Journey to the American West

Remembering creative motherhood

As we share deeper and deeper, the one who holds my heart and i have been talking about our childhoods. One of the ways i know that she is the person i want to build the rest of my life with is that through her reactions and observations, ive come to learn things about my mom that gives me a deeper appreciation of moms creative approach to motherhood.

Its important to know that mom raised six of us. Generally we are two years apart, four girls and two boys. Being the dad of two daughters, my favorite oldest and my favorite youngest, i have looked back sometimes and wondered how mom and dad raised six since two kept us pretty busy.

Mom was pretty good at making ways for all of us to stay occupied. Sometimes productively, sometimes not, but occupied so we werent being overly creative (or behaving like a pack of wild kids.) i remember all of us walking to the gunthers greenhouse and taking turns holding one side of the wire handled bushel basket of corn, or the paper bags that always seemed to begin ripping a block or so from home. Those of us who hadnt been tasked to retriev the corn or pick up the ears that fell out of the bag were on water boiling or butter melting duty. Mom synchronized all six of us so by the time we hit the front porch, the water was at full boil, the butter at full melt, and the shucking crew on the porch would tear into the just picked sweet corn, handing each ear off to one of us who would rush it into the boil. We would clean the ears fast because we knew the incredible taste of salty buttery sweet corn was only minutes away.

Ive seldom had corn as perfect as that, fresh off the stalk. It was a feast we only had once a summer, maybe in late july. 

I remember the assembly line that we would have after every dinner, on washing, and a circle of dryers, stepping in, picking up a plate, and stepping back, making the five steps in a circle that would end at the cabinet where the tallest one of us would help the shorter put the dish away, then step back in the circle, grab another bowl or plate, and enter the cycle again. I remember dad sitting at the head of the table saying “we dont need a dishwasher, we have six of them!”

Some nights when dad wasnt home, mom would organize bowling lessons. We would set up plastic pins in the kitchen, open the door to the utility room for proper alley length, and mom would show us the approach. “Push, two, three, four” showing us the movements from cradling the bowling ball, to pushing it out and away, letting it swing back, and smoothly following through to release it. Mom was a good bowler, we had a set of shelves filled with the trophies won by her and dad. We would listen and watch attentively, then try our hand rolling the softball 

Each of these was a way that mom would harness our energy, setting pins, retrieving errant balls, lining up, moving furniture, each of us had a job, and as we’d bowl, we’d rotate through the jobs.

Some nights the six of us were just cranky with each other, picking, poking, jabbing at each other, we just had too much energy i guess. On those nights mom would organize “friday night wrestling.” we’d move all the cushions from the couches to the floor and mom would referee. No biting, no spitting, no nose pulling, no eye poking…mom ran a clean ring. I remember that tickling was allowed, and one of the sneaky strategies was to declare “i have to go to the bathroom!” your opponent would pause and relax, you’d execute a reversal and mom would award the point…we’d fall for that most of the time…. By the end of the evening, we’d all by too tired to argue with each other, and fall right to sleep.

Cleaning was the same, mom would organize a vacuum crew, one on the cord, one on the cannister, and one on the business end (we all wanted that, because if you were on cannister, you had to empty it at the end. We’d move it up the stairs, and have to lift the cannister to let the hose person reach the cobwebs in the corner. While this was going on, mom would work with the windex crew, a sprayer (best job) wiper, and paper towel tender. Mom would do the tall windows and i think the rest of us mostly just smeared the finger and nose prints around…but as we all worked, we’d be listening to South Pacific, West Side Story, The Sound of Music, or for a special treat, Alan Sherman or Bill Cosby….i think now that Mom would have liked it if we would have spontaneousl burst into song when the sound of music was on, but i think we were often more like the rival gangs in west side story….

I think she had aspirations for us back then, she bought us the Britannica encyclopedia (my favorite reading) the great books of the westwern world (which i wish i had) and a piano, which we’d play by ear (THAT must have been painful to listen to!!!) but i never remember her telling us to stop playing chopsticks, or when irish eyes are smiling…thats a patient mom for you.

