I just hate this crap....

When I was young and foolish, and our oldest was just learning to talk, I banished from our home the word "hate."  My feeling was that there was enough hatred in the world and perhaps, just maybe, if we raised one person without the concept of hatred then the world might be somehow improved.

I will pause here while those of you who are parents more experienced than myself enjoy a good chuckle.  Go ahead, knock yourselves out.....

Alright, everybody got it back to together?  Yes, as you can imagine, that well intentioned banishment lasted just long enough for Michael to have learned it and then watch me abandon it entirely the first time we were in the car and someone pulled one bonehead move or another.

"Man I really hate it when people drive like that.  It's just so selfish AND dangerous..."

The hatred treaty was broken and the first shot was fired by me.  So, having been asked by my son "what does hate mean?" I reluctantly gave up on my high minded ideal of an era of Pax-SmallTownDada.

Since then I have refocused my idea of hatred.  Hatred exists as much as violence, poverty, hunger - all things that exist no matter how much we wish for their absence from our world.  So rather than not mention it, we try and understand it - its causes, effects, and drawbacks.

So, because it's Saturday and I have a few moments before running to ballet or to check in on my sister and her broken leg, I thought I would catalog some of my hatreds here.  Yes, liberal and temperate as I try to be, I have them.  I admit it.

1.  The hard wired smoke detector that the ham-handed flat-brained builder of this fine home installed four feet from stove.  I cannot so much as boil a cup of water without setting off all eight of the house's hard wired and networked emergency alarms.  If ever I wanted to change careers and earn a living defusing bombs, I think the alarms piercing my ears with little or no advance warning every damn time I fry an egg have given my nerves at least a fighting chance at survival disarming bombs.

2.  The four way stop sign by my house. Lookit - the rules are simple people - when it's your turn, it's your turn.  It's all about knowing when it's your turn.  If you tailgate through riding the bumper of the car ahead of you just because you feel like you have waited there long enough, well then...welcome to the list.

3.  Intentional stupidity - goes without saying.  When people indulge their desire to be intellectually shut-off just to reinforce an argument they feel comfortable with but know is fundamentally flawed - well that is something I despise.  Now you may think that is harsh, and normally I would agree - but when you argue for a living like I do something like that just wastes so much time.  Enlightenment is a gift and a goal.  So refreshing when people travel that path.

4.  Reality TV  - first off - anyone believing Reality TV in any way shape or form represents "Reality"   probably falls into the category above.  No offense to any of my dear dear friends reading this who might otherwise be fans of the Real Housewives of whatever cultural, ethically, or morally depraved community is being featured.  But, c'mon - there is something called the Heisenberg principle.  It basically says you cannot observe a phenomena or experiment without subsequently changing its outcome.  Same is true of people - you can't put a tv camera on them without turning them into complete idiots.  Throw in the huge sums of money these people get paid for being idiots and you create a class of super-idiots. If most of these morons on reality tv lived in our neighborhoods, we wouldn't let our kids walk down their side of the street.

5.  The smell of liver cooking.  Speaks for itself.

6.  Cooked liver.

7.  Raw liver.

8.  Purposeful unkindness. People who are deliberatly unkind and think that is ok.  Newsflash - it's not ok.  Your deliberate unkindness is a burden to those around you. If you worked as hard at kindness as you do indulging your unkindness you might just make a better world.

9.    Cable-TV.  Bruce Springsteen wrote a song called "57 channels and nuthin's on."  True.  My mom, back in the day when we had three VHF channels and three UHF, would threaten every day to cut the cord off of the boob-tube.  I find there is a direct relationship between the number of years I have lived and how much of a genius she turned out to be.

10.  Cell phones.  People - get over yourselves - unless you are Jack Bauer you can make do without the phone glued to your ear 24/7.  Most of the problems at the four way stop sign can link directly back to people's obsession with their cellphones.  Leave it on the mantle or kitchen counter and go out for the day without it.  It will make you feel delightfully old fashioned. There is real wisdom behind the saying "hang up and drive."

