Life In A Word

Office Space Capsule

Yesterday I was thinking about my dorm-room desk from the mid-eighties. On it sat the following essentials: a typewriter, a desk lamp, a month-to-month calendar, a clock-radio, a family photo or two, a few pieces of mail, and the latest edition of the campus newspaper. In the desk drawers I could find a small selection of pens, pencils and highlighters, a stack of spiral-bound notebooks, some textbooks, a calculator, stationery (including envelopes and stamps), a copy of the “Yellow Pages”, my camera, my checkbook, and a few menus from nearby restaurants. Dorm-room desks were solid, but my “office supplies” probably doubled the weight. They were my band of brothers, helping wage battle on that ever-elusive college degree.

If I recreate that same desk setup today, I would lug a huge box into my home office (bend the knees so you don’t hurt your back), drop slowly into my chair, reach into the box, and first pull out… a smartphone. I’d set it in the middle of the vast empty space of my desktop, reach into the box again, and pull out… nothing else. Whoa. My entire college setup has been condensed into the confines of a shiny 2″ x 5″ silicon wafer.

I forgot to mention the “telephone”. My college provided a wired phone with the room – (one of those fancy new touch-tone models – ha). Since my roommate and I positioned our desks to face each other, the phone straddled both desks. That way either one of us could reach the corded handset when all those girls would call (okay, I think that was a fictional memory boost).

Sadly, only a few of my college-era office supplies have survived the advent of technology. I have family photos on my desk, but they’re in the form of a digital frame, scrolling every several seconds. I have pens and pencils in the top drawer, but I only seem to need them for my signature. Finally, I have a wall calendar, but I really only glance at the monthly photos (of my college campus, ironically). Heck, I don’t even need my desk. I can just sit back in my chair with my smartphone and choose any item or activity I was geared for in college.

The convenience of having a desk’s worth of productivity inside a smartphone comes with a drawback. It is the convenience itself. When I woke up in the morning in college, my first thought was breakfast; not sitting down to the various tasks at my desk. In today’s world, we wake up to the instant access and undeniable craving for Facebook and text and email. The capsule may be slightly larger than those in the pill bottle, but the addiction to the contents can be just as powerful.

Here is my nugget of advice. Take a lesson from my college days and choose breakfast first. Avoid the temptation of the smartphone when you first wake up (and the premature stimulation to blood flow – see this Finnish study). For me, it means simply charging my smartphone within the confines of my home office. This forces the inconvenience of opening the door and considering the several other temptations and distractions of my work. Those can wait – bacon and eggs not so much.

Court of Many Colors

If there’s a high season for jury duty, perhaps it begins in June. My sister-in-law was summoned to serve last week, as was one of my good friends this week. Like voting, jury duty is that sometimes humdrum responsibility that comes with citizenship in the U.S. But our government should spend a few pennies to make the summons itself more exciting. Instead of reading, “You are hearby summoned…”, how about, “Congratulations! You’ve just won a day in court!”.

I was summoned myself several years ago. I think everyone should experience jury duty at least once in a lifetime. My county’s process may be different than yours. After the summons, you call the courthouse and punch in your juror number. If you “win”, you get to report to the courthouse on the designated date. You join a couple hundred of your county-mates in a holding room, where you wait several hours to be called to the individual courtrooms, where you may or may not join eleven of your neighbors in the jury box. The whole filtering process takes about a half a day, and 80% of those who made it to the holding room in the first place are dismissed. No matter where you end up, you won’t receive another summons for at least a year.

During my summons I did make it to the courthouse, but I never made it out of the holding room. The only drama for me was wondering if my parking ticket would be validated. But I did depart with an interesting observation. Surrounded by hundreds of others from my county, I realized I was looking at the purest slice of my neighbors that any circumstance can create.

Think about that. Within your county (or just your immediate neighborhood), there are dozens of places where people gather, and countless reasons more for doing so. Schools. Sporting events. Places of worship. Office buildings. Parks. Supermarkets. Restaurants. The list goes on. But which can you point to and say “now these are the people that live in my neighborhood.”

