Justice is served...

You may remember that a year ago last August, I was assaulted by a bicyclist while in my car at rush hour. Well the sun is shining through the clouds today for me because my attacker has been apprehended by police and convicted and sentenced by our court system. Thanks goes out to a concerned citizen who had heard about the attack, knew the person and turned him in to the police. It was the fact that he put children in danger by coming after me that prompted his identification.

The Seattle Police Department also gets my thanks for continuing to purse this incident. They are dealing with a lot of really bad things out there and my case could easily have remained at the bottom of the stack. But they stayed on it until an arrest was made. I am told by the court that I can but I am not naming him here. First because I am just pleased that he did not get away with this treacherous act after he smugly rode off into traffic and, mostly, because I would rather have the word "Stupid" tattooed on his forehead. That aside, his name is a matter of public record now and can easily be found.

He plead guilty in court to the charge of assault and received a one year suspended sentence during which he must complete an anger management course; do a number of hours of community service and have no other criminal activity. He has a permanent restraining order from any contact with me and, of particular significance, he will have this conviction on his record for the rest of his life.

The court contacted me several times during the past year and, after he was arrested and entered his guilty plea, I was asked to write how the incident had affected me. My statement will be used by the judge in his sentencing.  The statement follows here. Based on the elements of his sentence that the City Attorney's Office shared with me, it seems the judge and I feel much the same way about it.

It is good to put this incident behind me and I hope nothing like it happens to you or to me again. Still, there are slightly deranged people like this out there who cannot control their anger and may be a threat to others while out in public.  Be careful.

Victim Impact Statement for the Judge

Irresponsible and reckless are the best things I can say about this man. He was weaving down the middle of a side street, working hard to pull a double tandem carrier behind his bike. I was driving toward him, being forced to move as far to the right as possible to stay out of his way.  He yelled at me to “Move over”. I said “You should move over” and drove on.  He followed me for more than a quarter of a mile through rush hour traffic endangering himself and his children in the carrier.  He pulled up to my car at a stoplight, between lanes of traffic, said “How dare you” and completely unprovoked, punched me in the face through the open window. He then rode off into the rush hour crowd. I went to the emergency room at Swedish Hospital on Capitol Hill, getting stitches in my upper and lower lips and ointment for my bruised face. I later saw my dentist who told me that my upper teeth were loose from the blow but would be alright.

This man needs help. At the very least, he needs anger management counseling. Perhaps his mental health should be checked, as well.  If the children were his, he put his family in danger unnecessarily and should meet with Child Protective Services for a review.  I want this felonious assault on his permanent record so that anyone who employs him or works with him knows that he is unstable and a danger to his children and others around him.

His actions were entirely uncalled for and he deserves a very serious sentence. Whether he was on a bike or any other wheeled transportation, he instigated a very dangerous situation.  My wife feels that my restless sleeping and bouts of insomnia since that time are due to this incident. However, my doctor does not have a concern at this point.  My visits to the emergency room and the dentist were covered by my insurance.  It is therefore not necessary to seek monetary restitution.

I want this man to know that his uncontrolled actions were completely out of bounds and perilous. He handled this situation precariously and in a very unsafe manner.  I can only hope that I never encounter such a treacherous person again.  He does not deserve to be using our streets.

I must commend the Seattle Police Department for taking this case seriously. And were it not for a concerned citizen, this man would never have been apprehended. I will not hesitate to thank them publicly for their diligence in bringing him to justice.

Speaking of turkeys

My father was a hunter.  When I was very young, I thought it was because he was in the army. But once I reached school age, I realized he’d been hunting all his life.  If we were stationed anywhere within a reasonable distance, we spent most Thanksgivings on the family farm while I was in school. Friday morning the men would go out hunting rabbits and birds.  Frankly, I didn't have much interest in killing small animals but I wore the coat and carried the gun to look the part.

In my father’s later years, after hunting just about everything but what Africans call big game, he had one item on this bucket list. He wanted, as he put it, to “harvest” a turkey. After retiring from military/government service in Washington, DC, he returned with my mom to Indiana, where they both had siblings still living. 

The McConnell family farm had been sold but my mother's clan still owned acreage and livestock in the western part of the state. The woods on their farm became my dad's sanctuary. He tried bow hunting for deer, with no luck. He built a blind in a tree to watch for game but he fell asleep there one day and fell out of the tree.  He dragged himself to his truck and drove to the hospital.  After that, he stopped sitting in trees with a gun across his lap and bought a cell phone.

It was on the farm that he first caught sight of the turkey.  The bird walked proudly across the open field and seemed to know exactly where he was going. He was quite a specimen.  Dad said you could judge a turkey by his beard and this one had a very long black beard, a sign of maturity and stature in the bird world...so I'm told.

Dad watched the turkey for months and finally named him Clarence.  Why Clarence? I guess I'll never know. Dad just said Clarence this and Clarence that and we accepted it. The bird had his route and each day he would come and go the same way with Dad studying every move and nuance.

We never knew exactly when Dad shot Clarence.  He took the bird directly to the taxidermist. I prefer to think that we didn't eat him for Thanksgiving dinner when the bird showed up at Christmas time as proud as ever, showing off that big long beard, sitting right next to the fireplace, nice and warm.

The battle of man versus beast can be an honorable undertaking. I support the native Americans view of the hunt and the respect they have for their conquests. That drew me to the Na'vi in the movie Avatar, as well. My dad and Clarence had an understanding.  There was a meeting of the minds.  My father was an honorable man and I choose to believe that his "harvest" was at least in part a spiritual one. Clarence looked at peace with the world. And so did my father.