11.  Call waiting - nothing like telling the person you are talking to "hey, I have to take this and see if, no matter who it is, they are more important than you..."  Most times I just hang up when someone puts me on call waiting. Evidently the conversation was over anyhow.

12.  Whining - yes, I see the irony - a list of me whining about the things I hate and one of those things is whining.  I don't normally like Andy Rooney - he is a grouchy old pain in the ass, but the smoke detector going off this morning while I was boiling water for Michael's hot chocolate has me in an Andy Rooney mood ;-)

So that's this morning's random thoughts.  Thanks for stopping by my blog today.  Here's hoping that whatever burr is under your saddle; whatever "chaps your hide;" or, as my mom says "frosts your cookies," that today you find yourself in the company of people whose mere presence will soften the sharp edges of your contempt and take the sting off of your peevishness.

Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com

As a matter of fact, I can read this. And by God I might just thank a teacher for that...

If you’re reading this, as the saying goes, then thank a teacher.  Who knows where or how you went to school.  Maybe at home, a public school, Montessori – whatever.  If you can read this, then thank a teacher. You didn’t come into this world knowing how to read – that’s for sure.  Somebody, somewhere, did some heavy lifting to get you to this point.

These sentiments are easy for me – my mom was a teacher.  Darned good one if I don’t say so myself.  Her brother, my uncle was a gifted educator as is my own brother.  My great aunt was a legendary teacher in Detroit.  The story goes that during the riots in 1967, her students’ parents actually escorted her to school safely so that Miss Lord could hold classes for their kids.  As teaching lore goes in my family, she was our King Arthur and the rest of the teachers were the gifted company of knights.

So it was, growing up surrounded by all these great teachers and my mom’s equally great teacher friends, it always seemed to me that teaching was more of vitality than a vocation. Some rare element in teachers that moved their blood just the same as their hearts did.  A college professor once referred to it as a “raison d’être.”  Literally, a reason to be.

So I have often reflected on my teachers with a sense of awe and wonder.  I had really good teachers.  Brilliant, passionate, gifted in the art of instruction and classroom leadership – I had way more good teachers than I ever had bad ones.

Those days are far behind me now.  I recently looked at a picture of myself as a high school sophomore and did the math – curse you rotten math teachers for your commitment to my cypherin skills.  Thirty one years ago.  Yipes.

But with that passage of time comes a different appreciation, and expectation, of teachers.  When I was a kid I literally thought the teachers lived at school and had little else to do in their lives than prepare the classroom, do the projects, and then, after the kids left, clean up and fix lunch for the day tomorrow.  Truly, I thought this.  There was always some weird closet door in the classroom that only the teacher could go in.  In my 5 year old brain that was her house where she took her tea and ate her breakfast.

As I grew older and realized that my mom herself was a teacher, of course I realized that teachers had ordinary lives outside of school.  But it wasn’t until I was a grown up, with an ordinary life of my own, that I realized how extraordinary this was with teachers.

We carry them with us, always, don’t we?  That teacher who got us, who moved us or inspired us – they are forever fixed in our memory – they are the rocks in our streams.  Familiar landmarks to all of us who traveled their way whether we did so 30 or 3 years ago.  Unchanged and wonderful.  That teacher did all that while at the same time worrying about mortgages and property taxes; retirement, their own kids, their own kids’ teachers, health, etc.  They bore that burden the same as any other “grown up” yet when it came time to show up for class there was in him or her the ever present good cheer, inspiration, and professional investment despite what must have been mind-numbingly bad questions or a lack of preparation from us students.

So the other evening we were out shopping – the entire family running errands after a busy day.  It was payday, which meant several different stops to help ensure the financial stability of the greater East Lansing area for another two weeks and dinner out at one of the kids’ favorite haunts (I had a two for one coupon so I was extra happy).  One of our stops was at a local store whose 75,000 square feet of floor space holds not a single item of interest for a middle-aged man or two young children.

As such, faced with the options of waiting in the car plugged into my iPod with the kids, or riding herd over my brood in a store filled with crystal, china, and other breakables, I chose Angry Birds and the iPod without breaking much of a sweat.  My wife went in and, after about a ten minute absence, returned with a huge smile on her face.  She said to the ten year old in the back seat, “Michael, come with me, there is someone who wants to see you.”

