Tag: life

Stuff changes over time.

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When I was a kid in San Francisco, we got through life without being concerned with the things that are around today. Now, every day I read about people’s current concerns that were unheard of when I was growing up. I didn’t know a single person then who was a vegan, lactose-intolerant, concerned about GMO issues, or allergic to gluten products.

We weren’t concerned with bottled water (or the bottles). At home, we had tap water in the kitchen and bathroom, and best of all, we drank from a hose. It all seemed fine to me. There were plenty of drinking fountains at school and in public places, and not a single person I knew died from contaminated water. Or, by the way, ever had their “eye put out” by a pencil? No one had a car seat; seat belts were for future airplanes. Cars had metal bumpers that did a superb job of protecting them. They actually protected passengers and prevented significant damage to the vehicle. I recall one car (I think it was a Buick) that had huge, torpedo-shaped, pointed bumpers. Now that was classy.

My mom shopped nearly every day, as did my grandmother. Like it or not, we ate everything served; if you didn’t like it, too bad. We’d sit there until the offending item was gone. While my mom’s cooking wasn’t restaurant-quality, it included fresh vegetables long before boutique Fresh Market stores emerged. Our corner grocery store was the equivalent of a modern-day Kroger. It was about half a block from our house, and my mom dispatched me regularly for whatever we needed. My favorite thing to watch was a gas flame resembling a large Bunsen Burner. It was used to singe pin feathers off the skin of fresh chickens. We had never heard of packaged chicken.

We used to have this amazing social media platform—imagine a 4-party telephone line! It was just wonderful; four families sharing one phone line, each with their own distinct ring. It’s funny to think that everyone was listening in on each other sometimes. That was like instant social media, way before the 5G speeds people are eager for today. I could go on and on about thoughts like this. I know many others have similar childhood memories, and it warms my heart to see how small things can create such meaningful connections. To everyone who has supported me along the way, I truly appreciate you!

This encore took 30+years to happen.

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More than 35 years ago, I walked my daughter down the aisle on her wedding day. Not long ago, I walked the same aisle of this church to honor my eldest granddaughter on her own wedding day. It was an immediate flashback to many years ago: many of my daughter’s friends, bridesmaids, and guests from her wedding were back for her daughter’s wedding. I’ve known several of her friends since they were in 2nd grade through high school.

I must confess, more than one of her friends recognized me before I clicked on who they were. Seeing them was so much fun: little girls at first glance, beautiful moms with grown children of their own, a moment later. As I watched my granddaughter and her now-husband go through their ceremony, I couldn’t help but smile at what they will experience in years to come. They have a wonderful daughter now; I know, one day my great-granddaughter Olivia will walk down that very aisle in her own beautiful wedding gown. I love that thought.

We all had a computer in school.

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Entrance of Spring Valley Elementary School with families and children outside

As children, from a certain age, we didn’t know how well off we were. Long before the advent of Tandy computers and 6” screens, we had portable devices of our own. They were called pencils.

Incredibly, I still have one from my childhood school. It’s light blue, with the words “San Francisco School System” proudly printed in white on the side. One might wonder how (or why) I’d have a pencil that is nearly 75 years old. However, anyone who knows me well will understand. Spring Valley Elementary School on Jackson Street in San Francisco handed out these pencils (free, I might add) to any student. Since I love new pencils, with the freshly sharpened smell, I probably asked for one every day. No one seemed to be concerned that I went through them at the speed of light.

Many years after I left Spring Valley, I was driving down Jackson Street and passed the school. I pulled over, parked, and went inside for the first time in decades. The first thing I noticed was that the school smelled exactly like it did when I was a student there. You had to spend years at the school to know what I mean. I wandered into what was my kindergarten class. It looked the same, with small tables and tiny chairs. In a few moments, a young teacher walked in and, thinking that I was someone’s grandparent, cheerfully asked if she could help me in any way.