It was 50 years ago today...

 

How many times have you heard that phrase in the past couple of years? I’ve heard it a lot and that got me thinking.  The “Turbulent Sixties” weren’t all that turbulent. Not the first half of the decade, anyway. In fact, from President Kennedy’s election in 1960 through LBJ signing the Civil Rights Act of 1964, it was one of the all-time great periods in our country’s history…even better than Twitter.

Most of what has happened to us in the past half century was greatly influenced by the early 1960's. We entered the Space Age then and Star Trek first appeared on our television screens. President Kennedy kicked off the Space Race and, not long after, John Glenn circled the earth three times and we were off to the moon.

It was exciting to be an American. We made an American car that was the envy of the world, the Ford Mustang.  We introduced the touchtone telephone and the microwave oven at the Seattle World's Fair and communication and frozen food have been improving ever since. Speaking of the World's Fair, it propelled Seattle into the global spotlight and made many people outside this country very envious of our little Northwest corner of the world.

For me and the millions of other "Boomers", that period of time set the stage for how our lives would play out...the influences, concerns and opportunities were all fresh and new. The "Caution.." statement went on every pack of cigarettes. For the first time, the condition of our environment became a focus for us. Bob Dylan debuted in Greenwich Village and then there was the Beatles. Our early musical influences were taking form.

It was amazing when Willie Mays signed the largest baseball contract in history for $100,000...imagine that, $100,000 (baseball players were the highest paid professional athletes in our country at that time). And my hero, Mickey Mantle, and Roger Maris battled each other to break Babe Ruth's "unbreakable" record of 60 homeruns...and Maris hit 61, legitimately, no extra games, no steroids, he just did it.

MLK won the Nobel Peace Prize. The Peace Corps started then, giving school kids like me a fresh look at the world beyond our shores. Add Johnny Carson taking over the Tonight Show and Dr. No showing up with Sean Connery and Ursula Andress in the first James Bond movie and you're starting to get the idea of what kind of an impression this period made on us.

In some ways, this second decade of the new millennium has certain elements of those glory days 50 years ago. My friend and fellow "Boomer" Sally Jewell, now Madam Secretary of the Interior, often says that one of the main societal influences we are coping with is the transfer of power from the Boomers to the Millennials. With us in the Boomer Boat are Bill and Hillary Clinton, President Obama, Bono, Michael Jordan, Princess Diana, George Clooney, Bill Gates,  J.K. Rowling, Stephen Colbert and Wynton Marsalis. Pretty good company.

The past half century has changed the world and changed us. The early 60's gave us hope and now we seem to have lost it.  The spirit that came from the youth back then propelled us into frontiers of the unknown.  This new generation has got to lead on something besides technology. When all is done you end up with the people. 50 years ago today, the people had the fire. We've got to stick together and make things work.

The Poppies Grow...

A guy in a VFW hat was selling poppies at the Fred Meyer store on Sunday. He seemed a little like the lone Girl Scout on the last day of the cookie sale because I used to see groups from the Veterans of Foreign Wars selling them on every street corner downtown around Veterans Day. And vets were proud to wear them. This holiday has a different name in other countries…Remembrance Day in the British Commonwealth and Europe.  But everywhere, it’s a day to honor and remember those who have served their country in times of war. It’s a day for the living.

Our country has been fighting in the Middle East since 1990. Almost 25 years have gone by with little progress being made on the political front. One tiny bright spot shines through those two and a half decades and that is the gain in our respect for those who have been in the service during wartime. Tens of thousands have been deployed and returned. An entire generation of young people, men and women, over 2.5 million, have served in the Middle East conflicts. To me that’s a staggering number.

Everyone who serves is not a hero.  That word is a bit over-used these days. But everyone who serves is worthy of our allegiance for their commitment. My grandfather volunteered during World War I but was turned down for flat-feet. He always regretted it. My father volunteered for WWII and served in the European Theater, including the D-Day invasion on June 6. He made a life-long career of it.

When I had the McConnell Company, we always took November 11 off…because I am a veteran and I got to decide. Many companies don’t recognize it as a holiday today. That bothers me. It’s a day of remembrance that most of our world shares. Its origin is from the signing of the armistice that ended World War I, the war to end all wars. It was the 11^th hour of the 11^th day of the 11^th month.

The poppies have become a symbol of that day almost 100 years ago when the world was at peace. “In Flanders Fields the poppies grow…” a poem written by a Canadian soldier, sparked the movement to recognize that day and those who have served. I’ve been to Flanders Fields and plan to go again soon, mostly to honor my father and his service. This year marks the anniversary of the day he walked under the Arc de Triomphe with hundreds of other Allied troops after they liberated Paris from Nazi tyranny. A time for celebration.

I am always moved to write on Veterans Day. Growing up in a military family instills a certain spirit in many children, as it did in me. My father was a role model in many ways but he and I had very different views about a lot of things…just not about serving your country. This place we call home is not perfect but it’s worth fighting for, if it comes to that. Keep your eyes out for those poppies, young and old. Wish the wearers a good day and tell them you’re proud of their service.  They deserve it.

