JohnCr8on’s Snapshots

I’m still learning about blogging.  I have now experienced on this blog something others not only know but intentionally exploit:  A blog post title, key sentences and photos can help to drive traffic to your site.

The most viewed blog post I have written, Taste of the World, is one that received little attention when I first made the post.  It suggests that the regular readers of my blog were only mildly interested, if at all (I always assume there are some accidental and courtesy clicks).  But this particular post is visited five, six, sometimes seven times per day.

Why?  It has nothing to do with content.  The post was about the meal a friend and I prepared for dorm mates in grad school: Manwiches.  I added this picture at the bottom of my post.

A picture that gets clicked

When a person Googles manwich the photo shows up on the first page of results.  When you click on the photo it leads you toward my blog.

I know this sort of phenomenon is old news to many.  It’s still interesting to me.

I will be interested to learn if this post becomes one of the most viewed, too.

Fried Tofu?

“Look, look,” Joe, barely five years old, shouted from the back seat of the car.

I turned to see what the commotion was about and realized Joe was pointing out the car window at the hayfield we were driving by.  I didn’t see anything unusual.  It was just like the thousand other hayfields I’d seen in my life.

“What is it, Joe,” I asked.

“Giant fried tofu squares,” he shouted back excitedly.

It was at that moment I thought our kids might be spending too much time in Boulder.

Joe went to preschool at a place called Alaya while we lived in Boulder and continued there after we moved to Longmont.  I can’t say enough good things about the school save for their choice of snacks.  The kids were often given tofu, cut in the shape of rectangles, lightly fried in olive oil.  To the eye of a five year old it might look like a miniature hay bale.

Joe loves tofu to this day.  I can’t stand the stuff.

Hey, I was raised in northwest Kansas.  There are just some things that make me uncomfortable.  Beans dressed up to be meat is one of those things.  I like my meat to be meat.

Early in our marriage, Joni tried to get me to eat something called a “tofu pup” without telling me what it was.  I wasn’t fooled for a second and refused to take a bite.  It tastes just like a hot dog, Joni protested – further evidence that Joni never appreciated a good hot dog.  The tofu pup was grey, skinny and scary.  I’ve never completely forgiven Joni for this attempted ruse.

People commenting on my choice of clothes is another thing that makes me uncomfortable.  Not long after I began working in Washington, DC a male coworker – originally from L.A. – stopped me in the hall and remarked, “I like your outfit.”

I just looked at him.  I had no response.  We’d become good enough friends I decided to tell him what was racing through my mind.  “Where I grew up,” I began, “men don’t wear outfits.  Please don’t ever say something like that to me again.”

Now, he didn’t know how to respond.  This is a man who freely admitted that he had his hair cut by a hair stylist – again, he was from L.A.  I suppose he too felt as though we had become good enough friends that he could say what was on his mind.  After an awkward silence he said, “You’re weird.”

Shoulder rubs by acquaintances… definitely makes me uncomfortable.  The traditional handshake suits me just find when it comes to body contact with a people I don’t know well.

The guest speaker at our Rotary Club a couple of weeks ago asked the group to do a warm up exercise before he began his program.  I was forced to participate.  I was sitting too near to where he stood.  I couldn’t slip away to get a second cup of coffee without being obviously rude.

“I would like everyone to stand up and get into a circle… no closer,” the speaker directed.

I knew that whatever was coming next couldn’t be good.

“Turn to the left,” he continued.

I waited in momentary dread.

“Rub the shoulders of the person in front of you,” he said too cheerfully for seven in the morning.

“Argggg,” I thought hoping I wasn’t audible; and it wasn’t because it was talk like a pirate day.

I try to keep an open mind.  I try to look at the world from other people’s perspectives.  I try to have new experiences.

But please… don’t ask me to eat soybeans in a meat dish; don’t talk about my clothes (unless you’re talking behind my back), and don’t ask me to rub an acquaintance’s shoulders.

*     *     *

Picture credit: From Oklahoma State Divisions of Agriculture Sciences and Natural Resources

Two Halves Make a Whole

“Atwood must be the happiest place in America.  Everybody’s so kind.  People help each other.  Lessons are learned.  It was a wonderful experience.  I appreciate that person so much…”

“Where’s the dark side?  Where’s the pain and suffering?  Where’s the betrayal?”

