The Home on Van Buren

I’ll never know a home like the one I grew up in.

It’s not just the home where I spent the first twenty years of my life. It’s the place where, as a child, I explored every nook and cranny. I knew exactly how far the water hose stretched in order to drench my sisters while they played on the swing. I knew how to climb on the roof to retrieve balls that wouldn’t budge from the carport, and I knew where to jump down so my parents couldn’t see me.

I didn’t grow up with a Nintendo or Xbox. Unless the Steelers were playing, I had little reason to sit in front of the TV.

I’d much rather be outside playing wiffleball with Butch who lived across the street. Every young boy needs a friend named Butch. We made our own rules. If the ball landed in the street it was an automatic out. So we learned to bat left-handed and pull the ball onto the neighbors lawn. The third pole from the right served as first base, and the water meter cover served as second.

I thought about the old house this past week as my parents were packing and moving into a new home a few miles north. It served as their home for 40 years and looks about the same as it did when they moved in other than a few trees my father planted.

Visiting Ogden this summer won’t feel quite the same. The hub of our extended family now belongs to someone else. Life goes on.

Many of my favorite memories center around helping my father around the yard. Each Saturday I was expected to mow the lawn after I watched an episode of Hong Kong Phooey or two.

Our mower didn’t have a bag to catch the clippings so my father made me mow the grass in two directions effectively turning our basic mower into a mulcher. At the beginning of each summer I’d beg my father for a new model, and he finally got around to purchasing a fancy Honda mower the year I moved out of the house.

I’ll sure miss the old home, but I have a lot of great memories of the place.

And that pine tree you see on the foreground? That served as third base when it was only a few feet off the ground.

The Real You

What brings out the real you?

A better question to ask might be what situations hide the real you?

I believe I’m just beginning to understand. For most of my life I’ve tried to be the person others expected me to be.

I’m reminded of the time our baseball team voted on team captains for the coming year. My father was the coach of our team and was disappointed when I wasn’t voted to be one of the two captains. But what upset him more was that I didn’t care. Not only did I not care, but I didn’t want to be one of the captains.

At the time, I thought to myself, “If my dad only knew the real me”.

But it wasn’t easy to show the real me. And I felt I had to take on a number of different personalities given the situation and those I was speaking to. It was as if I had a wall full of masks to choose from. I had a mask my parents wanted to see. Another one I wore to school and church. Still others I wore around friends and girls. One for every occasion.

When I stepped foot into the MTC, I was given another mask to wear, and it was the same mask the other 2000 missionaries wore. That one never fit very well. But this was the first time I began to wonder if all these masks were causing more trouble than they were worth. I began to wonder if I had been called to Germany based on my real personality – both good and bad traits – instead of some fake persona others wanted me to be?

I spent the first half of my mission trying to be the missionary others wanted me to be. Funny how I had little success until the second half when I allowed myself to be me around those I taught. I stopped trying to be perfect. I began to feel more comfortable being me. But it took a while.

How many different masks do you wear?

Whatever the number might be, it’s far fewer today than it used to be for me, and that’s due, in large part, to having children. Kids tend to bring out the real me, and I can’t imagine giving them anything else.

I’m convinced that the fewer masks you wear the happier you are. It’s miserable to be one person at home and another at work. I fell into that trap for many years. It eventually breaks down, and the best one can hope for is a chance at a new career. Worst case is that you ruin your marriage.

It’s not easy to be the real me around everyone. This blog has helped me open up to my parents and friends who probably see me in a different light than the person they thought I was. I’m sure I’ve disappointed a few of them, but I’d rather get to know someone and their flaws than have them put on a mask around me.

Photo from misteraitch

The Rice Sock

“Dad, will you warm my rice sock?”

That’s how the routine starts each evening.

Luca climbs to the top bunk, locates the rice sock her mother made and calls to me. My job is simple: heat the sock in the microwave for two minutes and return to Luca in exchange for a hug and kiss to the cheek.

