A Dog, A FedEx Driver and a Missing Road Sign

It's the day after Thanksgiving and...I needed a walk.  A long walk.  I had been a "Course Marshall" for Sebastopol's SaveaTurkey Trot on Thanksgiving Day; a 5K run put on by vegan athletes on some level, paved ground.  It was fun, and powerful, to be out in my orange vest stopping cars so that runners, walkers (and sloggers: very slow walkers) could pass. 

The event provided the needed inspiration for me to get out, exercise and neutralize the internal committee who seemed to relish any holiday as a psychological entry to beat me up. 

A new course for me this morning.  I could tell when I had gone almost two miles and was ready for my turn (which I didn't know) onto Sexton Road but... I wasn't quite sure: no road sign and...I'm seriously out in the sticks: I could walk for hours and never get home if I took a wrong turn. 

I looked at AT&T's fiber vaults -- those beige four foot high boxes that allow connections from fiber to copper -- on the side of the road but couldn't tell from them; they all had "Burnside Road" addresses on them: no help.  Someone, behind a fenced area, on a phone but couldn't hear me ask for help: "I'll walk down the road" I told myself.  "Damn, not even a 4x4 post laying on the ground...what happened to that sign?" was the question in my head.

But, here, coming up the gentle ridge was a white truck, a FedEx truck: "they're friendly people...and they know the roads."  The driver stopped her vehicle and turned off the engine (must be the rules).  "How are things on Gold Ridge Road?" she asked.  Yes, this was the driver who used to deliver to our previous house, the woman who was so friendly to Henry, our dying thirteen year old golden retriever puppy.  (Goldens are puppies all the way.) 

Yup, he used to make himself comfortable in her cab and cargo area -- just inside the purple and orange "FedEx" lettering: hiking his haunches up the steps, he'd impose.  "I'm just checking things out" was the message he seemed to deliver with some humility (I never understood how he did that).  The Alexander Haig of Enos Avenue: "I'm in charge here."  I remember that she, Ellen, would smile a lot and, then, be ready with a treat for the canine garbage disposal we loved to call our "Moose."   His appetite, sad to say, is down a bit: he's quite selective these days.

Ellen was sad to hear that her buddy was not well.  (The picture is from last week; didn't look too bad there for a case of advanced cancer, did he?)  She also acknowledged that Henry had  the kind of life that only a few dogs get close to: "I could tell by his spirit that he had a good family." 

And, now that I've waited so long to publish this piece, Henry has decided it was time to go.  Just last night.  Goodbye Henry Moskoff. 

Powered by ScribeFire.

Consultants working to help themselves and non-profits: Pictures: http://ping.fm/bnxFm

My 20 year old son is skydiving today. Hasn't called yet; should I worry?

Volunteerism hits primetime: This is a good thing.
http://ping.fm/jVo7A

Aren't we really missing some conversations in the U.S.?http://ping.fm/RmMhS

A new blog post inspired by an experiment in the healthcare field: apologizing for mistakes!
http://ping.fm/tP4m2

The Case for Vulnerability

If I Don't Reveal Some Truths, I Feel Dishonest: Is That Wrong?

A couple of weeks ago, I attended a meeting of about eight management consultants over breakfast in San Francisco.  During my brief introduction, I shared a truth about my effort to restart my consulting practice that was shut down in 1995.  Afterwards, my good new friend Roberta told me: "you shared too much personal information; that's not professional.  No one needs to know that you're just restarting your practice."  Firm, confident and loving.  I think some of what she said was absolutely right. 

So, why am I still confused? 

Because, lurking in the frontal lobe of my being is a crazy idealist.  My thinking on my situation: "if I don't share who I really am, at every chance I get, I'm not making myself vulnerable.  So what?  Well, if I'm not making myself vulnerable, I'm missing an opportunity to model the practice and give someone else a chance to make him or herself vulnerable, too." 

In the Community Building (CB) world, the term is "emptying:" unburdening myself of my cherished beliefs, my fears.  It helps me to be real and, yes, this idealist thinks we'd all be better off if each of us were more real, more genuine.  Real, known, genuine: it's who I want to be all of the time.  Not a facade or a mask: me.

One of my mentors M. Scott Peck called the process "disarming" and he was good at it.  It helped him to allow others to relate to him, to take him off the pedestal that all of us created for him.  He was human, and pretty good at it most of the time. 