I watched the two of them walk off thinking perhaps one of his buddies was in the store and wanted to say “hi.”  But when he walked in, there, in what was an obvious show of genuine emotion, was his first grade teacher greeting him with arms wide open.  She snatched him up in a big hug ruffled his hair and treated him as if he was the Prince of Persia. A wonderful professional whose handprints are on his soul for eternity, I am sure of it. 

Having retired, she sought part time employment in this particular store to keep busy – something not unfamiliar to any of us.  Everybody’s got bills to pay.  Everybody has to head out into the weather, the traffic, the rat-race and make their way.

What I saw, observed through a storefront window in that gorgeous silent reunion between the champion teacher and her growing and earnest pupil was proof positive for me that for our teachers – our really good ones anyhow – teaching is breathing. It is vocational DNA – something some were just born to do.  The students matter to them beyond getting them to the threshold of yet another summer.  For that group of gifted educators, teaching is an activity entirely separate from getting dressed, going to work, collecting the pay check.  It is, indeed, a reason to be.

So, for the fact that I can write this, I thank my teachers.  If you can read this, then thank a teacher.  And if you are a parent who trusts your children into the hands of people whose chosen path is one committed to your kids by lifting them up, showing them the way, making them soar – then rejoice.  There are yet legions of ordinary people, living quiet lives I am sure in the little closet next to the pencil sharpener or in the corner of the gym or music room, who stand at the ready to take up just such a challenge.

Thank you, teachers, for answering the call of your reason to be.

So thanks for coming by my blog today.  Wherever you are today, I hope you find a couple of minutes to get lost in thought, wandering the hall of some ancient yet familiar school where stand the professionals who believed in you, supported and encouraged you and committed themselves to the high goal of helping you achieve all you are capable of achieving.

Dennis

smalltowndad@hotmail.com

Small Town Dad Special Edition: Navy Captain likely scuttled by racy videos...

Ok – so generally speaking this blog isn’t the kind of place where these things get kicked around.  There are 8 million other places in cyberspace where people will be opining about these things.

But there are a couple of dynamics at play here that prompt my comments; 1) investigating workplace mischief is exactly what I do for a living, so the case interests me from a professional point of view.  And 2) as a father of a boy and a girl, the issue of sexual harassment and this kind of mischief has a very immediate relevance to me.  One consequence of doing the job that I do is that I am keenly aware of the kind of American workplaces for which I am preparing these two kids.

What matters and what doesn’t?  Where do you draw the line at workplace fun?  I always marvel at the Mackinac Bridge – if the men who built it could see the modern American workplace, they would shake their heads and wonder how it is we ever get anything done with everyone running around like Chicken Little the first time someone tells an off-color joke. Yet that bridge got built, didn’t it?

And I have to admit I am not altogether decided on what to make of this business on the USS Enterprise.  As a taxpayer, I am concerned that my money was used to produce these videos.  This isn’t exactly someone’s home video of skit night.  These are edited videos with some high production values – in one video the Captain has been edited in to play three characters in the same scene. So, if taxpayer money was used in making these, then I am concerned.

As a labor relations professional, I am concerned that the videos are four years old.  That tells me instinctively they are being used to settle a score.  Someone didn’t get the promotion they wanted, someone didn’t get the rating they thought they deserved, or the seven headed media ninny factory just decided it needed something to talk about during a slow news cycle.  Regardless, the offenses are hardly current and there is no allegation that they are repeated.  They are demonstrative of bad judgment entered into 4 years ago.  Where the hell was the concern then?  Why bring it forward now?

As an American with a vested interest in national security, I am also concerned that I have made an incredible investment in the training and career development of this naval warrior.  He is a fighter pilot and a decorated officer with 24 years service.  That kind of employee is very expensive to cultivate and develop.  I hate to think the by-product of that investment in development is so fragile that it cannot withstand a little workplace mischief. 