All you need is...the Beatles

Lots of talk about the Beatles first US tour these days. Those of us who were around then can generally agree it signaled a revolution in the popular music world.  I was living in DC then while my dad was stationed at the Pentagon.  The Beatles actually did their first US concert in DC two days after their record-breaking appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show (reportedly watched by 73 million viewers).  The DC concert was short and sweet, about 30 minutes, but it was performed in the round to a relatively small crowd of 8,000, so they turned the stage (by hand) every few songs in order to face everyone in the hall at one time or another. They never left the east coast during their February visit.  There wasn’t even a tour guide for the handful of concerts.

Then in August, the dam burst. Their cross country tour, with a major stop in Seattle, set the precedent for all rock concerts to come. Big stadiums and venues, wild audiences and buzz that would make your ears hurt. For the next three years, the Beatles toured America. From Shea Stadium to Candlestick Park, it was a tsunami of rock & roll that has never been matched since. Not a stage show.  Not a huge production.  No dancers.  No special effects. Just exciting, novel and witty music from a group of young chums. I often think of John’s great understatement in the television Beatles Anthology, “The Beatles were just a band that made it very, very big, that’s all.”

This is the period of time when Jane and I first met and our high school sweethearts story began. One of our first big dates was to see the Beatles at DC Stadium.  We both lived with our parents in the Virginia suburbs. It was a hot August night (that’s right, Neil) and we got to the stadium early.  The Ku Klux Klan was out in full force with the Imperial Grand Dragon protesting John Lennon’s comment about the Beatles being more popular than Jesus. All I can say is that his robes and pointed head..er hat were very colorful. That little distraction didn’t last too long and before we knew it we were inside with over 30,000 other fans revved up for the Fab Four.

The only warm-up act I remember was the Cyrkle of “Red Rubber Ball” fame…trust me, that was the song. The stage sat on the pitcher’s mound and it was a long way from the stands.  Because it was such a special evening, I sprang for the high-priced $5 seats. It amazes me today that you could go to a world-shaking concert for $3…go figure. We had a great view mid-way between 3^rd base and home plate, in the box seats. By that time, the group had their entrances down to a science. Slowly two big black limos backed out onto the field and pulled up to the stage with the screams from the crowd building to a crescendo. The doors opened and out came the roadies, as the Beatles ran onto the field, carrying their instruments and waving to the stands all the way. We’d been perfectly punked.

The sound system was good but it still couldn’t quite standout above the screaming fans. The 30-minute set moved quickly with a little bit of relief coming when Paul sang “Yesterday”…I think many of the screamers were losing their voices by then. The boys left in the limos and suddenly, it was over.  A night to remember…and even better because it’s a memory that Jane and I share.

Our parents liked the Beatles…except for the long hair, which strangely doesn’t look long at all now. They had Glenn Miller and Frank Sinatra. Then Rock & Roll began its run with Chuck Berry and Elvis.  But the Beatles belong to us. We grew up with them during a time of great transition. The Space Age was propelling us into the future and we were facing adulthood. I bought every one of their albums on the day it was released. I’ve met Paul and Ringo in person.  I know where I was when John and George died. Their music is in my head every day. My memories include souvenirs like the official tour guide programs and one-of-a-kind albums pictured here. There are many great artists out there but none have turned the world of popular music upside down the way the Beatles did. Our lives are influenced by many things. That hot August night in DC will always have a very special meaning to me.

There are places I'll remember

All my life, though some have changed

Some forever, not for better

Some have gone and some remain

All these places have their moments

With lovers and friends I still can recall

Some are dead and some are living

In my life, I've loved them all

Joining the club...

The invitation to be a university commencement speaker is an honor. At first, it sounds like fun but then quickly it becomes a quite formidable task.  This spring, I was invited to address the hundreds of University of Washington continuing education graduates, along with hundreds more family members and friends who filled the field house to celebrate the completion of their programs.

I was especially pleased to speak this year because it gave me the opportunity to thank my teaching mentor over the past 25 years, retiring Vice Provost Dave Szatmary. He is a legend in academic circles across the country and his counsel has made my tenure as senior instructor and advisory board member a very fulfilling part of my life.

As I began to collect my thoughts, I realized that I was joining a pretty exclusive club. Even the President of the United States is a commencement speaker. How could I possibly compete with his thoughts and views? And then, there are the many other influentials out there, preaching to a new wave of world-changers and trying to dispense good advice...pretty daunting, indeed.

Google was my first piece of research and there at the top of the list was the New York Times annual poke at commencement speakers. 

“Mostly what you should know is that you’re part of America’s greatest generation, our fastest growing export, our newest achievement in the nation that gave birth to freedom, jazz and Upworthy. That’s right: Starting today, you’re proud members of the commencement speech industrial complex.

“What you say in the next eight minutes has the ability to move the world, to be spammed into inboxes around the globe, to define you in the eyes of millions. Don’t let anybody tell you this isn’t true, because you have the opportunity that your ancestors never dreamed of: to be more popular than cat videos,” it said

More popular than cat videos! Wow! Clearly, composing a commencement speech is a challenge. I quickly decided that now was not the time to “wing it”. Good solid advice seemed safe.  Keep it personal. Talk about what you know. Write it down and practice. My thoughts began to gel.

Jane talked me out of the attempt at humor where I would tell the students that they were lucky not having to pay $38 for a wrist band to stand in line and hear my speech like hundreds of people two blocks away who were doing just that while waiting to get a signed copy of Hillary’s new book. On second thought, I decided I was the lucky one because the students came to graduation instead of choosing to stand in Hillary’s line.

I also received a number of nay votes on my attempt at being current by referencing Snapchat, the latest online photo site. The blank stares told me that it may be working for some people (much younger than me, I’m sure) but clearly not my crowd.