But mom never forced us into lessons, or practice, i think her idea was that if we enjoyed it, we’d keep after it. Only my sister kept up with music, she became a good twelve string player but doesnt play much these days.

I think we remember the most recent things about people, or remember longest those things that concerned or hurt us, and after moms cancer, there was a lot to remember, especially for my caregiving sisters who took the brunt of moms anger and disappointment with her later life while caring for her as only daughters could. So i’m not trying to portray mom in an unrealistic light, just remembering the energy and creativity she put into early motherhood, something that the one who holds me heart has shown me was an amazing accomplishment.

Mom passed away a few years ago, i miss the early years mom quite a bit sometimes, and feel bad that i was the only one who could arrange life to take later years mom in small doses.

I dont have a clever closing, just to say we only get one life, live it the way you’d like to be remebered, one day someone might be writing about us.

Its a cold windy day here in Brook Hollow this morning. The one who holds my heart started my day with a laugh, a friend on facebook was expressing the struggle to face yet another winter storm, and I’m listening to the Black Eyed Peas. Four days from now Spring training camps will open in Arizona and Florida. Pitchers and Catchers will appear and begin their preparations for the upcoming year of baseball! Like the Daytona 500, Pitchers and Catchers reporting is a sign that winter is fading and spring is just around the corner. We all made it through another year!

Some people don’t think much of the game of baseball, and I’ll agree its a bit slow compared to basketball, but it was always intended to be slow calm game. Its always been a comfort to me, sometimes its a disappointment (anybody remember a fan named Bartman?) but its one of the only games played in a park, not a stadium. A park, and the whole purpose of the game is to “earn” a run “home.” Growing up, I think we played “running bases” almost every night after dinner. Carved out a diamond from the tallgrass prairie across the street and played all day every day of summer with Barch and Weremacher brothers. I think it was Bobby that hit me with a fastball in the face one year right after I just got my new glasses! (maybe they weren’t quite the right prescription…) We had two wooden bats, I had my dad’s old school style glove, and spent each summer playing my way around the diamond, pitching, catching, fielding, and sitting on our 2×8 bench.

We seldom had two full teams to play, even though the street was packed with kids, so we’d play “pitchers hand” and eliminate the infield, or play and score the game such that only the person hitting could score. I think it was one of the Gromke boys that pitched on the afternoon we got to play on the real diamond the school district built in prairie. I don’t remember what the pitch was, but remember the thunk of the bat and watching the Barches running back from center and left. The ball hit Menard st. on a fly and bounced against the Gromke house. I looked back at that on map my run the other day and it was a bit over 350 feet. I still smile at that…it would’ve been out of Wrigley on a good day!

Pitchers and Catchers develop a bond of sorts. The Catcher offers a suggestion, the Pitcher accepts it or doesn’t, the game progresses, the Pitcher tires and at that point, the Catcher trots to the mound and talks to the pitcher. I don’t know what they talk about in the major leagues, but in our sandlot it would typically be some kind of diversionary topic, gum, the new pile of dog poop that was this day’s third base “let ‘em hit, i wanna see him slide into third…” or who owed who which candy bar at the Mendard and Dempster drug store. “Lettim hit” was a way the catcher was letting the pitcher off the hook for being tired and not having the strength to do what was needed to be done.

Thats what catchers do.

Buck up the pitcher, call the pitch, not get worried when a pitch call gets shrugged off by the pitcher, and when it all goes bad and the runner is rounding the pile of poop, stands in front and defends home, taking the hit from the runner coming home while the pitcher stands behind it all.

We all took our turns pitching, catching or chasing grasshoppers in right field, and we do it still today, in the depths of winter. You might know someone who needs an “attaboy” or “attagirl” today, someone who you can see is struggling to finish out the winter. Say something to let them off the hook, make them comfortable with the struggle to get through the next blizzard, the next ice storm, or the next long day at work.