What's this crazy stuff got to do with business?  I have believed for a long time that all of our institutions are in a crisis of trust, among other problems.  The Church has tarnished its image; the traders on Wall Street; the Enrons of the world; our sports figures doping to get ahead.  We figure on, we count on our leaders lying to us: Weapons of Mass Destruction.  Ha.

What would be so wrong with being honest and genuine, real?  Would it cause a different crisis?  Could you imagine an auto purchase where the salesman says: "We paid GM $10,000 for the car and we're supposed to mark it up to $15,000.  I'm only allowed to give you a $1,000 discount.  Will that do it?"  What's so great about hiding everything?  I've never understood that.

For me, going to that extreme, I could negotiate fees: "well, I have this mortgage, health care and I'm saving for retirement and I've gotta buy food for my kids and, given the fact that I can only bill about 50% of my time per year - because a lot of the time, I'm selling or getting educated, etc. --  I need this many dollars per hour..." 

I might be taking this idea to an extreme or...off a cliff.  The point I'm trying to make is that if I have to sacrifice being real, I don't want to do the "professional thing."  You know, put on some mask of how well I'm doing, what big projects I've got and the prestigious clients I'm serving.  Yes, I could say all of that about the past -- because I did do a lot of that -- but it's not the case for now. 

I know that my good friends will tell me I'm being too idealistic, too utopian: quixotic.  They're right.  And, they're wrong.  This world needs a lot of help and I'm committed to doing my missionary work, one person, one introduction at a time.  Even if it's not "professional," I'm going to remain committed to being who I am, to being real, to being misunderstood even though that is never my intention.  I will commit to being an irritant to the status quo that, I believe, is not suiting any of us, let alone the planet, very well. 

And, now, I've stepped down from my soapbox and have to question my decision to share this thinking.  Is it too risky?  Of course.  I'll send it anyway.


george@theapgconsulting.com

Subscribe to High Performance Organizations

APG Consulting Website

Powered by ScribeFire.

Blending Two Families: Triumphs and Pitfalls

New Teenager, New Adult Changes Balance

What we didn't know, we probably anticipated. Does that even make sense as a starting line?

Close friends from Illinois just moved in with us. Besides the boxes, packing material and new furniture and curios, we are dealing with colorful invisibles: the intangibles of putting two families under one geodesic roof.

Our family rhetoric has been leading up to this kind of radical shift for years. "We should share" has finally gone from lending our neighbor our mower -- or borrowing his -- to sharing our new (funky dome) house in the country west of town.

Sixteen pounds of cockapoo curls, a little dog named Ollie, and fluff mans himself up to bark at me as I arrive from "work." That doesn't bother me except when I'm doin' bidness on the phone and he sees fit to "defend" his new home and its inhabitants, including our aging but capable ninety two pound golden retriever, Henry. Even with the bravado, they're about equal in efficacy despite Henry's habit of sleeping about twenty three hours per day.

Then, there are the friends' cats who weigh as much as a toddler.

What's the payoff? The psychic rewards of helping and allowing others to help me. The meaning that's created by being of service; very old and necessary human ideal. Personal growth stuff, you know.

Powered by ScribeFire.

I'm Napping Just as Fast as I Can

"Taking Stock" Causes Much Un-needed Reflection

Some old friends from Illinois (the exurbs of Chicago) decided to make the trek -- as long as they were in San Diego --  to our little heaven, twelve hours away by train, in northern California.

Kathryn, an enthusiastic pre-adolescent the last time we saw her, prompted the trip: she wanted to reconnect with her friends -- our two boys.  Having spent many consecutive days of time with our boys during summers more than six years ago, the girl Kathryn had an unusual affinity for the goofy-ness of our sons.

Their visit -- and the now gray memories of our lives back in Batavia, Illinois (Chicago exurbs) -- caused me to wonder if I'm doing anything of importance these days.  Anything great?  I began a mental spreadsheet with only a few columns and a bit more rows: my father's estate; working at being a father to two young men; carrying on Community Building stuff; doing construction projects; blogging; resurrecting my musical talents; getting my consulting practice up and running (neither of which is happening: not up, not running).