Finally, it was obvious that I should stick to the basics, no jokes. Don't try to be Tony Robbins (There's only one). Find a few memorable quotes, offer some good advice, congratulate them on their success and then sit down. I had to smile when a cheer from my students rose out of the crowd as I was introduced. It gave me the quick moment of relief I needed before I began my talk.

Personally connecting with each of my students as they received their certificates was heartwarming. And the unfurling of the 12^th Man banner with my name on it that they had prepared and signed was definitely a highlight of the evening. Because of my long association with the University of Washington on so many levels, I have grown a great affinity for the school and, thanks to UW, I’m now a proud member of the commencement speakers club. In the end though, it’s about the students. Having even a small effect on shaping their lives is the greatest reward of all.

Here are a few edited portions of my address. (I made it in under 10 minutes…even the President couldn’t do that!) I was honored to be part of the ceremony and, frankly, I think it went pretty well...but I'll leave that judgement up to those who heard it.

Lifelong Learning is the essence of Professional and Continuing Education programs. Most of you are here today because you wanted to learn more.  That's true for me as an instructor, as well. Through teaching and mentoring over the past 25 years, I have also continued to learn. Learn about people. Learn about new trends. Learn about a whole new generation entering the marketplace and changing it. That’s a very special gift to be given.

I was not initially trained to be a teacher. I was trained to write.  Being an English major prepares you for anything or nothing at all, depending on what you choose to do with it. I’ve spent most of my life learning to do new things. It’s sometimes a challenge and sometimes rewarding, but it’s always exciting and never dull.

In one of the classes I teach, we talk about the power of three.  Research has proven that people can remember three pieces of information very well. I want to be certain to leave you with three thoughts to take home from today’s ceremony.

For alliteration’s sake, I’ve got 3 P’s for you:

Preparation is the first. A famous basketball coach named John Wooden had a sign on the wall by his desk that read “Failing to prepare is preparing to fail.” You are preparing now by completing a certificate program.  That’s a great first step.

Perseverance comes next. The Chinese philosopher Confucius is reported to have said, “It does not matter how slow you go, as long as you never stop.” I know things have always seemed most satisfying for me when the end of a journey is in sight. Keep on  keeping on, until then.

Finally, it’s passion that has brought us all here. We didn’t do this because we had to.  We did it because we wanted to.  Because it makes possible something that we care about. Author Irving Stone wrote in the Agony and the Ecstasy, “Talent is cheap. Dedication is expensive. It will cost you your life.” Try as hard as you can to do something you love. To live and work with passion will make the trip a much smoother ride.

I applaud you for being here tonight to receive your certificates. I am as proud of each of you as I am of my own students, for wanting to learn more.

In wrapping up, I’m reminded that I had the good fortune to meet the famous poet and civil rights activist Maya Angelou, who passed away just a few weeks ago. While she was speaking to a group of young school children, she unknowingly gave me an important life lesson.  We were talking about writing when she said, “I don’t use big words. They just confuse us all. If a third-grader understands what we write, then our point is much better made.” I wrote that in my notebook, and have been guided by it throughout my entire career where writing is at the core.

So I leave you today with a simple three-word phrase that is a cornerstone of every great institution and every great life. Third-graders know this, and all of us should take it to heart. “Keep on learning”.

Thank you and congratulations.

A D-Day Story

Sullivan’s Steak House was crowded, as most suburban shopping center restaurants are on a typical Wednesday night. My father told me how much he liked it so I said let’s go to dinner there. The older my father got, the more he seemed to want to talk to me…or maybe I just wanted to hear more of what he had to say, as I got older. Regardless, we had some really good conversations over dinner in his later years. And on this night, the subject turned to our military service and then to D-Day.

The draft caught up with my father in 1942 and, after going into the US Army, he was accepted into Officer Candidate School. He did his training and ended up in Buzzard’s Bay, Massachusetts at the entrance to Cape Cod. He was preparing to be sent overseas to the European Theater of World War II. He never told me whether he chose the field artillery or it chose him but that’s where he ended up, as I did when it came my turn to serve. We had that in common.

My mother and he were teen-agers when they married right out of high school. Being newly-weds, they were able to be together in Massachusetts before my father left for England. At the end of 1943, he shipped out to Portsmouth, England, in the First Army’s 204^th Anti-Aircraft Artillery Battalion, which he helped form. By February, 1944, he said there were so many US and British troops along the southwestern coast of England that they had to stay in private homes and businesses.  The Brits were happy to see them but it was definitely a strain on everyone.

                                                                                                               

Dad was in charge of a unit that would follow the ground troops onto the beach. They were to provide cover from the German Luftwaffe that they were sure would show up very quickly.  They conducted exercises every day, setting up as fast as possible and preparing to fire in rapid succession. It was tiring and stressful but the consensus was clearly to get on with it. He did say they were well fed in England. Not a lot of meat but the cottage pie was a true delicacy (my English friend Julia makes the best I’ve ever tasted!).

While prepping for the invasion, Dad did see the Third Army’s General Patton one time. Patton and his bull terrier, Willie, were riding down the main street of town standing in the back of a jeep, shouting, laughing and cheering at the troops and locals. Dad said he thought Patton might have been a bit tipsy. “He just seemed too happy.” Months later, he saw Patton one more time on the battlefield in Belgium with quite a different opinion of the encounter. “This time he was all fight.”