These weren’t the exact words but do capture the sentiment I heard at a dinner party earlier this month.  A good friend was having fun teasing me about this blog.  The conversation was actually pretty funny.

I promised my friend I would try to come up with something with more of an edge.  But, so far, I’ve failed.  I tried.  But, the words just don’t come to me.  The sentences don’t string together.

Atwood is not the happiest place in America.  It’s no more or less happy than other places I’ve lived.  But, it is the place where I first learned what happiness is.

Atwood is a place where sometimes school children are mercilessly teased and bullied while grownups look the other way.  It is a place where people who are different are sometimes ostracized.  Intolerance exists.  It is a place where some people fail to follow through on their commitments and where mediocrity is too often tolerated.  It is a place where some spouses are unfaithful and friends betray one another in ways small and large.  And, it is a place where some people object to civic progress.

Just like every other place I’ve lived.

Atwood also is a place where people are generous and kind.  It is a place where people go out of their way to help neighbors (even annoying neighbors) when help is needed most.  It is a place where people who are scarred can find refuge and comfort, accepted for who they are.  It is a place where children are nurtured and loved.  It is the home of accomplished business people, inventors, scholars and artisans.  It is a place where strong marriages last 50 and 60 years and where friends support one another in ways small and large.  And, it is a place where people rally for the good of the community.

Just like every other place I’ve lived.

I agree that moral depravity and human heart ache make for a good read.  Most best sellers contain one or the other or both.  I’m just not that good at writing about these things.

I’ve been extremely fortunate in my life.  The hardships I’ve faced (knock wood) have been of the minor variety.  That is why I am inspired by people who are able to overcome major hardships.

Beyond that, I believe we have a choice in life.  We can see in our experiences positive lessons and new opportunities.  Or, we can see roadblocks and the negative.  I am impressed by the people who make it a point to see possibilities.  That’s why I try to live by the standard: the glass is half full.

My wife, Joni, even got me a shirt to represent this attitude.  I found the hat later.  When I put them together, I have a full glass.

I don’t always live up to the standard of seeing the glass half full – at least not as often as I’d like.  I can spot the negative and spout out the cynical comment with the best of them.  But, I’m hopeful that I will continue to see the glass half full more often than not.

I’ve quoted from the book Rain of Gold, by Victor Villasenor.  It is appropriate here again.  The quote that stands out in my mind is made by Dona Margarita.  Dona Margarita calls a family meeting.  This is a woman who has lost several children to war.  She is nearly blind.  Her grandchildren are crying with hunger.  They have no home.  No money.  With all these hardships, Dona Margarita says to her family, “We must open our hearts so that we can see the possibilities in our predicament.  If we do not look for the possibilities, we have nothing.” 

I think this is true.

Still, in good faith to my promises to my friend Nathan, I will continue search my memory banks for a sinister tale and hope that I can turn it into a good read.

Tom Watson 1987 Open Champion

My heart aches for Tom Watson.  I can imagine nothing quite as painful for a professional golfer as coming up a few inches short from a major championship.  At 59, the pain might be worse.  Opportunities like putting for a championship aren’t supposed to present themselves to people of that age.  You hate to see the dream slip through the fingers.

On the other hand, I tip my hat to Mr. Watson.  He rekindled in all of us for a moment that dreams are possible – at every age.

I was pulling hard for Mr. Watson to win the Open Championship (aka the British Open) like many across the nation and globe.  But, my motives may be a little different than most.

Yes, I was caught up in the feel good story of a person well past their prime competing with people thirty years junior.  I’ve reached the age that such stories hold more meaning.

I was cheering, too, because Mr. Watson’s been a favorite of mine for thirty years.  He’s a Kansas City boy.  And, when it comes to professional sports, I’m a fan of all things Kansas City.

But, my enthusiasm for a potential Watson victory was fueled by a different source of energy.  I was hoping for personal redemption – my own!  For 22 years, I’ve wondered if I played a role in Mr. Watson falling short of claiming his sixth Claret Jug.

I spent the summer of 1987 in the United Kingdom. I attended summer school classes at the University of Manchester four days a week.  I was a student of pubs on evenings and weekends.

Two classmates and I headed for the British Open at Muirfield near Edinburg the moment class let out on Thursday afternoon.  We traveled all night by train, celebrated our arrival in Edinburg most of the day Friday and scored tickets for the third round of the Open on Saturday.