Jury duty draws everyone; the business executive and the ditch digger; the homemaker and the traveling salesman; the parent and the (over-eighteen) child; the wealthy, the middle class, and the poor; the overworked and the underemployed; and every other walk of life regardless of political, religious, sexual, or ethnic affiliation. I can even include our county’s youngest residents because our courthouse offers child care! In fact, the only neighbors you won’t see at jury duty are those with a doctor’s note or those who aren’t U.S. citizens. Everyone else gets to play.

Jury duty is not sexy. It is typically an inconvenience. Even if you serve, your case is not likely to make headlines. But if you do make it to the courthouse, look around and take a measure of those sitting around you. It’s your county – in a nutshell of the purest kind!

Friends in Pro Places

A few weeks ago I went to the dentist. While he put in a new crown we went through a few family updates. Off the top of his head he mentioned something specific about each of my kids, which made me realize just how well he knows me. Then again, he should. I’ve been showing up at his door every six months for the past twenty years.

Each of us has a different definition of “friend”. People enter/exit our lives or they stay for the long haul, but at some point they enter a more intimate circle defined as friendship. Friendship circles are tight or loose, filled or sparse, alike or diverse, but no matter which they contain individuals we hold with our unique sense of esteem. We revere these people.

One friendship circle less obvious than others is the professionals we choose. For instance, I have an appointment today with my hair stylist. I will get in my car, drive forty minutes to his salon, and spend another forty minutes in his company. My stylist is about my age and South Korean. He’s been cutting my hair for over twenty years. In that time he’s worked at a mall-based salon, switched to a local one, and then two years ago he started his own salon with his sister. He knows how to cut hair so I follow him wherever he goes.

Here’s the point. Early on in our relationship I merely trusted my stylist with the cutting of my hair. He quickly figured me out (the male straight-hair cut is no rocket science). Our conversations matured from sports and headlines to the raising of our children and being fathers. Suddenly I was seeking his input on life as we moved from our thirties to our forties to our fifties.

Today I can (and do) talk to my stylist about anything and everything. There’s not much I wouldn’t share with him. He is similarly comfortable with me. One day while driving I absentmindedly did the math. Once-a-month visits. Forty minutes per visit. Twenty years. Astonishingly I realized I’ve visited his salon almost 250 times! We’ve spent almost 160 hours together. That’s a lot of time chatting with one person. That’s enough to give him a page in my book of friends.

Not every professional creates the template for friendship, but there are plenty of good examples. My eye doctor (again, twenty years) gets an annual update on my family, as I do on his. My chiropractor and I have a ten-minute conversation every eight weeks while he makes my back sing. Even my banker, who spends a couple of hours with my wife and I every six months, begins his meetings on a personal note.

The next time you’re in the presence of one of your “regulars”, take a moment to do the math. You may discover you’ve confided in this person more than you realize. Instead of opening the door to your friendship circle and letting them in, you may notice they’re already there.

Space Invader

Last week my family and I were on the road, heading west to Los Angeles. One morning we stopped for breakfast just short of the California state line. As I was paying and the cashier handed back my receipt, I asked her, “so… how’s your day going today?” She gave me a wary smile and replied “f-i-n-e…”. Then she looked at me a little more carefully and asked back (with no small amount of curiosity), “where you from, anyway?” And that’s when it hit me – I had invaded her personal space. At least, the big-city version of personal space.

Take a step back and assess the town you live in. You’ll quickly decide whether you live in the “small” or the “big” variety. I’m not talking about physical size (though size does matter – ha). No, I’m talking about the chemistry of the place, and how you interact with the people around you.

I live in a rural area, and the surrounding towns are not much bigger than “one-street”. And here’s what I observe. People wave to each other from their cars or when walking on the road. People take face-to-face moments – however small – to have conversation. People gather at the local establishments to catch up with each other. The “hometown” parades and festivals and meals still draw decent crowds.