I replied that I’d been a student in that very classroom as a child. She was thrilled. It was like I’d opened a door for her to peer into and to imagine what it must have been like “then.” She was so excited, she asked me if I’d like to go upstairs to the principal’s office to meet her. I declined the opportunity to meet the principal. However, I did walk upstairs, and as I rounded the corner, I saw the exact same white bench outside her office that was there when I was a student. I remembered it all too well.

The Postal Service needs help, now.

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Two USPS mail carriers delivering mail on a tree-lined suburban street

Our United States Postal Service is in a jam, and we all need to help them.

I recently read (and should have remembered) that Benjamin Franklin was our first Postmaster; he was an innovator who revived the then-Colonial Postal Service to increase efficiency and profitability. We need you, Ben, right now.

Nearly every resident of the United States is involved with the USPS and with their carriers and station staff. People in small towns, large metro areas, every state, and U.S. territories depend on them. Military and government personnel around the world depend on the USPS to help move their mail. We all need their services.

The USPS and its precursor, the United States Post Office, were essential to my family and me. My dad worked for the Post Office for more than 40 years; he had many assignments and spent most of his time in their Parcel Post unit. Along with many other changes, they don’t have Parcel Post carriers, and they don’t even call it the Post Office.

I’ve been a life-long user of “real mail.” My respect for the USPS remains solid. Nearly everyone I know in business, family, and social circles is aware of (and has received) real mail from me. I prefer handwritten notes and actual postage stamps; each envelope I drop into a USPS mailbox is a personal message from me to another person.

Today, I read an article about the USPS financial dilemma: people using 1st-Class mail is way down, which creates a huge revenue problem for the organization. In my view, now, more than ever, people need to be in touch with family and friends. Buying and using a postage stamp to send a greeting is a super investment in our USPS. Just imagine this: if 1% of the Nation’s population started buying and using stamps to aid communications, the USPS might be out of its downward spiral. I’ll send a few notes out today, so count me in. I’m happy to help.

Video meetings are not for me.

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Display of historical office technology including typewriters, early computers, phones, laptops, tablets, and smartphones.

I have worked from a virtual office (home-based) for many years, so the”work from home” experience isn’t new to me. When I started working from a virtual location, companies were very suspicious; all they could think about was how they’d ensure I was working a full day. They’d also fret over issues like home safety, equipment, and the like.

Now, with zillions of folks working from home (AI, home office or not), all they need is a laptop, a strong internet connection, and a video chat app. Even with this advanced technology, video chatters spend an inordinate amount of time fussing and fiddling with connections, audio, video, and who can’t sign in. Not long ago, I was on a call with people in 3 cities in the US and 2 cities in France (our US team didn’t speak a word of French). We didn’t accomplish a single thing on that call.

Now, companies have seen the light, and working from home (or a virtual office, for purists) will be here to stay for years to come. I can tell you that over the years, I’ve worked more prolonged, more productive hours from my home office than from any office I had in New York City. It’s laughable now when I think of standing on the local train platform with an army of fellow commuters; everyone had their place to stand before boarding and a particular seat to sit in on the train. It was all controlled, and woe be it to a newcomer who sat in someone’s accustomed seat going into or out of Grand Central. Day after day, we all saw each other. What an incredible waste of time.

In my home office, I’ve always had everything anyone would need to work efficiently. Early on, I didn’t have a computer or a laptop. However, the three Kings of Communication were my fax machine, HP printer, and my trusty IBM typewriter. The typewriter probably weighed at least 35 pounds and took up 50% of my available workspace (I am using the same desk right now). The printer was also gigantic, heavy, and expensive (around $3000) as I recall.

The fax machine was my great leap forward, complete with thermal paper and all. I bought this gem from Staples for the astronomical price of $1400. Hard to believe. I was once negotiating for a position based in Hong Kong; one day, I returned home to a fax message about 10 feet long. Such progress. I’ll hold off on video calls for as long as I can, since Zoom is here to stay; I guess I’ll have to look for a new fax machine to stay competitive.

Old stuff worked just fine.