My two favorite golfers – Tom Watson and Payne Stewart – were paired together.  We followed them through the rain and mud most of the day.  My kids still use the umbrella I bought at the Open to stay dry.

Tom Watson Tee Shot - 1987 Open

Mr. Watson and Mr. Stewart were both in the hunt for the championship – just a shot or two off the lead.  It was my first time in a gallery at a golf tournament.  I was ignorant of proper etiquette.  Without thinking about it I snapped a picture – in the middle of Mr. Watson’s back swing.

Golfers don’t like noises such as camera clicks when they’re swinging a club, especially when the stakes are high.  I know this is true because as soon as Mr. Watson struck the ball he took a few steps forward – glaring with anger – and searched the crowd for the jerk who broke his concentration. 

1987 Open fan

I hid behind the man with the cigar, a sinking feeling in my stomach.

Mr. Watson shanked his ball into the high weeds – not unlike he did on number 17 in the playoff this year.  He bogeyed the hole – perhaps he did worse.  He was out of the chase.  Visions of his sixth Open Championship blurred.  At least, that’s how I remember it.

Watson finished seventh that year.  Payne Steward finished fourth.  They had more than 18 holes left to play when I exited their gallery.  Surely, more than one hole and one errant photograph did Mr. Watson in.  But, I always wondered how he remembered that hole and that Open of 1987.

As for dreams almost coming true, Mr. Watson should hold his head high.  He kept many of us on the edge of our seats, watching him chase a dream, and thinking about our own dreams, too.

Thank you Mr. Watson.  And, sorry about ’87.

The blog has been up for almost six months.  It’s been far more fun than I ever expected.  Writing posts has proven to be a good way to relax at the end of a day.  The comments from friends old and new have added to the enjoyment.

A curious thing happened this month.  My post, Disney-Pixar’s Up – It Could Have Been a Classic, became the most viewed post in the short life of this blog.  By accident, I created a post that shows up on search engines when people “google” the movie.  This post has been viewed for 21 consecutive days.

Another post from the past few weeks, Tastee Treet, received more comments than any post I’ve made by a 2 to 1 margin.  It’s a reminder that the Tastee Treet (yes, it’s spelled correctly) was much more than a business.  It was a community icon.

Other frequently viewed posts from the past 30 days include:

I’ve Been Everywhere Man, Mr. Bray – How Dreams Come True, Goodbye – Not What It Used To Be, and The Easiest Job Ever.

Karen Aldridge Eason, friend, collague and Flint native, made the 200th comment responding to a post I made about my experience in Flint.  One of the best I’ve ever had.  I called the post: Finding What We Hold in Common.

For the almost six month life of the blog, the top overall posts are:

Disney-Pixar’s Up – It Could Have Been a Classic, Goodbye Too Soon, Tastee Treet, Thank You Joe, and John’s Dew Drop Inn.

Thanks to everyone who reads, sends kind comments and adds comments to the blog.  I look forward to future “conversations.”

GM Headquarters Detroit

I’m not close to being in Johnny Cash’s league but I’ve been a few places.  My work has taken me to 41 states and the District of Columbia.

I interview people for a living – in small groups and one-on-one.  I get paid to ask people questions such as “What do you think?” And, “Why do you think that?”  It’s not bad work if you can get it.

I’ve talked with folks rich and poor; old and young; black, white and brown about health care, education, politics, the environment, religion, immigration, taxes and U.S.-Russia relations just to name a few topics.  I write reports about what people say.  I advise clients, given what people think this is what you should do.

I spend a good deal of my time the past few years training people working in community organizations how to do this work for themselves – to ask their own questions, to do their own listening, to make their own judgments about what to do.

The great joy of this work is that I’ve had to the opportunity to learn from Americans from all walks of life – from executives to homeless.  It is humbling to sit and listen to people tell stories about their lives.

I sang hymns with members of an African Methodist Episcopal church in inner city Atlanta.  I’ve eaten pie with farmers in southeast North Dakota before talking about the environment.

I’ve been to Union halls in Michigan and Legion halls in Idaho.  I’ve sat in cramped “community” rooms in rec centers in North Las Vegas and plush board rooms in New York City.  I’ve been to factory floors and college campuses.  I’ve had beers with Pulitzer Prize winning reporters in Tampa and with future governors and congressmen in Cleveland.  I’ve stayed in hotels on Newport Beach and overlooking a deserted downtown in Flint, Michigan.