The big city – for all its energy and activities and diversity – is much more insular at the individual level. Its residents seek the comfort of their personal space, whether that is defined as neighborhood or house or even electronic device (personal space guaranteed by headphones and music). Indeed, retreat to personal space in the big city is a survival tactic – a stab at decompression and calm after the hectic hours on the sidewalk or in the car or office.

Be careful if you assume I favor small-town over big-city – far from it. I simply observe the outward differences as well as the inward coping mechanisms. In small towns we tend to have only one of everything (i.e. Mexican restaurant, Starbucks, dry cleaner). In big cities the choices are so vast that choosing Chipotle over the several local options feels like selling yourself short. As my big-city brother so succinctly puts it: small-town means opening the newspaper to see what there is to do, while big-city means deciding what you want to do; then opening the newspaper to see where it’s happening.

Small-town interactions fill the void of perhaps too much time in isolation. Big-city personal spaces ease the stress of perhaps too much time in the crowds. Hence it’s interesting to flip the dynamic every now and then, as I did with my breakfast cashier. She was comfortable in her personal space until I invaded with my casual question. And maybe just for a moment, she let down her distrust guard and realized I was simply interested in how her day was going.

Steal a Card, Any Card

Imagine a carefree Saturday at the mall. You’re shopping with friends for something you really need, or maybe it’s just a little retail therapy. Whatever the reason, the shopping and the purchases make for an enjoyable afternoon. In fact, you’re so satisfied you decide to add on dinner afterwards at a nearby restaurant. All in all a great day, until you wake up the next morning and discover a fraudulent purchase on your credit card. Even more disturbing, you realize the waiter at the restaurant was the odds-on criminal.

My mall story is not hypothetical but actual. My family and I went shopping last weekend, and within twenty-four hours of our purchases we were victims of credit card fraud. What is most aggravating to me is the basic chain of events that points to the nefarious waiter at the restaurant where we dined. Why him? Out of a dozen purchases that day, the restaurant was the only location where the credit card transaction took place out of my sight. Instead of the several point-of-sale mall transactions, the restaurant – as is typical – carried my card away alongside the bill, to be processed somewhere out of sight. Also, the fraudulent purchase the following day was made at the department store adjacent to the restaurant. It’s an easy-as-pie theory on what went down.

My experience begs the question: why do credit card companies include all of the critical information right on the card? Write down (or phone-photo) the name of the cardholder, the sixteen-digit card number, the expiration date of the card, and the three-digit “Card Verification Value” (CVV), and you’re all set to assume the purchasing identity of someone else.

Google Authenticator, which sends a verification code to your phone that is required for login to certain apps, creates a secondary level of security that would significantly decrease credit card fraud. At the least, cardholders should be given a piece of data separate from what is printed on the card, so only they have every last piece of the purchasing puzzle.

Fortunately, credit card fraud is an inconvenience instead of an unexpected financial setback. My bank simply reimburses the amount in dispute, cancels the card, and issues me a new one. I can live with that (unless I owned the credit card company). What I can’t live with is the thieves who work the system. Thus did I send a note to the restaurant manager. I did not directly accuse the waiter as I really have no proof. But I did provide enough detail that perhaps the manager will track the activities of his employees a little closer. My hope is that he discovers the criminal among his otherwise trustworthy staff.

Fallen Arches

We have a McDonald’s in the middle of our small Colorado town. The restaurant has been expanded over the years, to include double wrap-around drive-thru lanes and a “PlayPlace” for the kids. At some point in time, demand pushed the hours of operation to 7/24. So imagine my surprise last Saturday night around 6:30pm, when I passed by and didn’t see a single car – not one! – in either of the drive-thru lanes. Apparently my town is not “lovin’ it” so much these days.

The truth is, the fast food times they are a-changin’ and McDonald’s is struggling to move on from its burger-n-fries roots. It’s hard enough to compete with the Panera’s and Chipotle’s and other “healthy” alternatives. In this game, McDonald’s is either venerable or outdated – take your pick.