Like baseball, life is a team sport I think. Some days we pitch and get the glory for the win, some days we catch and have to take the hit. But remember spring is coming! Baseball will be back! The green grass will smell sweet, and we’ll doze in the stands on a lazy afternoon.

Watch out for those fastballs that come right at your face, don’t slide into that pile of poop, and buck up a pitcher near you today. We can’t win this game alone.

There’s no day like a snow day home from school!

Central Texas received its usual inch of snow last night, and in anticipation, all the school systems around us announced closures last night, and this morning the university followed suit.

So I’ve been outside in my sandals to take snow photos, done a load of laundry, changed the furnace filters, and am rummaging for something to bake, but I’m also remembering snow days growing up.

In Chicago, school doesn’t get closed all that often due to snow. I think everyone is more prepared, or just more stubborn about not wanting to give in to nature…or it could be that the Catholic schools didn’t close because a large family of children in a small house home all day, might drive a parent over the edge….

I remember sitting in the kitchen listening to WGN reading off the closings, thinking that the other kids were so lucky. I think it took me a few years to understand that they read the list in alphabetical order, and that’s how my sister knew when to listen and when not too, I’d always thought she had some uncanny ability to know when they’d announce St. Martha’s…

We’d all jump up and cheer when we heard that our school would be closed, and I think I remember seeing mom hold her head in her hands…we’d start watching cartoons, somehow expecting that the television station would switch to saturday programming. They wouldn’t of course, and we’d watch reruns of Gene Autry, Sky King and the always popular Sea Hunt. About the time the channels would be filled with soap operas and we’d start the usual poking, wrestling and generally tearing up the house and each other, mom would dress us all in our snow pants, coats, mittens, hats, scarves, boots (think Ralphie’s little brother) and push us out the door with instructions to shovel our walk, the neighbor’s walk, and the sidewalk as far as we could.

We’d push the big metal shovel (no plastic for us! no sir!) as far as we could, the blade hanging up on a crack just when we would get up a head of steam and the sudden stop would topple us over. I remember thinking that I’d never put in a flagstone walk when I had a house, and dream of new, uncracked concrete to shovel without the annoyance of toppling over.

The town plow would come by and place a mountain of snow right where dad had been parked and just as we straggled back to the house from shoveling, snow down our necks (how’d that happen?) mom would turn us around and point us towards the mountain to excavate a parking spot for dad.

By the time we were done with what seemed like hours worth of work it was around 11 and time for lunch. The unwrapping of all six of us was about an half hour’s proposition i think, with the dumping of boots, clothespinning of wet gloves and scarves on the improvised clotheslines. Mom would make tomato soup and grilled cheese, which we would all gobble down while watching the Bozo circus…and fall asleep in front of the tv.

By afternoon, when we’d wake, we’d all head to our rooms. I’d work on model cars, my older sister would play records, and I never knew what my younger sisters were doing in their big dorm in the new addition.

Soon it would be time to help with dinner, go back out and reshovel the path for dad’s car, and dad, and after dinner, we’d all sleep. Snow days might have been the most exercise I got during the winter.

As I look out the window, there’s not enough to shovel, so I’ll go back to laundry and get at that baking project…maybe there’ll be some typing in between, maybe a nap, where I’ll get to remember a bit more in my dreams.

Stay warm today, keep off the icy roads, help each other out if you come across someone stuck in the snow.

I attended a funeral this morning, for a person here at work. I didn’t know him well, but I went to pay respects and witness the passing of his life.

It was a very touching service. His four now-orphaned sons addressed the congregants, an honor guard from the Legion post offered a salute to recognize his service to country, his best friend spoke, and as you would anticipate, there was not a dry eye in the chapel.

As the priest spoke, offering reassurance to the sons, hope to the friends, and the promise of the life after to all in attendance, he said something that stuck in my head, is still stuck in my head. He said that he hoped when we all finished our day, that we could answer the question “Did you make a difference in your life or another’s today?”