If I’m lucky, the hug lasts as long as the microwave timer.

Luca could easily warm the sock on her own. She reminds me daily that she doesn’t need my help performing other tasks around the house. That includes making lemonade or making any change to the Tivo.

But it’s not about the sock.

Reminds me of the rides home from school with my father.

There are nights where I’m relaxing in front of the computer after a challenging day at work. When Luca calls my name I may exhibit a small amount of hesitation.

I should be less concerned about the trek upstairs and think about how I’d feel if she stopped calling my name.

The Perfect Lawn

Seems like every neighborhood has one: The guy who spends way too much time making his front yard look all perfectly manicured.

One of them lives two houses down. I see him working morning and night using tools I can’t describe let alone use. I don’t believe I could Photoshop a greener more perfect lawn. If a weed dares sprout after an evening shower, it’s gone by the time I pass his yard on my way to work.

I swear this guy worked as a groundskeeper for a major league team before he retired to our neighborhood to make the the rest of us look like landscaping slackers.

My lawn isn’t in the same league. As much as I’d like to blame it on my dog and four kids, I can’t because it rains so much in Seattle it doesn’t take much effort to maintain a green lawn.

The main difference between my lawn and the the lawn of the groundskeeper is the stripes. His lawn looks like Augusta National. Every inch is geometrically designed and executed. No wasted diagonal streaks scarring his masterpiece to be found.

As I gassed up our John Deere this morning I decided to take my time mowing our front yard. Normally, I begin by mowing around the edges before making a few haphazard circles. Eventually I get bored and change things up by mowing the longest grass regardless of location. I don’t plan. I don’t maintain perfect lines. A couple of goats would make work of my lawn in a more organized fashion.

I chalk up the mission as a success if I get through the morning without stepping in dog poop if that’s any indication of the high standards I hold myself to.

So I began by making four or five nearly perfect lines keeping the wheel marks as parallel as possible. I stood back near the street to admire my work. It wasn’t up to groundskeeper standards, but I wasn’t embarrassing myself either.

As I detached the bag full of grass, the kids showed up and wanted to help. First Anna and then Lincoln and Luca. I held the mower while they engaged the wheels by squeezing the lever with their small thumbs. One time back and forth was enough for each of them, and the lawn still looked quite good with just over half completed.

I could finish off the remaining grass in less than ten minutes before moving to the backyard. Kim and maybe all but one neighbor would be impressed. Things were looking up.

And then Kai showed up.

He tugged at my shorts and pointed at the mower.

“He can’t reach the handle”

“He can help mow the backyard”

“There goes my plan for the perfect lawn”

Maybe when I start the engine he’ll be scared enough that he’ll run to mom. Excuses were easy to come by.

Yet I should have known better. Because when I pulled the cord and the engine whirled, Kai stepped up to the mower and grabbed hold of the lower handle as if it had been tailor-made to his height.

After making sure his tiny feet had enough room to walk, I engaged the wheels.

And for the next thirty minutes, we zigzagged our way around the lawn like a Roomba on crack.

Sometimes imperfect is perfect.

Sweet Emotion

My care-free summers as a kid included watching Fact of Life. I had a crush on Blair, which was unfortunate, because none of the girls in my fourth grade class could live up to the the standard set by her. Even if she was Junior high age. And had a full-time makeup artist.

Of course, it wasn’t cool to admit the crush so I kept it to myself and made sure the girls my age never found out. Nobody would have believed me had I told them I watched Facts of Life for the story arc.

Utah summers are warm, and when I wasn’t swimming or watching Blair, I was calling the radio stations to request my favorite tunes.

I couldn’t afford to purchase albums. On rare occurrences, my mom would let me choose a 45 if she liked the song and I happened to have tagged along to ZCMI with her. With those restrictions in place, I ended up listening to a collection of ABBA, Donna Summer and deeps cuts from the Jazz Singer soundtrack.