Growing up in California, the go-to fast-food restaurants were McDonald’s, Jack-in-the-Box, and Kentucky Fried Chicken. Not many weeks went by where my family didn’t make it to at least one of the three. In high school, my brother and I worked in a McDonald’s that drew busloads of patrons from the nearby interstate, and hundreds more from the adjacent movie theater. The lines to the counter would stretch into the seating area; a fury of a demand for fast-food. But my how times have changed. A few weeks ago I was shocked to discover another neighborhood McDonald’s had closed down completely. That’s no one-off; McDonald’s is shutting down hundreds of restaurants across the globe as part of a renewed corporate strategy.

I never thought I’d see the day where I question the long-term future of McDonald’s. Health magazine recently published a list of “America’s Top Ten Healthiest Fast Food Restaurants” – http://www.health.com/health/gallery/0,,20435301,00.html – and McDonald’s lands comfortably at #8. Dig deeper however and you’ll find the telling comment: “although McDonald’s made our list, this is still the land of supersizing and giant sodas.”

McDonald’s is trying new approaches to gain market share, and I’m not just talking new menu items (although “garlic fries” are fighting for a spot). In several of its Texas restaurants, McDonald’s is testing “fresh beef” instead of the “flash frozen” it has used for decades. McDonald’s also sponsored a nutrition push in schools, but their message of portion control couldn’t overcome their burger-and-fries stereotype, so they cancelled the program. McDonald’s latest proposed slogan is “The Simpler the Better”, but that’s more about a streamlined menu and faster service. It’s makeup instead of the face lift they really need.

I have a soft spot for McDonald’s because it was my first formal paycheck. I worked the grill and dressed the burgers and wore the uniform with pride. But I can’t tell you the last time I hit a McDonald’s drive-thru, let alone walked into the restaurant. Even the recent “all-day breakfast” campaign isn’t bringing me back. Yes, we all still “deserve a break today”, but it may be time to finally dim the lights on the golden arches.

Humble and Kind

This week’s list of “Hot Country Songs” – according to Billboard – includes Tim McGraw’s Humble and Kind; an easy waltz with timeless lyrics. A glance at other songs on the list finds the more typical topics of country music: fishing, hunting, lost love, found love, even t-shirts. But Humble and Kind digs a whole lot deeper. It’s a virtuous dose of substance in a music genre that often settles for less.

Humble and Kind sings about several examples of doing the right thing, like holding doors for others and minding your manners. But the following verses are more insightful and are my favorites:

When the dreams you’re dreamin’ come to you, When the work you put in is realized, Let yourself feel the pride but, Always stay humble and kind.

Don’t take for granted the love this life gives you, When you get where you’re goin’ don’t forget turn back around, And help the next one in line, Always stay humble and kind.

Humility and kindness are virtues by definition. If you time-traveled back to 400 AD, you’d meet the Roman Christian poet Aurelius Prudentius (great name). “Aury” came up with the “Seven Heavenly Virtues” and the list remains unchanged to this day. The first five are Chastity, Temperance, Charity, Diligence, and Patience. The last two are Humility and Kindness. If you lived your life according to the list, the pearly gates would swing wide when you arrive. But let’s be real – how many of us can check the boxes next to all seven virtues by the time we climb that final staircase?

Humility (Latin: humilitas) is not thinking less of yourself; it is thinking of yourself less. Kindness (Latin: benevolentia) is charity, compassion, and friendship for its own sake.

Ponder the final words of those definitions for a second. It’s not so much what you do (or don’t do) but more what your intentions are. Don’t show me things you’ve done that qualify as “humble” and “kind”. Instead, consider whether you had a hidden agenda with your actions. And that’s the kicker with the virtues game – it’s not only how others judge you but also how you judge yourself. Still think you can check the boxes?

Humble and Kind inspired a pay-it-forward movement you can learn more about at http://stayhumbleandkind.com . You’ll find all kinds of inspiring entries on the website – over eighty in the four months since the song was released. Click on any of the photos and you’ll get the story behind the good intentions. You can even request small printed cards that say #StayHumbleAndKind – meant to be left behind after you complete your acts of anonymous goodwill.