As an American who has been paying for this officer’s training and development for more than the last half of my life (24 years), I’d like to get a greater return on my investment and have him commanding the forces defending our country.  It would be kind of a short sighted decision to march him out of the service and into his pension and a lucrative Defense contractor job for this tempest in a teapot (which is four years old, did I mention that yet?).

And finally, my professional instincts kicking in again, I am torn.  Part of me says that you don’t throw out the baby with the bath water.  In all just-cause disciplines at work, you have to prove proportionality.  Does the punishment meted out match the offense?  Taken objectively, he didn’t drive the Enterprise into a pier, fail to zig-zag while in enemy waters, or lose a squadron of planes.  He made a racy video.  That’s it? So isn’t there something else that can be done to record the employer’s apoplexy short of throwing this guy out of his job?  Keep in mind, Navy; at one point he was your first choice for that job. At some point you thought he was the best person to safeguard that asset (the Enterprise) and to safeguard the country as Enterprise’s captain.  So is there a problem with your selection process, Navy?

The other part of that equation is this – there are only 11 Captains of US aircraft carriers at any given time.  It’s true, I looked it up.  Eleven people on planet Earth at any one given time are deemed to have the right executive mettle to command the most magnificent platform in the world’s most magnificent Navy.  11.  Part of me says that if there are only 11, and we have been paying for the career development of an entire corps of US Naval surface warfare officers, then there is probably a 12^th ready to step in somewhere.

The gist of all of this is this – and I am looking right at you any of you media talking head ninnies that are slapping yourselves silly over this issue -  the US Navy has been in the business of protecting America since October 13, 1775.  That’s 235 years in human years.  While I might have all manner of egg-headed questions about what goes on in the modern workplace, I think this might be one for the Navy to decide on its own.  Maybe they look at this like a proper disqualifying event from which the Captain’s integrity might never recover. They have all kinds of experience in judging leadership integrity and its affect on the battlefield – more than I do.  And maybe they look at this like a scandal that they won’t tolerate because it distracts from their mission.  And maybe the commander-in-chief decides it by saying “no way.”  One of the luxuries of being the boss is that you get to be the boss.

Whatever the decision, it is a sure bet that politicians will make hay over it and media talking-heads will sell airtime talking about it.

So thanks for stopping by my blog today – a bit of a departure from the usual family friendly, folksy content.  As always I appreciate your support.

Dennis

smalltowndad@hotmail.com

Thinking of my dad...

I have been thinking about my dad a lot these days, wishing he was here.  He was so funny and smart about people without being arrogant about it.  He has been gone for five years yet there is scarcely a day when I don’t indulge in some thought of him.

His parents were divorced prior to World War II, when my dad was two. I have never met, or seen a picture of, my paternal grandfather.  My grandmother, an unhappy and mostly vile, hateful, person never remarried. 

When my dad was alive he would scarcely mention how really mean his mother was, and would never really complain about her to us kids.  It seemed his thinking was that he was stuck with her, and was an only child, so why share his burdens about her with us?  Reflecting on him and his life, he was 30 years older than me, it is easy for me to place him in the context of my life and wonder what he might do.  Most times I end up laughing because he was just so darned funny.

So now I am a dad, and I have these two great kids who look at me and sometimes want answers, and sometimes need stuff, and sometimes don’t know what they need or want but need a dad to be there for them.  It is in those moments that I think of him the most.

I think first about what he would say.  His wisdom was not of the Atticus Finch variety.  He had a way of putting things that was so grossly inappropriate, so drop dead funny, and so acutely in-tune with the natural rhythms of people that it is almost impossible to share his lessons with my children. Certainly my daughter would look at me like I was trying out for a role in a pirate movie if she ever heard me talking like my dad.

He was the first human being I ever heard utter the phrase ending “…and the horse you rode in on!”  We were in the car leaving the church parking lot.  I remember it distinctly because I was a child and wondered why he was yelling about “riding a horse” to the family in the wood-paneled station wagon.

My son, however, now 10 (“and a half” he would remind me to say) takes special delight in hearing many of my dad’s ribald axioms.  In truth I am happy to share them with him.  Some dads let their kids take a sip of beer when they get to a certain age. Well, for me, my indulgence is to give the boy a glance into the never politically correct world of my father.