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Four women in 1950s kitchen talking on a party line telephone

We weren’t concerned with bottled water (or the bottles.) At home, we had kitchen and bathroom tap water and, best of all, drinking water from a hose. It all seemed fine to me. There were plenty of drinking fountains at school and in public places, and not a single person I know died from bad water. Or, by the way, ever had their “eye put out” by a pencil? No one had a car seat; seat belts were for airplanes of the future. Cars had metal bumpers that did a superb job. They actually protected passengers and prevented major damage to the car. I recall one car (I think it was a Buick) that had huge, torpedo-shaped, pointed bumpers. Now that was classy.

My mom shopped nearly every day, as did my grandmother. Like it or not, we ate everything served; if you didn’t like it, too bad. We’d sit there until the offending item was gone. While my mom’s cooking wasn’t restaurant quality, it included fresh vegetables long before boutique Fresh Market stores. Our corner grocery was the Kroger of the day. It was about one-half block from our house, and my mom regularly dispatched me for whatever we needed. My favorite thing to watch there was a gas flame thing that looked like a large Bunsen Burner. It was used to singe pin feathers off the skin of fresh chickens. We never heard of packaged chicken.

We had a super social media platform then. It was a 4-party telephone line. It was fantastic; four families sharing one phone line. Each family had their own assigned telephone ring. It’s safe to say everyone listened in on everyone else. That was instant social media without the 5G speed people want today. My thoughts on stuff like this are endless. I know there’s an army of folks who had similar experiences growing up, and it makes me very happy we are all thankful for the small things that generated big results. To all who helped me along the way, thanks!

My dad’s ’39 Chevvy sure made memories for me.

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My dad brought my mom and me home in style on the day I was born. My dad had a green 1939 Chevy sedan (he bought it new) that looked like the image; we had this car until I was about eight years old, so I have a clear memory of it. My dad called it the “Green Hornet,” which pretty well infringed on the comic book character for anyone growing up at the time. Here I am, decades later, and I’m still able to smell the inside of that car. I suppose this because my sister threw up in the back seat, and it never faded; the seats were covered with a light tan, fuzzy, carpet-like fabric. One puke and it was there forever.

Each summer, we’d all pile into the car for our trek to Yosemite for a camping vacation. My mom hated every single second of these camping expeditions, especially when we’d pull over to let the car radiator cool off, and we’d try to take a drink of our not-so-cool water from the bag. I hear her voice asking why we didn’t stop at that Standard Oil station and not on the side of the hot roadway. I sure wish I had that stupid canvas bag today.

Memories of the best dog, ever.

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Not long after moving to Bangkok, Thailand, we got a small dog from a work colleague. She had an uncertain background, but grew into a 50+-pound dog who had 8 puppies under our bed. Our friends named her Shaytoon, meaning something in another language, and we decided to keep that name.

She quickly became an amazing family companion. When our youngest daughter was born, she watched over her protectively. When a visitor leaned down to touch my daughter’s hair, Shaytoon moved closer and rested her open jaw against the visitor’s arm. She didn’t bite, but clearly showed she was there to protect our daughter.

In another memorable incident, a grocery delivery boy teased her during his deliveries to our house. One day, he stood by the front door and started mocking her. To everyone’s surprise, Shaytoon ran at the screen door and burst through it, chasing after the boy. He ran away quickly, and when he returned the next day, he made sure not to disturb our dog.

A few years later, we moved to Hong Kong, where strict animal quarantine laws required us to keep her in a shelter for 180 days. We visited her regularly, but it was a long separation for everyone. Finally, she came home with us, showing a new tattoo in her ear as proof of her good health.

Fast forward to our return to San Francisco. Shaytoon joined us and quickly adapted to life as a City Dog, enjoying rides and walks everywhere. From picnics at Stinson Beach to runs on the Marina Green, we were always together. I’m sure she saw herself as just another eager member of our family.

Years passed, and like many dogs, she got sick, had hearing loss, and trouble moving. This is a tough time for any family, and we faced the hard choice of putting her to sleep. One day, while our daughters were at school and my wife was out, I took Shaytoon on her last ride in our Volvo, with the sunroof open and her head out of the window. We went to the Marina Green for one last walk before heading to the Vet nearby. It was time, and I was the only one who could do this. It still hurts to remember that day.