Ironically, some of Tim McGraw’s biggest country hits are about fishing (“Don’t Take the Girl” – 1994), love (“Just to See You Smile – 1997) and t-shirts (“Something Like That – 1999). But like our virtuous Roman Christian Aury, Tim and his writers step it up to poetry every now and then. Humble and Kind made it to #1 on Billboard’s “Hot Country Songs” last month. This week’s list has it at #4. Frankly, I hope it hangs on for awhile and gets a ton of airplay. The world can learn a lot from its seemingly simple words.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Music of the Night

Last weekend we went to Saturday night church to hear our daughter-in-law sing. Or more accurately – as I discovered the next day – we went to Evensong.

I was raised as a Methodist, with little exposure to the customs of other faiths. It was only later in life that I came to appreciate the different spins on “church”. Our Methodist church had three services on Sunday mornings – that was about it for formal worship. But my years at a Catholic university taught me that “church” can happen on Saturday nights, or Friday nights, or every morning, afternoon and evening of the week if you simply can’t get your fill. “Church” also has different names, like Vespers, Eucharist, or Matins. Or Evensong.

Saturday night’s service with my daughter-in-law didn’t seem so unusual. We were sitting in pews in a sanctuary; a healthy congregation of worshipers around us. The service began with singing and music. But fifteen minutes into the hour it was still singing and music. The stubborn Methodist in me wondered when we’d get to the sermon and the Bible verses and the prayers (they came eventually).

Evensong wouldn’t “even” (ha) have become this week’s blog topic if it wasn’t for Jeffrey Archer. I was reading the British author’s latest novel last Sunday and he made reference to Evensong. The word stuck with me – a beautiful term – so I had to learn more. Evensong has its roots in the Church of England: an evening prayer service delivered through singing and music.

Today, Evensong in its purest form is still more common in the U.K. than in the U.S. You can attend the service every day in most cathedrals in the Church of England, but you’ll only find a handful of options in the States. And you’ll have to search even harder to find Choral Evensong; the original version of the service sung “a capella” (without instruments).

One of my neighbors down the street here in rural Colorado saw fit to name her “relaxing forest getaway rental” Evensong Place (made the top ten in my Google search!). That’s a little eerie considering I chose this topic at random just this week. Maybe I should wander down and have a look.

A popular Methodist hymn – from the early nineteen century but still sung at Christmas – is “There’s a Song in the Air”. It doesn’t rate as high as “Silent Night” or “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” but the melody and the words captivate me. In the final verse we sing “…and we echo the song that comes down through the night…”. Well what do you know? Even us Methodists had a sense of Evensong well before it became “Saturday night church”.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Don’t Mess with Jack!

This week, the original junk food Cracker Jack introduces a new look to its packaging, and – brace yourself – no more “prize inside”. The tiny toys synonymous with the brand since 1912 have been replaced with QR code stickers, which connect to games on your phone when scanned. Farewell to those temporary tattoos, finger-sized comic books, and decoder rings; – another slice of Americana is gone. Check out Facebook’s Cracker Jack page if you want a sampling of the overwhelmingly negative reaction to the news.

Cracker Jack’s announcement shamelessly reduces the “toy surprise inside” to mere click bait. Akin to so many Facebook posts, the allure of click bait is to discover the rest of the story. In the process you get a healthy dose of advertising. Click bait never gets my attention, nor will Cracker Jack’s QR codes. The thrill of the prize is gone.

Cracker Jack has a special place in my heart. My great uncle became synonymous with the treat when he showed up at family gatherings with enough boxes for his dozen grandnephews and nieces. More significantly, I hid my wife’s engagement ring inside the prize packet of a box of Cracker Jack just before my proposal. She used to be a Crunch ‘n Munch fan until she opened that particular “toy”.