The conversations with people can get uncomfortable.  A man in Miami had to be restrained from hitting me when I asked, “What would you say to someone who said, ‘Americans complain a lot.’”  Thankfully another person in the group yelled, “He said he was going to play devil’s advocate.”  The man replied, “He’s doing a damn good job of it.”

I had to intervene when two people from Michigan got into an argument about race relations.

People you’d never expect could find common ground just by listening to each other answer questions.  In Albany, Georgia a woman said, “I pulled my kids out of public school because they can’t pray to God.”  The woman next to her said, “I think they should give condemns to kids in high school.”  I thought to myself, “This is going to be a long afternoon.”  Long after the focus group came to an end the two women stood in the parking lot still talking.  I saw them exchange phone numbers.

Some people I interview leave me speechless – not a good thing when you’re being paid to ask questions.  I had to pause when…

-          A man from Las Vegas told me about getting robbed at gunpoint in his own apartment and then declared, “This is the best place I’ve ever lived.”

-          An older man crying because he’s harassed by his teenage neighbors and he didn’t know what to do.

-          A group in southern Mississippi explaining why they think it makes sense for black and white students to have separate proms – in the late 1990s.

-          A woman in Atlanta talking about her son being bullied and eventually taking his own life.

-          A young mother from Andover, Kansas talking about what it was like to lose the family farm.

I tried not to slap my forehead when interviewing a group in Philadelphia about US-Russia relations.  A man said, “Why don’t we just buy Russia.”  The woman next to him asked, “Can we do that?”

I tried not to pull my hair out when a farmer from southwest Minnesota sat silently in a group for more than 90 minutes.  “Brian,” I queried, “do you have any thoughts about the environmental issues we’ve been talking about?”

“Oh, I’ve got a lot of opinions about what people have been sayin’.”

“Do you care to share any with us?”

“Rather not,” he replied and didn’t say another word until he said good-bye.

The travel itself can be a bit of an adventure.  I went to Las Vegas the first time when my plane was stuck in Denver and my boss’ plane was stuck in DC due to weather.  My boss was supposed to give a speech in Las Vegas.  I gave the speech.  He stayed home.

Flying from Fargo to Minneapolis the cabin of our 16 seat plane filled with smoke.  Our pilot assured us it was no big deal that he had to shut down one engine.  It was slightly disconcerting to see the runway lined with fire trucks.  But, I made it to Denver in time to watch KU play in the Sweet 16 – so  life was good.

I’ve been in some jams, too – all minor of my own doing.  On my first business trip after college, it didn’t occur to me to rent a car.  We had to take a bus to Payless Cars because everyone else was sold out.  My boss wasn’t happy when we arrived at our meeting an hour late.

I had to bang on the door of Brown’s Shoe Fit in Lincoln, Nebraska at 6 a.m. and beg the night accountant to sell me a pair of dress shoes.  I was giving a speech to ten western governors at 8 a.m. and the  only shoes I had were a pair of flip flops.  They didn’t quite go with my suit.

My work takes me to many interesting places at interesting times.  I was in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch newsroom when editors and reporters argued over how to cover the discovery that Mark McGwire was taking Andro the summer he hit 70 home runs.

The O.J. Simpson verdict (for his murder trial) was announced while I was interview a group of Baltimore Sun reporters.  The interview ended abruptly so they could publish a special edition of the newspaper.  It was on the streets by the time I reached my car.

I stayed in the Marriott World Trade Center on 9/1/01 – far removed from the tragedy of 9/11 but weird for me.

Then Candidate Obama gave his speech on race and politics in March 0f 2008 in the wake of the controversy about his church pastor.  I was with a group of about 50 people on that day.  Thirty or so were African-American.  The next day I was doing business on the Eastern Plains of Colorado.  The reactions to the speech could not have been more different.

This week, I am in Detroit.  I arrived the same day GM announced it is filing for Chapter 11 bankruptcy.  I had the opportunity to interview people on the streets of downtown Detroit.  The streets were clean.  The people were friendly.  There was resilience in the air.  A testament to American’s fortitude.  A reminder that it’s easy to have preconceived views about unfamiliar places.