"None of this is important, you know," I told myself.  Yes, probably, I have read too much Kushner, Block, Castaneda, Jung.  Don Juan, Castaneda's mentor, tells him, cryptically, that "everything is unimportant."  I wonder about that every day; I watch all of my new birds (new to me) and work at wasting "hours in feeling absolutely useless." (David Ignatow)  None of this is important, I think: is that really true? 

I'm sure my late father, Arthur, is (six years since he passed and he still speaks to me in stilted phrases) and was disappointed with his childrens' "success."  He would have had us be "great:" somehow overcoming the insecurities and deep psychic wounds of our childhood where we, my three brothers and I, were lucky if we felt like we should be alive that very day.  No, we won't become career diplomats or Supreme Court Justices; being a kind, compassionate human being is what I yearn for, mostly, these days.

I know what causes this kind of ongoing reflection: it is a deep-seated fear that my life, when I'm gone, will not have meant something.  But, alas, it already has; I have far exceeded my expectations for the kind of life I could have, should have, had.  My children and stepchildren love me deeply and I them.  My wife and I have the kind of loving and challenging relationship that my parents could never have dreamed of.  Work?  Nope, not too great these days but...it's not too great for a lot of folks. 

In response to my self-inflicted examination, I was exhausted: I decided to take a nap.  First, I had to read a New Yorker piece about a feisty woman publisher, Hu Shuli in China who pushes the edges of what's allowed in the Chinese press as the editor of Caijing.  (Hmm, how come I'm not doing something important like that?) 

"When are you going to something important?," I murmured in my head. My response to the inner voice: "Shut up; I'm napping just as fast as I can."  How's that for important?

APG Consulting Website

Wish I were working on this garage instead of writing about it.
http://ping.fm/82EvI

The Incredible Heaviness of Moving

This Better Be a Good Reason

Our family has been moving our home for over a week now; we're starting to look like soldiers who've been in the trenches for months: forlorn, depressed, ambivalent. Dragging, without appetite, we arrive to pick up another load even though we rented a truck over the weekend for the big stuff.

Even though the new place -- a geodesic dome completed in the early 80's -- is like a vacation house: spacious, spectacular views, freshly painted, new carpet (which we hate: carpet, not new), we struggle to adjust: cardboard boxes -- cajas en español -- line walkways and mark "the path."

Our two cats have acclimated, in less than two days, to the new place having sufficiently explored and smelled everything. And, of course, sharpened their claws on familiar furniture. The old one, Kalu, whom we affectionately call "The Old Bag" is protesting the relocation by urinating on my clothes that she finds on the floor: the bitter smell tips me off. Litter box? Not gonna use it, she seems to be telling us. Yes, I've gotten the message: don't leave any clothes on the floor. Thank you.

Normally, I would have taken pictures of the process and the new place; I have neither the motivation nor the interest: I am, I fear, fully invested in a struggle to breathe less shallowly. Anxiety grips me, usually, first thing in the morning. Yes, I've switched to decaffeinated coffee.

All of these accommodations to just cope with situation makes me feel sufficiently wimpy and...so it goes. Some folks tell me I'm doing great because I'm still breathing. The hero/heroine in this situation is my wife, Patty: she plods through the work without relish or complaining. A dedicated realist, she provides a valiant model for us all.

How Do I Write a Note to the Birds?

A Move Makes Me Wonder About the Care of My Birds

For almost six years at our current house, I have cultivated a loyal following of winged friends: chestnut-backed chickadees, Anna's hummingbirds, house finches, goldfinches, scrub jays, stellar jays, nuthatches, woodpeckers, tufted titmouses.  There are more, I'm sure. 

Over the next couple of weeks, we will be moving to a new house on a ridge surrounded by views and orchards.  My ethical and moral dilemma is that I don't know how to write a note to my feathered friends to tell them not to worry -- I've found good tenants who will continue to fill the feeders. 

I'd like, also, to tell them that they can come visit just a short distance -- less than 2 miles -- away.  Patty had an idea to leave them a Google map with the location of the new house; I didn't reject it: they are, I'm sure, smarter than we give them credit for.  (See Irene Pepperburg's book Alex and Me about her thirty years' of research with a parrot.)