“Did you make a difference?”

Simple words, but complex as well. I’ve often proposed to my students that architecture is about making difference. I believe that. Architects make something present. As I sat in the orange and blue light from the stained glass today I was thinking about the nature of difference.

The Oxford English Dictionary lists one definition as “a particular instance of unlikeness” and “A mark, device, or characteristic feature, which distinguishes one thing or set of things from another.”

So how does one make difference? How long does difference last? I’m not sure this is what the Priest was proposing, but to make difference in someone’s life might be through a kindness, through the unexpected, and I struggle to find ways beyond the kindness. I don’t think making a negative difference is what the Priest had in mind, although technically, it would be difference. Having a cloud fall on your head, or a tire go flat would be differences, but not positive ones. I think I’ll stick to the open a door, help a stranger, look after your friends, those sorts of things. But when he said “a difference in your life” that threw me. How can I make difference in my life? Stopping a bad habit, dropping my guard a bit more, enjoying each day a bit more, … maybe. Go to the gym, take the stairs, those sorts of things? Maybe.

Difference making takes some more thought I can tell.

All this comes around to Nolen and his sons. You could tell he had made difference for them, particularly after their mother passed away. Mostly what they spoke of was his being there. I think thats a difference I can do, will do. Be more present, less distracted, more substantial in my efforts, we’ll see if its enough.

Look after each other, be good to each other,
and make that difference for each other
and you

It’s a bit before dawn, a noisy damper clanking woke me up. As sometimes happens, my mind starts going and, well here I am.

Yesterday a fellow at work passed away. He was younger than I am. I had seen him just a few days earlier, I think he was talking on his hands free microphone and thought he was talking to me. This often happens and before I realized he wasn’t talking to me, I was talking to him. He looked at me, gave me a wave and turned so I could see the phone, I made an “oops” gesture and continued on my way, and that was it, the last time I saw him.

It makes you feel pretty humble, knowing that we don’t know when the hello or goodbye is the last words we might say to someone. Not that a hi or bye would be especially meaningful, but, it does affirm a person in some way. I say this because when you pass a person you know, and they say nothing, it takes a little something out of you.

Nolen’s passing made me think of lots of you yesterday and today. Lots of students I’ve worked with, staff in the offices (hi to Peggy and Norma) people at the universities, I’m thinking of you all, hoping I said goodbye when I left, good luck when you graduated, thanks when you helped and how much it means to me to be able to dial the phone, and talk with you like it’s only been a week, even if it’s been years. I’m not quite to the “I love you man” stage of life, but I am able to say that to my daughters and steady girl these days. I hope you are too, each time you hang up the phone, or head out the door, because you just don’t know when you’ll get to say it.

I’m thinking of some friends who fight and work hard just to live each day. Kz, you amaze me. You are without a doubt the toughest 75 pound person I know. (http://cancerismybleep.blogspot.com/) You’ll win this fight, I know it. I saw the determination in you years ago at your desk. I tried to talk you out of that design direction knowing how hard it would be but you stuck to it, made it work, and you’ll make this work too, I’m sure of it.

Thinking of you all
Remember to say hi and bye
And to tell those you love
That you do

Be good to each other
Think kindly of each other

Its the second of January and the New Year is underway!

One of the first orders of business was to recycle “treezilla,” an 11 foot tall Fraser Fir that my favorite oldest daughter thought was a “must-have,” “Texas-sized” tree. We had talked the seller down to about half-price and helped him load it into the pickup. It was a good size for the pickup, hanging out the endgate just enough to look respectable. We had stopped by UPS to mail a few gifts to my sisters and brother (who forgot his gift when he left the party?) and the ladies in the UPS store had seen us drive up and when we walked in they said they had been worried we were going to ask them to pack and ship the tree!