By the end of May, they knew the invasion was imminent and beginning June 1, every day could have been the day. D-Day was first scheduled for June 5^th but the weather was so bad it was delayed until the 6^th. Late the night before, they boarded the ships for the 100 mile trip across the channel to Normandy. Dad said they painted “Thank You” to the Brits on the roads as they left town for the harbor.

While loading on the boats, Dad said that troops were already quoting from Patton’s famous speech, given to his armored division earlier in the week.
“Men, all this stuff you hear about America not wanting to fight, wanting to stay out of the war, is a lot of bullshit. Americans love to fight...” Supposedly, Patton never wrote down “The Speech”. Accounts from soldiers who heard him have been used to reconstruct it. The version we’ve all heard George C. Scott give at the beginning of his Academy-Award-winning portrayal in the Patton movie is said to be a very reasonable facsimile. Regardless, Dad said the “Bullshit” line was on everyone’s lips as they boarded the boats.

The overnight crossing was rough but Dad didn’t get sick…probably because he had not eaten anything that day due to the level of stress. The infantry landed in the first wave and then Dad’s artillery moved in to ward off German fighter planes and to fire on the gun emplacements on the top of the bluff above the beach. Dad said there was blood in the water and bodies covered the beach when they disembarked. The smell of gun-powder was thick in the air. He had what he thought was a panic attack but pushed through it by getting the guns set up.

It took three days to  secure Omaha Beach before they moved on into the countryside. He said time was a blur and he didn’t remember sleeping, although he was sure he did. D-Day was the beginning of a six-month march to drive the enemy back to Germany. His side bar stories were fascinating including his commandeering of a German motorcycle which he used for some time…until he crashed it on a bridge abutment and broke his nose. And he remembered vividly going past Flanders Field “where poppies grow” while fighting across Belgium. My grandfather taught me the World War I poem about the rows of crosses on a blanket of poppies when I started school. The red poppies became a symbol of comrades lost for war veterans on Memorial Day and Dad pressed one into his field manual to bring home.  I still have it.

Dad’s unit was part of the First Army.  Its commanding general was Omar Bradley, portrayed by Karl Malden in the Patton movie, which I've watched so many  times I can mouth the words. According to Dad, Bradley wasn’t as visible a leader as Patton but he was devoted to his troops. He congratulated my dad personally on his battlefield promotion while crossing into Germany. Bradley took the “first” in First Army to heart. Among Dad’s war souvenirs was a tactics book with an inside cover that read “First ashore in Normandy…First into Paris…First into Germany…First across the Rhine…First to meet the Russians.” The First Army was definitely the sharp end of the spear, as they say. And Dad was very proud of that.

We closed down Sullivan’s Steak House that night and continued the conversation on the drive home. I wish I’d had my reporter’s notebook with me, but I fortunately I did write a lot of this down later in my journal. It’s the only time my father really ever opened up about the war and D-Day. It is a cherished dialogue that I will carry with me forever.

When my mother passed away a few years ago and we were taking care of her belongings, Jane found a postcard that I had never seen in a dresser drawer.  It’s hand-painted and oversize. The artwork depicts England and the British Parliament along with the US and the White House, sending many war ships to France. They converge in 1944 on Paris and the Arc de Triomphe with “A Merry Xmas” on the banner above.  Part of Dad’s handwritten message on the reverse reads, “…This is the best I could do for a Xmas card, but all my love comes with it. I passed through this arch…a few months ago (when we liberated Paris).” It’s signed “Love, Johnny” and, in all my years, I never heard anyone call him “Johnny”…not even my mother.

But “Johnny” did come marching home and I’m very glad he did. He taught me so much. He set the bar very high and showed me how to clear it, with room to spare…or to run around it, if that was the best course. There’s so much to say about “The Greatest Generation”. D-Day was not just the beginning of the end of World War II.  It was the beginning of a new era in our country and the world. We began to grow…faster, stronger, better. Now that we have all been through a time that is close to the depression that my parents experienced, perhaps we’ll gain the strength, fortitude and compassion to face what the future holds for us. I hope so.

Inspiration

Having an international airport 50 miles from your place of work allows for good “think-“ or “talk-time” when you’re making the trip.  I picked up Maya Angelou mid-morning and we were due back for a lunch by noon. What a warm, gracious and soft spoken lady she was. She didn’t know me at all but immediately after we connected, we were talking like old friends. When people of her stature are as interested in you as they are in themselves, it’s a pleasant and special encounter.

I found out early on that when you are open and vocal about your concerns with the way a non-profit organization is being run, it’s not too long before you’re more involved.  The Distinguished Visitor Series was an incredible opportunity to bring luminaries to a small mid-western town with a big reputation, like Columbus, Indiana. After attending a couple of the evenings in the Series, I wrote a long letter about how I thought the experience could be improved. Before I knew it, I was president of DVS and regularly making the trip to the airport to spend a day or two with amazing people like Maya Angelou.

She had a luncheon with local VIP’s, stops at two schools to speak with students, dinner with business executives and then a presentation to the public in the evening.  The transitions were flawless. She seemed to be able to speak everyone’s language. Her understanding of the business world and politics was uncanny and when meeting with students, they were rapt with her words and the poems she chose to share.

It was at one of the schools that she gave me that pearl of advice that I have carried with me since that time.  We were talking about speaking to the children and how she felt that we don’t give them enough credit for how much they understand. That conversation turned to writing and she said, “I never use big words. They confuse us all. If a third-grader understands what we write then our point is much better made.” It’s hard to disagree with that.