These are my friends; they owe me nothing but to fly, eat, sing and live.  I have come to know them intimately and...I will miss them.  Is that OK?  Even though I have a bobcat and a kite (a raptor!) at the new house, I'll miss these guys.  And, I'll work to cultivate another following of flying animals who provide just a bit of validation to a fellow being: me.

Subscribe to My Little View

Should I Let the Cat Drink Out of the Water Pik

Strange Relationship Provides Excessive Liberties?

I love my animals, all of them, including the "old bag," a part Siamese who is my "mouth with fur" and is rarely happy, especially when other pet companions are around.  That is my curse, my weakness; anything that any of them do would be....OK.  (Mind you, the litter box is in my office and I tolerate that while I'm on the phone; have you ever taken in the odiferous vapors of a cat's leavings?  It's exquisitely stinky.)

So, lately, Lily -- a calico who's about seven years old but still a kitten -- comes into the bathroom while the Sonicare is having its way on my teeth (this has only allayed gum surgery which I've been putting off for economic reasons): she tells me, subliminally, that she needs some water. 

Well, actually she puts her head in the reservoir of my Water Pik machine (it gets used a couple of times a week; I'm not going to comply with all the dentist's orders, you know) and gives me a look, like, "hey, where's the water?"  I fill up the one pint, plastic reservoir.  She drinks.  She doesn't thank me; she's a teenager, you know.  A look in the mirror, another drink and, then, she's off the counter. 

Patty, who might be present during these interactions, cautions me: even though she doesn't use the Water Pik, she thinks Lily's habits could be damaging to me: "you know, she licks her butt with that tongue."  I raise my eyebrows: this is a not too friendly fact: that tongue has been places where I wouldn't go. 

Well, I have executed some emergency procedures on my little feline friend that involved the end of a spoon, some newspaper and some Vaseline -- not necessarily in that order.  So, I am familiar with the reality of Lily's non-front-end and some of the potential risks.  I shrug my shoulders; I love her too much to worry about that crap, literally. 

I, sort of, see my intent to use the unit without bleaching it as a sign of affection and biological trust: I know there are enzymes in Lily's mouth that will, hopefully, kill any butt-circling bacteria and...I don't care: I consciously take the risk.  Out of love.  Love, that dirty little four letter word.

Limits?  Yes, I think I have limits: if she starts licking my Sonicare, I'm going to...have a talk with her.  She's a genius you know. 

Return of the Prodigal Son

Our Older Boy Returns from Wild Outdoors: Is a Launch In Sight?

If he read this, he'd have my head. So be it. I'm his father and proud of it.

Alexander is 19 and recently returned from a set of outdoor expeditions that put him squarely in the "student" class. Negotiating tent arrangements, food and gear with twenty some other adventurers, he was gone for almost four months.

National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS), a program I'd never heard about, shuttled his group from the desert south of Tucson -- backpacking and rock climbing -- to British Columbia: sea kayaking and sailing. I couldn't have handled it but...he was just fine. Probably the youngest one there but...we won't know because he tells us so little.

No pictures. Few stories. "What do you want to know?" he asks us when he invite him to lecture us of his crusades. Pulling teeth is easier than eliciting information.

What now? we're asking ourselves. Will he be with us forever? He has no plans and is not the college-bound type. Bright, articulate, arrogant, brash even. He understands the hyprocrisy and state of brokenness of most of our systems. What can you do with someone with that wisdom at such an early age? Hopeless and depressed? No. Realistic, yes.

So, our older son is back (he has older siblings from Patty's previous marriage) but he's the lead guy for the next one who is, thankfully, a hand full too. How do we interact with him now? He's an adult. Or, should be. I love being a father.

Powered by ScribeFire.

I'm the Turd Man: A Case for Neuro-plasticity

It's A Better Job Than You Think

Some people might cringe at this but...I've been picking up dog turds for more than 25 years.  I shudder to think of the total number that I've collected in my simple way: a small garden shovel and a non-descript dark brown office garbage pail.  I'm sure, just before I die, I'll recall the smell of all those piles of...dog poopy and think fondly of all of the animals I got to care for. 

It's not as easy as you think, to look among the detritus of oaks, redwoods and sycamore leaves and find small brown ropes of 1 inch sized turds.  I believe this work has done wonders for the "plasticity" of my brain.  Yes, that's the new science that many researchers are exploring these days; as we age, it would appear that stimulated, engaged brains are expanding brains.  I'm looking forward to the possibility of my next 30 years (my grandfather lived until 100) with my role as "Turd Man" or more accurately "Turd Pickup Man."