It took all Erin, Maggie, and I a bit of wrestling to get treezilla up the stairs, around the corner and into the living room, but once we tipped it up, stood back and looked at it, it was magnificent, and just the right size for the room. Erin was right!

The girls spent an afternoon making snowflakes from paper, some little twisty ornaments from pipe cleaners (a Christmas cat?) and then we all assembled the tree. It didn’t take long to get lights, garlands, ornaments, snowflakes and pipe cleaners on the tree, and it made a beautiful tree. The first Christmas at Brook Hollow. Treezilla, all dressed up, held the room’s attention for a bit over two weeks with its lights and glitz and piney-woods scent. But today I had to take it down.

Its hard to start Christmas all over, with none of the old ornaments or the old angel for the top of the tree, its easier when Maggie makes Christmas cookies, and Erin narrates contemporary culture with her decorating of the cookies, and really, having their energy here in Brook Hollow was the best part of Christmas. It was hard to take them to the airport, but they were still here when the tree was up so it didn’t hit me till just now that Christmas is over.

I took down the garland, snowflakes, small ornaments, pipe cleaners and began repacking the larger glass ornaments in the boxes and was thinking that these spheres of glass in silver, gold and green were pretty anonymous compared to the snowflakes when I came upon a message written on one ornament. It told me they were thinking of me, something that as a parent you secretly always hope but you know they have to live their own lives and that they can’t think of you as often. I tried calling a few times but didn’t get through so I collected myself and finished packing lights, now its just a matter of figuring out how to get an 11 foot tall and 7 foot wide tree through the 3 foot patio door and out on the balcony for a brief flight to the adjacent woodlot….

I sang to the one who holds my heart yesterday, and well, my voice is not so good. Some words disappear completely when they fall out of my narrow gravely range, and…she sang back to me! I’m hoping its a good omen, we both gave our imperfect selves to each other and received the other without judgment, without critique, just openly gave our voices, inches from each other, an amazing moment, one of many, but a good omen for the start of the new year.

My last ramble for the day. We watched a TED talk on vulnerability last night.

http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/brene_brown_on_vulnerability.html

It was quite eye-opening on the whole subject of acceptance, being accepted, risking hurt to become meaningfully connected. Take a look if you have a moment, its less than 20 minutes and the speaker is pretty entertaining. I’ll replay it today and try to pick up what I missed (as I contemplate how to get treezilla out the door!)

Hope your New Year started safely, and that you were in the company of the one you love.

Be good to each other.

Well, the longest night came…and went. The moon was eclipsed during the solstice, an omen of some kind to be sure. Reports say it turned deep red before being completely covered by the shadow from the earth but…i missed it…

The interesting thing about the longest night is that I always feel a bit more optimistic once it passes because I know the days will grow longer now. I remember living in Fargo, where we’d be going to work in the dark, and coming home in the dark, that this little bit of knowledge, that the nights would not be so deep, made me very happy, and relieved, and optimistic because I knew it was all going to be better.

The season of the long nights is also the cold and flu season. I lived through one variant of the flu yesterday. It started sneaking up on me like the aftermath of a hard gym workout, but by noon it was clear, this was no ache and pain from a workout. The girls and I had driven south and east and were having lunch with someone I’m pretty sure will change my life (another reason for optimism!) We ended up changing plans and Erin drove me back home where I slept another 18 or so hours.

This season of the long night is also the season of giving (hoping I haven’t given my flu!) and the season of receiving.

I’ve written about receiving before, about being a good receiver, so I won’t go into that now. Gifts are a way to tell someone “I was thinking about you,” “I think about you as I made this,” it might be a scarf, or a homely table but, its the thought that counts, wait, I’ve heard that before! Thinking about someone else while making, while wrapping, while presenting the gift nervously, is all good energy sent into the cosmos. All of us sending good energy out into the world is what makes Christmas the optimistic season of giving.