As I took her into the doctor’s office, I hugged her and nuzzled her soft blond fur, something I had done many times. I took off her collar and her 1978 San Francisco dog license before she was taken inside; in moments, she was gone. I drove home heartbroken, realizing we would never be together again. I’ve kept the license tag all these years (it’s the image in this posting.) She was a cherished family member, and I’m grateful for this reminder of our time together. Thanks for everything, Shaytoon.

I know you’re having a lovely time in dog Heaven.

The motorcycle and the doughnut.

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When we lived in San Francisco, I decided I had to have a motorcycle, specifically a Honda 550 4 model like the one shown here. Never mind that I didn’t have 10 minutes of experience riding a bike like that, nor the required license to drive one. These were minor details in my plan.

Sure enough, one day, a friend drove me to the Honda dealer in Alameda, California, which is across the Bay from San Francisco. Once at the dealership, I had a brief discussion with the salesperson, signed some papers, and, in a frighteningly short period, I was (with my bank) the owner of a brand-new blue Honda motorcycle. Up to that point, I hadn’t spent one minute trying to drive it.

Emboldened by my total lack of experience and knowledge, I hopped on (no helmet, please) and wobbled around their parking lot for about 30 minutes. That was plenty of instruction time for me, and I shortly found myself blasting across the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge on my way home, going at least 60 miles per hour. Miraculously, I made it home in one piece. Everyone was astonished.

I grew to love that motorcycle, and my daughters loved riding behind me as we discovered the hills and streets of San Francisco and up the coast to Point Reyes, Bolinas, and Sonoma for top-class picnics. Since I was now a skilled driver, at least in my own opinion, I wanted a regular and enthusiastic riding partner. Who better qualified than one of my daughters? Of my three daughters, my youngest was the most fearless, and she was up for anything I cooked up for us. To her, nothing was too ridiculous or dangerous.

A perfect match for me.

One Saturday morning, I woke before dawn; I went to her bedroom and shook her awake. I told her to quietly dress and meet me in front of our garage. Ok, Dad, another great plan waiting in the wings. It was just about dawn when we headed off on our adventure. She didn’t know where we were going, but it didn’t matter. We headed to the Golden Gate Bridge, which was a short distance from our house, riding up the highway entrance ramp. So far, so good. In a matter of minutes, we were screaming across the bridge just as the sun came up. It was a magnificent sight, and with very few vehicles on the road, we felt we were really flying.

We were, in a sense. We continued our ride to Sausalito, where we stopped for hot chocolate. At that point, she was up for going to Portland, Oregon, or any other place. I sensibly turned around, and we rode back to San Francisco, stopping at our favorite doughnut place, Ahren’s bakery, to select a dozen of their best.

We lived pretty close to that bakery, so we were back home in a few minutes. Everyone was still asleep when we arrived, so I put the doughnuts on the kitchen table, made coffee, and loudly announced to all that it was time to get up. Neither my daughter nor I mentioned our rip-roaring ride, so everyone presumed we walked down to the bakery. Hey, who knew that a doughnut tastes totally fantastic after greeting the dawn while blazing across the bridge? You know, I think that’s what dads are for.

The 3 most powerful words used in the South are: “Bless Your Heart.”

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If you live in any Southern State, you’re probably familiar with hearing this phrase almost every day. People of all ages and genders in the South often use it, and it’s seen as a classic example of social commentary—something that can be personalized in many ways.

For instance, you might say: ‘Bless her, his, their, and your hearts.’ This phrase is a way of expressing your thoughts, which could be anything from “That’s the ugliest dress I’ve ever seen” to “That house is painted the worst color, ever.” The key is to quickly add the “Bless” word, which gently softens your comment and keeps everyone feeling good.

Living and learning in the South is a challenge, especially for a boy born and raised in San Francisco. However, after 20 years here, I have been able to blend in quite well.