I love to ask questions.  I love to learn.  But, it doesn’t always translate well to my personal life.  Phil Priebe once declared that he’s not coming to our house for dinner if, “John’s going to ask a bunch of questions.”  I try to tone it down.

I am grateful for the places my work has taken me – though I’m no fan of post 9/11 air travel or staying in hotel rooms.  I feel fortunate to have heard the stories of thousands of Americans – each different but so similar.

We live at a time when media and politics emphasize our differences.  Yet we all are more like the two women in Georgia who stayed late to exchange phone numbers in the parking lot.  We all have so much in common and we’d know it if we just took the time to talk to each other.

As a woman in Detroit said this week, “I think we all want to live in communities that are safe, healthy, respectful, full of opportunities and are connected.”

I hear that everywhere, man!

*     *     *

 For those of you who made it to the end, here’s a little Johnny Cash.

Are we more mobile now than we were a generation ago?  Two generations ago?  Do people move more now than they did in the past?

For the past few years, I ask these questions when I give speeches or talks.  Groups always answer a definitive yes.

The answer is no. 

About one in five of us move homes in any given year.  That’s about the same as it was in 1950, 1960 and every decade since.  Richard Florida writes in the March 2009 edition of The Atlantic Online: “Last year fewer Americans moved, as a percentage of the population, than in any year since the Census Bureau started tracking address changes, in the late 1940s.”

What gives? How is it that fewer of us are moving but most of us believe the opposite to be true?

This is my hypothesis:  In the past, when we moved, we really had to move.  Now, we can change locations but never leave or we can stay in the same place and travel the world.

I grew up in Atwood, Kansas in the far northwest corner of the state.  Mom’s family lived in Wilmington, Delaware.   Travel in the 1960s and 1970s was expensive.  A family of four could afford few airplane trips from Kansas to Delaware.  We saw my maternal grandparents every other year, at most.

Telephone communications was not cheap either.  We would only call on weekends or, perhaps, after 7 p.m.  People watched clocks in those days before they made phone calls – the cost difference was significant.  Long distance rates led us to limit our calls to two or three times per month.

Two or three calls per month.  A face-to-face visit every other year.  That’s not a lot of contact.  It is almost unimaginable in a Facebook, Twitter, Skype sort of world.

That’s what it meant to move two generations ago.  When you left a community you were gone.  If you wanted to be part of a community, which most humans do, you had to invest yourself in your new hometown.  You put down roots at your new address.

That’s not the case anymore.  We can stay connected to our favorite people no matter where we live.

A year or so ago, I was doing a project at the University of Kansas.  We were interviewing students about how Facebook is changing their social networks and friendships.  I vividly recall the remarks of a young woman who lived in Saudi Arabia as a high school student because her father worked there as an petroleum engineer:  “The first thing I do each morning is use Facebook to talk to my family and friends in Saudi Arabia.”

My mom lived half a country away from her parents.  Her contact was limited to two or three times a month.  Staying in contact with multiple friends was out of the question except by mail. Two generations later, a young woman can talk to her parents and friends half a globe away on a daily basis.

Communications technologies and low cost travel make it far easier to leave home.  We can stay connected to our loved ones ever day.  Personally, I’ve been enjoying Facebook a great deal.  I have reconnected with high school, college and graduate school classmates scattered across the country.

Today I enjoyed the exciting news of a new KU Basketball recruit with my nephew in Lawrence, Matt Cunningham wherever in the nation he might be covering basketball games, and Phil Priebe in Fort Collins.  We had a shared experience of sorts without ever being together.  I watched the news break on Twitter.  Then, we used Facebook, text messages and the phone to talk.  It all felt very modern.

These are great gains from my perspective.  I am able to maintain far more relationships with people whom I care about than has ever been possible before.

We also are losing something.  Fewer of us are putting down roots in the places we actually live.  Scholars such as Robert Putnam have well documented this phenomenon in books such as Bowling Alone.  The trends began before social media was even on the scene.

Those of us who work in the public sector feel the consequences of local detachment on a daily basis.  It is more difficult to govern ourselves today than in the past, in part, because local communities don’t exist the way they once did.

This begs the question: What will local mean?  When we look a few years down the road how much more will our communities be transformed?

I have written before on this blog that growing up in an intensely local community was a defining experience of my life.  How will geographically dispersed communities reshape all our lives?