Its an incredible thing really. If 200 million people in the U.S. send positive energy out across the miles its as though there’s a net of positive energy all over the place! Optimism could run rampant! True, there are tempering forces…that argument that always happens at Christmas dinner (turkey or goose?) or that thing that the guy did that kind of irritated you, or even the exuberance for a deity that you aren’t completely on board with, or the cost that’s often associated with thinking about your loved ones through gifts and such. Put all that aside in the next few days though, make cookies! eat cookies! Sit at the table together and cherish the moment. We all know these moments of peace and optimism are fleeting. Take in every smell (well ok if the flu is in the house not every smell) cherish the colors, the glimmer of the sunset on the tree filled with ornaments, the wrappings on the gifts under the tree, the sounds of Ralphie choking up in Santas lap, or of Vince Guraldi playing the Peanuts Christmas music.

Take it all in.

Be there with your loved ones.

See what you are part of, what your year has made,

and love it.

Be good to each other, I’ll talk to you again on a longer day!

The Geminids are coming!

Well they’re here, mostly this predawn and tomorrows. I’ve been out a few times tonight trying to shade my eyes from the lights of my neighbors yards and stay warm long enough to see the bits of ice and stone flare up as they scratch across our atmosphere.

You can’t stand in the cold at 2, 4, and 6 A.M. hoping to see the meteorites and not think of these words

“When you wish upon a star,
Makes no difference who you are,
Anything your heart desires will come to you.”

I think I heard these words weekly watching “The Wonderful World of Disney” just before the Ed Sullivan show on Sunday nights growing up. Its funny how when you’re 10 or 15, those words seemed meaningless but I find myself both remembering them and hoping their message is true.

“It may be its the time of year, or maybe its the time of man…” those words from Joni Mitchell are rolling around in my head too as I was waiting for a shooting star. Its a time of uncertainty, I feel it in me and in people around me, like everyone is waiting for the other shoe to drop, but hoping it doesn’t. The economy is the question for most, and I couldn’t help but think how many other eyes were trained on the sky with me in the night, wishing for a few more weeks of work, or a callback from an interview, some way to put Christmas light in the lives of their children or loved one.

But it may be mostly the season of the long night that has us looking at the dark sky, hoping our eyes will adjust and catch a glimpse of the miracle of the shooting star. Most people don’t seek out the night, maybe its the way humans are wired, we try to survive the night, to work and dance in the light of day.

We use wishes to help stave off apprehension, help push back the veil of personal failings, and let us once again enter the light of grace, the light of the day, the light of family, and given how spread out most families are today, this wishing season is the season of family, and we all wish for it to be like it was, laying on the carpet around the 12 inch black and white tv, waiting for Ed Sullivan.

Yes, you’re right, I’ve avoided telling you the wishes I made tonight. You know the categories though, wishes for my daughters, wishes for the one who holds my heart and her family this week, wishes for Fred’s family this holiday, and wishes for us all that we make it through the long night and earn our way back into grace.

Tiny Tim (no not the one with the ukulele) had it right with his closing, I’ll end today being happy to share the sky with you tomorrow night when the Geminids appear in full force, wishing you all get your wish.

Bring your light to your family this holiday season, it will warm you.
Take care, be good to each other.

A few minutes ago I received an email from my friend Steve, letting me know that a fellow who was one of my life-models, Fred, passed away this last Friday.

I first met Fred at MTL in Fargo in the summer of 1976. Fred was the quiet fellow who sat in the back of the office under the mezzanine in what was the most “permanent” of all the workstations out in the big room. That summer was filled with the excitement and terror of a first job in my profession. The partner in charge had assigned me my work schedule as he walked me to what was to be my workplace … “On mondays you build models with David, Tuesdays you follow me around jobsites, Wednesdays you pick up redlines for Fred, Thursdays you help Harold and Steve, and Fridays you work on your project, its a bank in Casselton, the owner has fired pretty much every firm in town and now its our turn and its your job.”

I was excited, and not smart enough to be worried about how much I didn’t know…yet. Drafting was not too much of a problem, and the instructions I had been given was, “whenever you don’t know something, ask Fred.”