1. “Get up quick; don’t ever let the bastards know they got you down!”
2. “Those kids are making fun of you?  Well (blank) ‘em all but six and save those six for pall bearers…”
3. “Did that kid call you skinny?  Well you tell that kid that you can always add muscle but you’re wondering what the hell he is planning to do about that face…”

Those were all dad’s chestnuts.  I am sad that as time goes by I am forgetting them.  My memory fades but there is plenty of evidence there of a man not at all refined – and he wasn’t – but terrifically engaged in the “growing up” process of his kids growing up.  He was a college educated man, and a veteran.  He didn’t grow up with a dad to show him the way, but he never once threw up his hands and said “beats me, kiddo.  You’re on your own.”  He was so unique that I cannot ever recall seeing him truly comfortable anywhere.  I suspect if he ever was it was in the armed service.

In his absence, I reflect on him for guidance with my kids, my career, and my marriage.  I think about what he would say or do when different things come up.  He was an avid golfer – and a really good playmate at just about anything if you could look the other way while he pulled the occasional fast one.  I suspect living the life he did, no dad at home, crazy evil mom, leaving for college just so he could get out of the house – he learned to live by his wits.  For him, if you were playing a game it was always played to win.

One of my favorite memories of him came from a JL Hudson’s Thanksgiving Day parade in the mid 1980’s.  He used his contacts to arrange for us to be admitted to a private downtown Detroit parking garage right along the parade route where we could stand well above street level and watch the parade go by.

My brothers and I were all young men, but grown and for the most part out of the house.  My sister, 9 years younger than me, was still living at home.  As we waited, freezing in a concrete landscape that was covered in several inches of terrific packing snow, my oldest brother looked four stories down to the street level where he observed a person, obviously intoxicated, answering the call of nature beneath the snow-laden boughs of a huge, and ancient white pine tree.

Us being us, and the fact that the person relieving herself was a “herself,” there presented in the form of her exposed, brilliant white behind an inviting target for snowballs to be rained down upon from the highest level of the parking garage.

So it was that we were engaged in this practice, firing missile after missile at this once in a lifetime target, none of us finding the mark but all of us laughing heartily, when the tell tale aroma of nicotine on leather announced the fact that my father had hold of my throwing arm by means of his leather-gloved hand.

Immediately I thought we were busted.  My dad used his work contacts to get us this prime viewing location; we were there with my mom, my sister, and my brother’s fiancé, and here were his sons acting like the three stooges throwing snowballs at the exposed derriere of a lady in dire need of a restroom.  I expected the worst.

He elbowed me sharply in the ribs as he went by, called me and my brothers “a bunch of idiots” and peeked over the ledge to see what had captivated us.  What happened next is a memory that today shapes how I feel for my dad when I view him as man about the same age as I am presently.

He leaned over the ledge, observed what he later called “a target rich environment” and then, using both arms in a butterfly stroke kind of motion, made the largest snowball I had ever seen with snow from the hood of a parked car.  I remember, after it dawned on me that the old man wasn’t going to kill us, laughing out loud and telling him he would never be able to throw a snowball that big far enough to hit our unfortunate target. Make no mistake; it WAS one big snowball – about the size of your average laundry basket.

As if it was yesterday I remember he looked at me right in the eye and said “I’m not aiming for her,” and then launched what can only be called a snow-boulder into the very tops of that snow laden white pine.

The tree dropped, all at once it seemed, about 500 pounds of wet, heavy snow straight down.  Bullseye – the old man got the better of all of us that day and was the only one to hit the target. It was pure genius and flawless execution and we laughed our asses off.  It is one of my all time favorite memories of him.  Not at all appropriate – but a memory I will have the rest of my life.

So thanks for stopping by the blog today and indulging this memory of my dad.  I swear every word of it is true.  Wherever you are today, I hope you are in the company of those you love enough to let them see the real you, the inappropriate you; the you who laughs and schemes.  And I hope those in your company love you enough to know that you are the best you that you are, and that the memories they have of you don’t all have to be perfect, so long as they are cherished.

Dennis

smalltowndad@hotmail.com