I have tried, my best mind you, to entice two sets of children -- my stepkids and my biologicals -- in this "art" of, what I've called for a long time, the "dooper brigade."  Alas, none has seen fit to take up the family mantle (I wonder what a "coat of arms" for me might look like: forget the trident -- you can't pick up anything with that device.)  I am it as far as picking up goes.  "Are you sure you don't want to learn how to do this?" I tease my kids once in a while.  They smile.  I think about that smell I'll recall on my death bed.

There are some unique aspects of the enterprise: I get to see when my dog has been going off our "strict" nutritional intake program and eating cellophane or some small plastic child's toy; yellow is the easiest color to spot: nice contrast. I haven't yet found tools but, one time, with my previous dog, I do remember seeing a twisted leather finger from a work glove; except for the stitching, it didn't look that damaged.

California, I must say, is a better place for the activity than Illinois: the drier climate helps with the excavation from the ground.  And, the composting process is faster.  (I haven't used it for any plantings just yet but...I'm thinking hard about it.)

The job is, often, a wonderful one because I don't have a schedule for it.  So, the work stems from inspiration: "Oh, look there, some turds...hmm, where's my bucket, my shovel?"  I'm completely absorbed, too; it's akin to the intellectual enterprise of writing this piece: I must immerse, figuratively, myself in the task.

Henry, our beloved 13 year old, 92 pound golden retriever, is quite effective at supplementing his expensive diet with cat food, decomposing garbage items and compost remnants.  I love him dearly and feel very close to him.  But I'm clear that he has no understanding of this task of mine; once in a while he'll watch while I'm picking up his poo and give me one of those looks that says, innocently of course, "I have no idea what you're doing...I didn't ask you and...oh, did you know that searching for those turds is good for your brain old man?" 

Powered by ScribeFire.

Funerals & Reunions

A Lesson in Discomfort and Humility

This past week, my father-in-law, Max, passed away.  The memorial and burial process, in small towns anyway, is a ceremony for greeting the reality of death, the loss of another senior person who has passed on. 

Among my roles, after I got to the funeral home after a half-continent trek with my little son, was to be part of the greeting line at the funeral home where my wife, her sisters and their husbands "received" visitors.

Politely, and with a smile, we worked to exchange an interested acquaintance or friend of Max with information about where we lived now, how old our children are. Occasionally, I would gently touch the small of my wife's back -- letting her know that I was there.  My face screwed up a confident statement of support.

As a middle-aged man born to Jewish parents, I have no experience with this kind of process; it is customary in Judaic traditions to insure that the practice of burying the body within twenty four hours is adhered to.  There are no wakes, no open coffins, no big money for funeral homes to embalm and host a "Visitation."  (Another reason not to like the Jews.)  No chance for little kids to run around clearly demonstrating their boredom and irreverence of any solemnity.

"This town, its people, are old" I thought.  Stooped over octogenarians look up at me, above the rims of their plastic-framed eyeglasses, trying to hear what Patty has just said: "This is my husband, George."

I continued my thinking: slowly, it seems to me, this little rural city of 2,000 is dying.  Becoming a shadow of what it used to be.  Retail stores closing, old buildings being taken down instead of refurbished.  "How could you hang around while that happened?" I wondered.  "Why not leave the ship?" 

This is not a logical question on which to reflect.  I remember a truism that I got years ago: it's much easier to rock the boat when you're not in it. Yup!  As long as I've got a wetsuit on, I guess.

These reflections now seem incoherent, untethered and it makes me jittery.  Perhaps, that's the way I'm supposed to feel after a funeral and a loss.

All My Surrogate Fathers Are Gone

Living As If I'm The Last Patriarch

There was a more innocent time in my life when I looked up to others, elders who could comfort, guide, validate.  They're all gone.

Ray Amato, the rennaissance man who owned a medical laboratory, was one such guide.  At 12, he must have succumbed to my mother's nagging to give me a job.  I think he was delighted: I did hemoglobin and red blood cell count. 

The machines -- little centrifuge, old time spectrophotometer -- were pretty easy to use.  It was a great summer working for him in that pre 1800's building in Haverstraw, NY.