Redlining is an easy task, which is really making corrections on drawings. The job captain, Fred, would make a set of blueline prints, or have a new person like me make them by placing the transparent drawing sheet (a two foot by three foot piece of beautiful linen fabric!) over a paper sheet with a green chemical coating on it. You’d push these two sheets through a machine that had a UV? light that burned off all the coating except what was blocked by the lines of ink or graphite. Then you’d put the sheet through the upper part of the machine which would turn the green lines to blue (or black depending on the paper) by exposing them to anyhdrous ammonia…a pretty stinky process and if you spent enough time doing it, and were exposed to ammonia long enough, can’t be great for your health either.

Once the blueline prints are prepared, my job pretty much was to put away the drawings, and give the prints to Fred, or Steve, or Harold. They’d look over the drawings very carefully, looking for incomplete thoughts, errors in materials, or assembly, or drafting errors that could cause confusion in the field. They’d mark up these drawings with a red pencil, and add the next level of detailed information to each page, then hand off the “redlined” sheet to someone like me who’d go get the right drawing page (yes, I “corrected” a drawing from the wrong building set once!) and tape it down, then erase, redraft, reletter or whatever as directed by the redline.

Fred made great redlines, so did Steve and Harold, who’d been taught by Fred, and David, and Rick, and Kerry, come to think of it, Fred taught all of us to be precise, to think, not just draw, and to stay calm. I remember my first visit to the construction site of the first project I ever had project architect responsibility for. It was a 12 unit elderly housing project in Ulen, Mn. We’d been called the day before by the builder to officially inform us they would be pouring the foundations the next day. I drove up and…clipboard in hand, walked around the formwork, looking inside as Fred had told me to, checking for pop cans, debris, souvenirs, and counting the bits of steel to make sure it was all there. I had walked by the corners a few times, and thought something wasn’t there, looked again and realized the rebar that would tie the corner together wasn’t in the form. By this time the concrete drivers had joined along as I looked, checked the drawing, looked again and almost apologetically asked the superintendent “where are the corner bars?”

The crowd got bigger as more concrete trucks arrived, the drivers being impatient to dump their loads and get on with their day. Most looked at my age and gave me improvised reasons why corner bars weren’t needed. The superintendent joined in saying the steel fabricator hadn’t sent them so they must not be needed. It was pretty intimidating, but I remember Fred saying I should call if I had a question so, I went to the job shack (no cell phones back then) and called Fred. He checked the office set and told me what was likely to happen if there were no corner bars, and that since they were on the drawings, and the drawings are part of the contract, that the builder would be in violation of the contract terms if they weren’t installed, then Fred said, “look around in the weeds, I’ll bet there all piled there.” I hung up, walked out into the crowd, walked to the tall grass around the excavation and sure enough, there were the bent rebars. I picked one up, walked back to the job shack and told the super that they bars were in the tall grass, that they must have missed them during installation and that “Fred says if there are no corner bars, we won’t be able to recommend that the owner pay at the end of the month, and will recommend removing all the concrete and starting over.” That did it. The super had his crew digging through the grass, tearing forms apart and even the concrete drivers joined in, then successfully poured the foundations.

Thanks Fred.

That was one of many many things Fred helped me learn, helped me understand that when on the job and discovering a mistake, to treat it as such, give the fellows a chance to make it right, or don’t recommend payment until its done right. No ego, no raised voices, no smugness, just facts and business. That’s when I started learning professionalism.

Fred built a cabin for his family on a beautiful Minnesota lake. I felt honored that he invited me along to help frame it on cold autumn mornings. I never saw it finished, but know that Fred did it beautifully, precisely, and without any angst. He knew how to put a building together and was happy to share that knowledge with everyone in the office.

Friday, I didn’t know he was passing away. I had spent the day sitting with students talking and sketching wall sections with them. I have a pretty good idea how to put buildings together today, and I know he taught me that. So, to Tammi, Jason, and Amy, I was channeling Fred on Friday as we spoke. I shared with you-all as Fred shared with me.