Otherwise I had to wait for the DJ to spin up my favorites. It would be a few more years before I had a cassette recorder. My grandfather gave me a digital clock radio for Christmas one year. I spent every night laying in my bed hoping for my favorite songs to play through the tiny mono speaker. If I was lucky, my parents were upstairs and I could sneak the phone into my room and call the stations and plead with the DJ to play Starlight Vocal Band’s “Afternoon Delight”. I had no idea what the lyrics meant.

Remember the feeling when you’d hear a song for the first time and it felt like it belonged to you? That’s how it was with “Sweet Emotion”. I’d never heard anything like it before. Starts off sounding like someone is strangling a guitar followed by….a rattlesnake? What is going on here?

I’d never heard anyone play that hard. One could feel the energy. Will there be anything left of their instruments by the time this song ends?

And the lyrics. Oh the wondrous lyrics that sounded wild enough to be cool but not raunchy enough to be banned at our house.

“Said my get up and go musta got up and went…”

I didn’t have the internet to look up the lyrics or the album linear notes. All I cared about was how it made me FEEL. That’s what great music does. You feel it.

What’s the last song you felt?

Link to Sweet Emotion on YouTube.

Fourteen Stairs

Fourteen stairs separate the two floors in our home. That doesn’t seem like many. I can jump down them touching only two steps if I grab hold of the rails to maintain my balance.

Kai is another story. His legs are small and his balance not fully developed. He touches every stair a few times. Sometimes he slides down on his butt, although not intentionally. That route results in many tears.

I don’t mind if it takes him a little longer than the rest of us.

Unless I’m in a hurry. During those times I’ll grab Kai around the waist and carry him down the stairs. He doesn’t like this, and he’ll squirm until I place him back on the ground.

I ran an errand tonight and decided to take Kai with me. As I was about to grab him by the waist, he extended his hand towards me. He doesn’t do this very often. When I try to take his hand while walking through a parking lot or down the hall at church, he tries to dart in the opposite direction.

But tonight I looked at Kai and held out my hand. His five small fingers wrapped around my index finger. He held tight as we stepped down all fourteen stairs together.

I’m sure it took a little longer this way.

But I didn’t notice.

Four Days With My Father

During my senior year in high school, I hit a shot at the buzzer to win a basketball game. In the frenzy that followed, teammates and students stormed the court. I was immediately surrounded by hundreds of celebrating students and parents. I tried to make my way to the sideline where my mother was sitting.

Eventually, I noticed my dad, who was our head coach, speaking to a reporter. I tried to make my way over to him. He noticed me about the same time. He left the reporter in his tracks and ran over, picked me up and hugged me.

I was 18-years old at the time.

As I’ve thought back on that experience, I understand how excited I was to hit a shot that won a game for our team. But it’s the love and emotion my father showered down on me that evening that made a long-term impression.

My grandfather did not show a lot of emotion which I’m sure rubbed off on my father. His example of a father was one that provided for his family which he always did. But I don’t believe my grandfather provided a lot of emotional support to his family. My father improved upon that although the role of a ‘shoulder to cry on’ fell to my mother. My mother was more demonstrative. It was impossible to leave the house without a kiss to the forehead.

I recall riding bikes with a friend whose father was a few year older than my father. As we rode our bikes onto her parent’s driveway, her father was there to greet us. My friend jumped off her bike and made a beeline to her father before jumping into his open arms.

I couldn’t have been older than ten at the time. It felt strange watching my friend hug her dad. It felt too personal. Maybe a little uncomfortable. But the part of me that didn’t feel strange felt envy. I couldn’t imagine running up to my father to hug him. Certainly not in front of friends.

Over the years we’ve both changed.

It didn’t take some life-altering experience between us. We began sharing details about our interests. One of my fondest memories was the time we spent 25 hours together driving from Washington to Utah taking the scenic route down the Washington coast. I learned a lot about my father on that trip. I like to think he learned something about me as well.

