, only a very small percentage of the clients could qualify to do the work. And even then, they were responsible for their own transportation.

I was burnt out after two years of fighting these forces that were intent on putting an end to the services we provided. My staff barely made more than minimum wage themselves. During those two years, I had 5 other programs across three counties added to my job responsibilities. I was not earning anywhere close to enough money to support my growing family. I quit as soon as I was able to find a new job as Operations Director at a medical device manufacturer.   This job offered real benefits and a salary that we could live on.

I loved working at the Workshop. I miss the enthusiasm, joy, and love that was demonstrated daily by the clients and the staff.  The Workshop was closed soon after I left. Immediately, the 40 or so people we supported had nowhere to go.  The organization attempted to use “natural supports” to find employment for the clients. This proved to be nearly impossible and the only work that could be found were volunteer jobs. They went from earning something that equaled their production abilities, to being not paid at all.

Fortunately, there was a similar program managing to survive in a neighboring county that was able to bring on many of the clients. If they are still in operation, their days are numbered.

Services for people with disabilities are very low on the totem pole of needs across the state.  Our legislature finds that it is more important to give tax breaks to the wealthiest among us. They believe that rich people will be a “thousand points of light “and magically fill the need for services in the disability community.  It’s been 10 years and no “natural supports” have spontaneously apparated into the community.

I will agree that sub-minimum wage certificates should be eliminated. But not until the State provides real funds that can provide quality services and real support to these beautiful individuals who just want a place to go and be a member of society with enough value to earn a paycheck.

The Circus Drummer and Me

Me and Pete Martin in his basement classroom.

 

My mother always spoke with enthusiasm.  One day I came home from Eastover Elementary and Mom excitedly said, “I have some wonderful news for you! I signed you up for drum lessons today!!”  She said the words drum lessons like someone might say “We are going to Disney World!!”

I was really happy about this news, but I was rarely at that Disney level of excitement like my mother always was. Because my older brother, Tommy, was already a student of the same teacher, my mother had a wealth of fun facts to share about Mr. Martin.  Pete Martin toured the world as a circus drummer for Ringling Brothers. He even took the spotlight as a featured performer playing the marimba with mallets taped to his feet! Mom used her best Central High, letter girl, pep rally voice so effectively while telling me all these details that I might as well have just been told that we were going to Disney World! I was starting to feel her enthusiasm, but I tried to resist giving into it completely. I did not want to be disappointed.

Me, carrying snare drum case to school bus stop.

Mom drove me to my first lesson and walked with me to the back of Mr. Martin’s two-story house. Mom explained that he taught his students in the basement of his home and that he would greet us at the basement door. On the drive over she had been exuberantly describing how terrific Mr. Martin’s basement was. She kept saying, “You are just going to love it!”  Mom said things like that all the time but was not exactly 100% accurate with her predictions.  She told me that I was going to LOVE first grade. That forecast was a flop as soon as my teacher laid me across her lap and spanked me in front of the whole class. On the first day!  My offense? Talking.  So, I wasn’t exactly confidant in Mom’s ability to know what I was going to love. However, this time she was spot on. 

Pete Martin, the 86-year-old retired circus drummer had the coolest basement I had ever seen! I was not disappointed.

When Mr. Martin opened the door for us on that first day, it was immediately clear why my mother loved him so much. He was sparkling with enthusiasm!  He was a member of my mother’s tribe. His broad smile said welcome, before he had spoken a word. When he did speak it was in a sing-song voice loaded with a heavy French accent.  I gazed around at all the crazy decorations, circus posters, and old-fashioned toys that filled his basement classroom as he and my mother were busy one-upping each other with warm greetings and compliments.

I was so mesmerized by all the gadgets and gizmos in the room that I hardly noticed when he said to my mother, “I will just show her around a little bit before we get started with the lesson.” It was the long hair that confused him. It was 1974, after all. This was not the first time an adult had made that mistake.  My mother tried to correct him, but he didn’t hear. He was already showing me his monkey on a unicycle toy that rode across a high wire in his basement.  My mother left us as I watched the monkey clap its cymbals and pedal its way across the basement.   I soon forgot that Pete Martin thought I was a girl as he showed me all his old circus posters and collectables.

He had a magnificent set of wooden marimbas. He demonstrated how he played with two mallets in his left hand and one in his right hand.  Then the magic started. This 86-year-old man began flailing away at a blinding speed with his mallets up and down the instrument. Notes of every color and shape filled the room until there was nothing left but me, the music, and Mr. Martin. Everything else faded away as he brought the marimba to a resounding crescendo! He asked, “Did you like that?” I managed to nod, and he smiled. “Let me show you my drum set that you will be playing. I think you are going to be a very good drummer!” he exclaimed with an enthusiasm that was very familiar to me.  “You are going to love it!” he said.

And I did love it. He was right about that, but sadly wrong about his prediction that I would be a very good drummer.  I had fun and I did learn some tricks on the drums that allow me, even now, to occasionally fake people into thinking I can actually play.  I learned to read music by following the handwritten music cards he had made for the lessons. The songs I remember are ones like “You’re a Grand Old Flag” and “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing.”  He referred to this one as a “very pop-a-lar tune” since it was featured in a television commercial for Coca Cola. 

When Mom would come to pick me up, it always seemed too soon.

Mr. Martin was a practical joker and liked to startle the Moms with his favorite contraption. It looked like a rabbit hutch, but inside was a small furry animal barely visible in a little shelter in the hutch.  My mother knew about the trick, but that did not stop Pete Martin from asking us to come over and take a close look. He would lure us in by saying that during his travels around the world he had bought a mongoose to keep as a pet. He showed us an article that described how a mongoose was able to kill a giant python with its extra sharp claws and strong jaws.  He would then encourage us to take a closer look while it was sleeping in its little house. And just when you leaned in, Mr. Martin would step on a lever that sent the cage flying open and the furry mongoose launching at the onlookers!  Of course, it was just a toy, but he was so effective at reeling you in that you could not help but get startled no matter how many times he had pulled the trick on you. My mother would whoop and play up her feigned alarm. And we would all have a good laugh.

And that is how Pete wanted people to leave his magic basement; with a lingering giggle escaping the smile on their faces.

Each time we were on our way out the door, he never failed to say, “She is a very good drummer!” He was wrong on both counts, but I did not care.

I loved Mr. Martin

School Concert, Silk Shirt!