Please share what you know with those who want to learn. Its a gift and even though they don’t realize it then its a way of building a culture. Fred built us, helped all of us become some of the few who could pass the licensing exam at first sitting, and unfortunately, at the time, we didn’t credit him enough. He never sought credit, was happy doing a job well, living a life well, and as a result made the world a little better.

Thanks Fred
Share with each other, look out for each other as we approach the longest night.

Well, its Thanksgiving! For my new subscribers from Eastern Europe, Happy Thanksgiving! I’m not sure why you all subscribe but hope you find these posts of some interest.

As I remember my elementary school history, Thanksgiving was a party, a feast, a full dinner at the very least. But as I consider that first event, it was an alliance, a celebration of collaboration between two peoples. I find it interesting that the “weaker” of the peoples pretty much saved the “stronger” of the peoples by teaching them how to survive in a new land….and ultimately, the “stronger” forgot and today those peoples who taught survival are not so visible anymore.

Getting on in the world is usually a collaborative effort. We form alliances, partnerships, joint-ventures in the business world to survive and flourish as companies and corporations, and ultimately the “weak” who teach the “strong” get bought out, or are competed-out of existence in the market and the teachers disappear from history. (What was the name of the two fellows who’s company became a core brand of GM?)

I believe it is the nature of the generous to allow themselves to be seen as not “strong” maybe its because they know…that they know…and don’t need to posture, puff up, or pretend to be strong out of fear. Those who “know” are confident in the knowing and can share their knowledge freely. Maybe because they know their fate is to be forgotten by history? Or are they comforted by that trend?

… I’m off track… Today I remember those who taught me, and thank them. They each helped to make me a person who works to teach, to be a teacher. Not all my interactions with these people was positive…a torn collar here, rapped knuckles there, a few harsh words directed to my rather informal study habits. But Thanks is still deserved to Miss Baezel, who in 1958 helped acclimate me to the civil habits of school attendees. To Mrs Ames, and Mrs. Blanchard, Sister Maria Goretti, who could make the best squirrel sound imitation I’ve ever heard. To Sister Ethelina who I’m afraid, I pushed beyond her patience on more than one occasion; to Mrs. Barranco, Sister Angelica, and Mr. Barry, who taught us words like obfuscate and ostracize…see? I still remember!

To Mr. Lane who taught me to draw!

To Larry and Alice Loh, who taught me to see problems as components, to Ron who showed me Fearless Frank Furness and led me to Owatonna, to Cecil who taught me to teach, to Bill and Jaan who taught me to become comfortable with my limits, and see wonder in the world around me. To Ben who taught me to respect the sun, and Greg who showed me the inner workings of Frank Lloyd Wright.

To Cornwall and Gary and Knule, who taught me patience and steady work.

To Steve, Harold, Fred, and even Bob, who taught me how to build, and how to be a professional. To Seth who taught me (by a series of dubious events) how to protect myself in business.

To my Dad who taught me how to be an adult with your parents.

To Frank and Ron, and Carlos and Mike, who taught me how to (kicking and screaming though I was) to be a scholar in my field.

To Sam and Dan who taught me how to be an entrepreneur in research.

To Ed, and Tom, and Ron, and Eloise, who taught me how to be a team player.

To Melinda and Ginger who taught me that commitment to craft matters, and to Mallory who taught me that a team can work hard and still have fun together. (A lesson that’s hard to keep alive in the team)

To my daughters who teach me strength and courage.

I think of you all, more often than a person might expect and thank you today, for teaching me how to survive and flourish.

Think of your teachers today, history usually only remembers those who vanquished others with their acquired knowledge, maybe this informal e-history tool will let us remember those who helped them survive.

Be good to each other!

Here’s wishing your turkey is perfect, your dressing well-cooked, and that your pie doesn’t start your oven on fire!