In her evening presentation, she read extensively from “I know why the caged bird sings”, which was the first of several autobiographies that she wrote during her life.  In summing up that night, she said, “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said; people will forget what you did; but they will never forget how you made them feel.” I wrote that in the reporter’s notebook that I always carry and have never forgotten it.

The drive back to the airport the next morning was fun. We covered a lot of subjects. When I asked her if she watched much television, she said, “I do watch re-runs of “Star Trek”. Nichelle Nichols, who played Lt. Uhura, is a good friend.  Watching her makes me feel comfortable and happy.” We parted as friends with a handful of experiences in common.

I recently added an evening with our latest inaugural poet Richard Blanco, at the Seattle Public Library, to those personally inspiring moments in my life. But Maya Angelou, also an inaugural poet, was my first, and that, for me, is a cherished memory that will always hold a special spot in my heart. She was an incredible person and a devout American. Her passing leaves a void but her words will be with us forever. Such a legacy in this world is unrivaled. Rest in peace, Maya.

Memorial Day and then some...

We must never forget the reason for Memorial Day. It’s a remembrance of all those who have died in military service for our country. The day itself is the last of a three-day weekend that has several meanings. It’s the unofficial end of winter and the beginning of the summer season. It’s a celebration of family with picnics and barbecues, water skiing, sailboat racing, softball and more.

There’s one other part of of the Memorial Day weekend that came back to me this year, during my travels.  I like to cruise bookstores if I’m without a meeting or a client dinner when I’m on the road.  On one such evening, I came across a book called “Moments in Time”. Mostly a picture book from the archives of Time Magazine (thank goodness it’s hard copy weekly is still hanging in there), it revisits many of the significant benchmarks of the last century.

Hardly a book where I expected to find a photo of yours truly. But as I leafed through it, there was a picture that gave me the same jolt I felt when the incident occurred. It was Memorial Day weekend at what is known as the “Greatest Spectacle in Racing”, The Indianapolis 500. With my folks being from Indiana, no matter where my military father was stationed, we came back many times for Memorial Day to go to the big race. And it is indeed a spectacle.

The only rivals for "the 500" in the world of auto racing are the Monaco Grand Prix and 24 Hours at LeMans. The three make up auto racing’s triple crown and only one person, Britain’s Graham Hill, has won all three events. Over 300,000 enthusiasts go to the race and over a million show up in the month of May to witness the prep and qualifying.

Like any large scale event, "the 500" has its nuances. There’s Carb Day with carburetion testing to watch (all about those engines). Then there is qualifications when the field of 33 cars is selected.  The 500 Festival just before the big race has many special events sprinkled through the early part of May.  The race itself is over in the blink of an eye today. With average speeds over 200 miles per hour, in little more than two hours, it’s history.

If you have "Hoosier" roots, as I do, "the 500" is as familiar to you as high school basketball. Highlights for me were when my father was the chairman of the 500 Festival (local hero returns and all that). And then when I worked for diesel engine maker Cummins Engine Company, I was selected to head up the Mechanics Banquet that recognized the masters who keep the cars running at peak performance for 500 miles. Cummins has a history of placing diesel engines in race cars, even winning the pole position (first car in the first row). Never been done again.I still have my 500 Committee blazer...it no long fits...but there's always hope.

The race can be viewed from many vantage points and I’ve been able to sample most of them over the years.  I’ve seen it from the finish line grandstands, from the suite boxes, from the pits and “gasoline alley” where the mechanics do their magic and even from the pace car that starts the race with my father, which was an unbelievable rush.

But there’s one more place to watch the race that actually prompted this story.  The infield is where the people are. Somewhere between 50 and 100,000 fans pay a fraction of the cost of a track ticket (infield is $40 these days) to get glimpses of the race and have the ultimate tailgate party.  The infield opens the night before. There’s a sprint to find your viewing spot and then the drinking begins.

Turn 3 (there are 4 on the 2.5-mile track) is lovingly called “the Snake Pit”. You get a clear view of the race down the back straightaway, the fight around the turns and the beginning of the sprint to the finish line. While visiting one spring, a group of my public school cronies decided to make the trek to the Speedway and I joined them. One of the father’s had a plumbing business and we took his panel truck with a flat roof which made a great viewing platform.

We set up in Turn 3 and noticed a huge scaffold where they were selling sitting room for $5 or $10. It looked pretty crowded when we got there. They kept adding more and more spectators until it was a buzzing swarm of humanity.  The final estimate was 125 people on the 30-foot-high structure.

When the race started, the cars were coming out of the straightaway into the turn, when it looked as if everyone on that scaffold had leaned forward to watch at the same time. Very slowly, the whole structure collapsed. To us, it seemed like slow motion. And then the screaming began.

You can clearly see the four of us on the roof of the truck at the right side of the Time photo. I’m the one sitting in the folding chair. We spent the next couple of hours helping pull people out of the mess. Two were killed when the scaffold fell on top of them and over 80 were injured.  I had never witnessed such tragedy in my young life. A description of the injuries we witnessed would be just too gruesome. When I saw this photo in the book, it brought it all back in an instant. That disaster is far from my fondest memory of the Indianapolis 500 but it’s indelible.

Scaffolds were banned after that and the race goes on. It’s still a spectacle and, with speeds being what they are today, the race is over here on the west coast before brunch. Still I’ll turn on the television this weekend to hear all those assembled sing “Back Home Again In Indiana” and then check to see if David Letterman is in the crowd (he’s a car owner). I don't follow closely enough now to have favorites, although I wish Danica Patrick hadn't dropped the 500 from her schedule. It was great when she held the pole position and a win would have been fantastic.