Cracker Jack is another link to the past that has suffered never-go-back changes. The boxes are smaller now (in fact, the latest packaging is not even a box), and the ratio of peanuts to popcorn has increased. It’s the typical product manipulation that has you thinking you’re consuming the same thing you did ten years ago. Like ice cream, where brands are now sold in smaller containers designed to look like the standard half-gallon. Or fast-food “quarter-pound” burgers that are no longer as big, yet still qualify by definition. Perhaps the most obvious example: Oreos have less filling and thinner cookies than the originals. Ironically, today’s “Double-Stuff” are probably more like the “singles” from a generation ago.

Changes like Cracker Jack hit me hard, not only because I’m paying more for less but because the tampering seems like an injustice. Why not keep the original and charge more? I’d pay. And I’m not alone. Wikipedia claims the New York Yankees tried to replace Cracker Jack with Crunch ‘n Munch at home games ten years ago, but the public outcry forced them to switch back within a matter of days. Don’t mess with Jack!

Speaking of baseball, Cracker Jack is immortalized in the lyrics of “Take Me Out To the Ballgame”, sung in the middle of seventh inning stretches. I wonder if today’s generation knows what they’re singing about with “…buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack”? Even if they do they’re singing about a different product now, including the updated images of mascots Sailor Jack and his dog Bingo. No doubt Cracker Jack’s founder had that in mind before he passed away in 1937. The original Sailor Jack is carved on his tombstone. Now there’s something they can never change.

Impersonal Delivery

Why does Amazon ask for “packaging feedback”? Do they really want my opinion on a plain brown box? Yesterday I came home to an Amazon delivery on my front door step. But that’s already not true. The box was dropped into a plastic bag and suspended from my mailbox (“front door step” just sounded better). My packaging feedback to Amazon: lackluster.

Let’s chat about delivery as it used to be. My fondest childhood memories include the noisy, colorful, “old-fashioned” delivery trucks that made their way into the neighborhood regularly. No kid from that era will ever forget the bakery, dairy, and ice cream trucks, and the allure of fresh-made bread and other goodies – temptations limited only by Mom’s permission or the amount of change in your pants pocket.

Growing up in Los Angeles, the Helms Bakery had a fleet of hundreds of bright yellow delivery trucks. The drivers dressed in smart uniforms and used a distinctive “toot-toot” horn to announce their arrival. The neighborhood gathering at the truck was as much social as it was for baked goods. At the end of grade-school field trips through the Helms factory, each kid received a coupon for something free from the delivery truck. It was like a golden ticket to a candy store, where you walk in and the owner spreads his arms and says “pick one”.

The dairy truck came from Edgemar Farms, not that we ever knew (or cared) where the farm was. Edgemar delivered milk in glass bottles with foil caps. The “milkman” would walk into the kitchen like he was family. He’d take the order from Mom and return with his wire basket full of milk, eggs, and butter. Then he’d unload everything right into the refrigerator, tip his cap with a cheery “good morning” and be on his way. Now that’s anything but lackluster delivery.

Ice cream (Good Humor or some other brand) appeared in our neighborhood on summer nights – the very best truck of them all. I can still hear the beckoning jingle from the roof-mounted loudspeakers. The neighborhood kids would flock – I mean flock – to the truck’s side window, where the all-in-white ice-cream man would lean out and wait too patiently while we made up our minds. Bomb pops. Push-ups. Ice cream sandwiches. Heaven on earth delivered right into your hands.

Okay – end of time-gone-by chat – back to today’s delivery by Amazon. Boring brown box. Got it? So how did my box get to me? What did the truck look like (was it even a truck)? Did the delivery person wear a uniform? Did he or she come to the front door?

Lack of delivery details equals lackluster delivery. And it’s only going to get worse. Amazon Prime Air is described as “a future delivery system designed to safely get packages to customers in 30 minutes or less using small unmanned aerial vehicles”. So now my brown boxes are going to arrive by parachute. In my packaging feedback, I’m going to request a beckoning jingle from the drones to announce their arrival – er, landing?