This afternoon, I dropped my father off at the airport. He spent the last four days with our family. My kids have been counting down the days until he arrived, and now, he was heading back to Salt Lake City. I stood a few feet away as my dad pulled his luggage from the van. He said goodbye to each of the kids. Eyes were red. Cheeks were covered in tears.

When my father reached out to hug me, he leaned over and told me he loved me.

I thought about that moment in time when I was 18. As the rain poured down from the dark Seattle sky I couldn’t help but think he is still my coach in many ways.

Quick Review of “Rework”

I just finished listening to an audiobook called “Rework” from Jason Friend and David Heinemeier Hansson. Jason and David are the founders of 37 Signals.

There is so much valuable advice packed into this book that it’s difficult to pick a couple of favorite topics. Jason and David provided reasons for hiring well-rounded people instead of those with few outside interests who spend every waking hour at work.

I enjoyed the section detailing how worthless most meetings have become, especially conference calls and how long projects kill enthusiasm, especially small companies.

At 37 Signals, nobody works on a project for more than two weeks. Long projects allow meetings to creep in and milestones to get pushed out. Actual work gets sidelined. I’ve seen this happen over and over.

Take a look at the projects at your company. How many of them have been going on for months yet making essentially no progress? I’ll bet most of them died months ago. Long projects are great for people who enjoy appearing busy.

But the section that made me think the most covered hiring practices. For years, I’ve thought how misleading resumes have become. They tell you very little about how a person will perform or will fit in with your team.

According to Fried and Hansson, if you find two qualified applicants for a job, hire the one possessing better writing skills.

But don’t look to the résumé for help in determining this. Look at the cover letter. Or the applicant’s blog. Ask for an in-person writing sample if you must. Employees who can write well are the creative life-blood of your organization. They can take various thoughts and ideas and organize them into solvable problems and compelling projects.

I’ve hired applicants with impressive resumes only to find out later, they struggled to communicate with clients and colleagues over email. I won’t let that happen again.

I highly recommend “Rework”. It’s available at Amazon or iTunes.

Trusting Your Team

With the scored tied and his team in possession of the ball, University of Washington basketball coach, Lorenzo Romar, had a decision to make: call a timeout or not.

With nearly 30 seconds remaining, Romar had plenty of clock to worth with. Many coaches would have immediately called a timeout and drew up a play in the huddle.

But not coach Romar.

He trusted his system, his coaches, his instincts and untold hours of preparation. He taught his players well and understood they knew exactly where the ball needed to be on their final possession of the game.

But most of all, he trusted his players.

By calling a timeout, he could have controlled the final few ticks left on the clock. Coaches egos often take over in these situations.

Too many coaches, even in the NBA, try to impose their will on a game by calling plays for every offensive possession near the end of games. How often do you witness a point guard looking over to the sideline as he brings the ball up the floor? This style of coaching takes away the opportunity for his players to feel the game and adapt accordingly.

Basketball is a graceful game. Someone gets into a groove. Teams make a run. A block turns into a fast break on the other end of the floor. There’s a beautiful back and forth to the contest.

But that fluidity is destroyed when coaches call timeouts and demand a certain play be run. The last few minutes of games can turn into snail-paced chess matches between coaches when the game should be about the athletes! I often hear coaches step onto their soapboxes and demand the refs swallow their whistles during the final seconds and allow the players to determine the outcome. Maybe these same coaches should look in the mirror first.

That’s why it was such a joy to watch Romar last night.

Sure, everyone will remember Quincy Pondexter’s amazing leaner for the win. That shot goes down in Husky history.

But Romar’s “no call” is what impressed me most.

Do you have that level of trust with your team?

When Online Bill Pay Doesn’t Work

I recently cancelled my phone service with Qwest. Since I signed up for online bill pay months ago, I figured I’d pay my final pro-rated bill and be done with it.

Easier said than done.

Maybe I’ll let the bill slide a few weeks into the late period, accept the $5 penalty and then pay my final bill.