Whether or not you watch "the 500", I hope you enjoy the Memorial Day weekend with family and friends. And take a moment to remember those who have fought and died to give us this privilege. It's important.

So much grief...

There has just been too much grief in our lives lately. So many horrific events have confronted us in the past few weeks and even those that are far away have weighed on our minds.

It began with the missing Malaysian Airline flight. How could we not feel the pain and confusion of the grief-stricken families of the 270 on board. Even today, they are still without real answers to what happened to their loved ones.

And then the surprise crash of a news helicopter in Seattle that cost the lives of two veteran news people who many of us knew personally. The remaining survivor is in all our thoughts each day of his recuperation.

 

Since, we’ve been inundated almost daily with school slashings, military shootings, ferry sinkings, fiery bus collisions and natural disasters.

The Oso, Washington, Mudslide and the Everest Icefall Avalanche hit very close to home…both literally and figuratively.

Everest has been a part of my life for three decades and the Sherpa people have become close friends. The Mountain needs a rest. My friend Ed Hillary thought so…and so do I. Too much activity; too many people; too much trash and too much money are making Everest a victim of its own appeal. Losing those Sherpa lives as they took great risk to put in a rope route to the summit so that hundreds more could clip in and stand in the queue to say they “climbed” Everest seems more like a Disneyland ride than one of world’s natural wonders. What a shame.

The Mudslide at Oso is one of the most devastating natural disasters in our state’s history.  A 30- to 70-foot wall of mud and debris collapsed onto a small town burying many of the residents and sweeping away the homes and personal lives of everyone who lived there. There was no notice. One moment it was a typical Saturday morning and, in little more than 30 seconds, the community was gone.

The public response to the Oso disaster has been unbelievably passionate and exemplary. From the moment it happened, those who have come upon the scene have not hesitated to help. The overabundance of search volunteers have forced those in charge of the recovery to literally place people in queues to avoid putting themselves in danger while trying to assist.  The homes and highway are under as much as 75-feet of mud and the heavy equipment has only cleared about two-feet of debris as the search continues for the last two known to be lost.

The Red Cross, the United Way, the county government and FEMA have all joined together to deal with the one-mile-square devastation. The outpouring of sentiment has been heart-warming.  Hardly a media interview has been done without emotions being frayed. Supplies, clothing and even money are pouring in from every direction. The major local hospital has established a disaster relief fund to provide immediate assistance to those in need.  They hoped to raise $5000.  The fund is nearing $2 million today. This event has touched the country in a way that few on this scale ever do. We are all feeling the pain of this small town. They’re our neighbors and they’ve lost everything.  Caring for our own is the only answer.

President Obama came today and viewed the Oso devastation with our governor and two senators. Photos don’t seem to capture the scene that a first-hand view from the air does. He met with families of those lost and with the first responders who have worked tirelessly for the past weeks to find those who were missing.  He praised the resilience of the community.  He remembered a letter he received from a first responder who pointed out the care and reverence that the heavy equipment operators had taken in doing their job, knowing that this was a search for loved ones. The President made the comment that he was most impressed by the fact that the letter was paying tribute to what others had done and not to himself.

I can’t resist a shout out for two young talented professionals who have been leading the communications and community liaison efforts at Oso for FEMA, my father’s employer for 20 years.  Ryan Ike and Erin Ward showed their abilities and leadership in the classes I taught this year at the University of Washington. I am very proud of them and the stellar work they have done in this crisis.

There are generally known to be 5 stages of grief…denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I know I’ve felt elements of these at times in my life. But I would sadly add a 6^th stage and call it “recrimination”. It’s the really ugly one, as far as I’m concerned. This is the “who’s to blame?” stage and it’s already begun. It’s really a legal term and this is where the lawyers enter the picture.  They’re are swarming in on almost all these disasters to find out whose fault it was and how can we make them pay?

They’re after Boeing for making the plane that’s somewhere on the bottom of the ocean. The company that made the helicopter that crashed is under scrutiny. The crew of the ferry is being arrested for sending people to a certain death. The Sherpas are after the Nepalese government for not properly sharing the profits from the expedition income it receives and the county and state are being targeted for issuing building permits on the site of the mudslide. I’m all for finding safer ways to do all these things but for those who’ve lost their lives, it’s too late. We need to be better at caring for each other. We need to use our technology to help avoid disasters and not just to turn on the lights and feed the dog when we can’t get home in time from the party.

More self-reliance is what I think I’m looking for. Grieving is a process we can’t avoid at times like these. But we can stand up for one another. Once again, the Oso incident underscores a major tenent of life in the Pacific Northwest. We take care of our own. This is something the peoples around the world should consider.  It’s not always someone else’s fault. Sometimes it's our own fault and other times, it just happens. I want to see the storm clouds move over and let some sunshine in.  We’ve had enough misery for a while.  Don’t you think? 

In the middle of nowhere...

A thousand miles from the Australian coast in the southern ocean is indeed the middle of nowhere. As the search continues for some sign of Malaysian Flight 370, the location is familiar to me because we mounted a search and rescue operation in that exact spot when promoting and producing a solo yacht race around the world.

Much of the race took place in the southern ocean which is known to be the most remote location on earth. The  boats were literally thousands of miles from land. Communication there is difficult even today. Satellite coverage is spotty. And the search and rescue efforts today face the same problems we did then.

Locations are out of helicopter range. Low-altitude flying conditions are dangerous much of the time and, with 30-foot seas in 60-knot winds, identifying an 80-foot, or in our case a 60-foot, piece of equipment is difficult at best.

It was early evening when our communications center received a signal from both emergency beacons that were required for each boat to carry. It was our leading competitor, who had already encountered some severe weather problems but was still making her way toward Sydney. We could not establish voice communication via satellite messaging or marine radio and that was very disconcerting.

It's times like this when partnerships are invaluable. Just like the current effort, the Royal Australian Navy and Air Force joined in to help. The beacons on board the yacht were transmitting its location, so the next morning, an Australian Royal Air Force Hercules aircraft left Adelaide at 4am to make a search.

It took 4 hours for the plane to reach the area where the signal was transmitting, 920 miles southwest of Australia's southern coast. Sound familiar? They began to fly a grid pattern over the area in hopes of spotting the boat. Another 4 hours had past when a member of Isabelle Autissier's shore crew aboard the plane saw the boat with Isabelle on the deck wildly waving at them.Tell me the boat doesn't look like a wave.

Her boat had been completely dis-masted with nothing visible on the deck. There was a gaping six-foot hole in the roof of the cabin. She had been hit by a rogue wave, rolling the boat in a complete 360-revolution. She was fortunately below deck when it happened. Otherwise she would have surely been swept overboard. An emergency kit including a small walkie-talkie type radio was dropped from the plane and they were able to communicate the rescue plan to her.

We were in constant contact with the Maritime Rescue Coordination Center for that part of the world, based in Canberra, and they informed us that the Navy frigate HMAS Darwin had been dispatched to the site from Western Australia but it would still take approximately two days to reach Isabelle.

Nothing seems easy in that part of the world's oceans but the Darwin arrived on schedule.  They dispatched a Seahawk (GO HAWKS!) helicopter from the Darwin to her location and, on the hand-held radio, instructed Isabelle in the necessary procedures. They took a civilian linguist (her being French and all), a television pool cameraman and a medical officer to cover any contingencies and record the operation. With a strong harness and a trained rescuer on the winch, they plucked her off the damaged boat to safety with little problem.

We were in Adelaide at the Air Force base to meet her when she arrived in two more days' time. Emotions were high when we reunited. And the world media was waiting. This incident took about a week and we knew very quickly exactly were the boat was. It was only a day after the distress signal that we found out Isabelle was safe. Think about the families of Malaysia Flight 370 who have had no word for two weeks and about the searchers who are only going on a sketchy satellite image with a location that could have moved hundreds of miles since it was identified.

Hope is dimming now on all fronts. I am an optimist who is wishing for a happy resolution to this current situation but there are very strong doubts in my mind. After all, it is the middle of nowhere. Fingers crossed.

Territory Folks Should Stick Together

In the wake of yesterday's horrible news helicopter crash here in Seattle, the Rogers and Hammerstein lyrics from Oklahoma come to mind. "The Farmer and the Cowman should be friends." Journalists and public relations professionals don't always see eye to eye. But during my career, I've gotten to know reporters who understand both sides of the situation and photo-journalist Bill Strothman, who sadly died in yesterday's accident, was one of them.

I can't say we were friends but we always recognized each other when we were working a story. Our careers spanned about the same amount of time and he and I stood around together on countless occasions waiting for the news to happen. Mostly we would chat about what was going on in town but, because I started out as a correspondent and teach media relations at the University of Washington, I was always anxious to get Bill's take on the world around us.

Bill had a wonderful sense of the news and was a model of the ethics that make good reporting work.  He knew where not to go with his camera and he knew when the time was right. An affable, comfortable person, he never pushed when we were together.  He'd listen and, even when he had no reporter with him, he knew to ask the questions that would fill in the blanks.

One of my mentors told me that the best public relations comes from being a good reporter. I try to always take the media's side when finding the news in a story. Bill Strothman was the kind of person who helped me see through the clutter on a daily basis.

I'm glad I knew him and my heart goes out to his family and his colleagues at KOMO News. The tragic loss of Bill and the pilot Gary Pfitzner is being felt by the entire community. For me, all of us in the communications business are trying to tell stories in a way that people can understand and relate to them. Whether it's reporting or promoting, we should have the same goal in mind. Effective communications is what we want. No matter which side of the fence we're on. Like the song says. "Territory folks should stick together." That's important now more than ever. For certain, I know we've lost a gracious advocate in Bill Strothman and we'll miss him.

It starts with the land...

My ancestors were farmers as far as I can trace them. Even back in the 1600’s, they were tilling the land in Ireland. As they worked their way across America, they kept at it. Farms and grains and livestock were in their blood.  My grandfather started out that way, but he broke the chain when he became a banker. My dad took over the farm until he was drafted in the Army and became a career officer. I consider myself fortunate to have known my grandparents. And my great-grandfather was still alive when I was a young child. His was the first funeral I ever attended.  I still have his rocking chair, which according to my grandmother was an 1870’s vintage. No matter where dad was stationed while I was growing up, he would send me off to the farm in the summers. I wouldn’t trade those times for anything. My grandparents were tough and hardy souls. I’m a better person for knowing them. The Irish are good at a lot of things but their roots are in the soil.  I feel their spirits when I’m in Ireland. The connection is strong. Lamb for dinner and a shot of Jameson are waiting for me tonight. May the most you wish for be the least you get.  Happy St. Patrick’s Day, wherever you're from.