We don’t know the answers.  But, it’s clear that community will be different than it was.

From time to time, I give speeches and talks based on my public opinion research.  This is one of my speech lines:  Americans have become accidental extremists.  None of us meant to be, nor do we want to be, outlandish partisans.  And, yet, so many of us are.

We live in echo chambers listening to only points of view that reinforce our own.  We seldom seek out opinions that conflict with our views.  When we hear them we make little effort to understand.

In the speeches I give, I talk about how this came about.  We cherry pick our news.  No longer do we all watch or read the same news.  “Conservatives” watch Fox News.  “Liberals” watch MSNBC.  “Conservatives” listen to Rush Limbaugh.  “Liberals” listened to Al Franken – before he ran for U.S. Senate.

People who study how we live have documented that we are clustering into enclaves.  We tend to live and play with people who think just like we do.  Sure, there are exceptions to this pattern but fewer all the time.  No matter whether you tend to vote Republican or Democrat, the odds are that most of the people who live near you voted the same way.  There are very few 50-50 or even 60-40 communities in our nation. 

Psychologists have done studies to try to understand what happens when we spend all our time with people who think just like we do.  The short answer is we become more extreme.

There is a human tendency to want to have the “middle” opinion in our social group.  People fit in best when their views are neither extreme left nor right compared to their friends.  If we spend our time with “liberals,” we’re likely to become more liberal.  If we spend our time with “conservatives,” we’re likely to become more conservative.

Points of view that would be considered extreme in a mixed circle of friends are deemed reasonable when everyone thinks the same.

That’s what is happening in America.  The extreme has become acceptable – at least among our friends.

I see this all the time in my own life.  I drive about Boulder County and see bumper stickers using George W. Bush’s name as profanity – still.  Some are so crude I hope upon hope that my children don’t ask what they mean.  Rather than express outrage at the crass language, many Boulder residents laugh or shake their head in agreement.  Well educated people seem to take pride in their ability to trash talk like juveniles.

I travel to the Eastern Plains of Colorado and hear people question President Obama’s religion and citizenship – still.  Driving on the plains I tune my dial to the talk radio shows that air for hours each day.  These shows are filled with callers who clamor for Congress to impeach President Obama.  Rather than say, “Don’t be absurd,” hosts and fans of these shows say, “Here, here.”

Behavior we would never tolerate from our children we accept as normal in the political realm.  That’s true in liberal circles.  That’s true in conservative circles.  The one thing that both modern conservatives and liberals seem to share in common is a complete disregard for decorum and grace.

I’m not immune from the accidental extremism that has infected our nation.  I get caught up in these debates sometimes, too.  But, that’s not who I want to be.  This is not what I want my country to be.

It is considered acceptable to call politicians liars and crooks and thieves.  Some politicians have acted in such scandalous ways that they deserve these labels.

But next time we’re trashing a politician perhaps we should pause for a moment and reflect.  How did it come to be this way?

The harsh truth is that our politicians are a reflection of us.  Politicians have become more partisan, more bitter because we Americans have become more extreme.  Recent polling data suggests that we are more polarized as a nation than any time since polls have been taken.

We face big challenges in our towns and our country.  We can’t make progress if all we do is bicker and blame.  We must heal the wounds that divide us.  That work must begin at home.  In each of our homes.

I’ve been writing the snapshots blog for almost three months.  It’s been much more fun than I imagined.  I have especially enjoyed all the reconnections I’ve made with old Atwood and non-Atwood friends.

A few people have asked how I have time to write.  One, I stay up late a lot.  Two, many of these posts have been half written for two or three years.  I’ve just decided to dust them off and collect them here.

One thing I’ve noticed is the posts I like are not always the same ones people like to read.  It’s been fun to watch what gets noticed and what doesn’t.

I have always liked standings.  That’s one reason I follow sports in the newspaper (or online) more than I do on television.  I like to look at the standings.  I can even tell you the NASCAR standings. 

Here’s some standings from my blog.

Most Read 1^st Three Months

Goodbye Too Soon… A life too short.

Thank You Joe… Joe rescues our vacation.

Ramon Comes Marching Home Again… A seven year-old’s perspective on a wartime homecoming.

Stand Up… Paul rescues Silas.

The Wedding Dance… My favorite Atwood tradition.

Least Read 1^st Three Months

Uncle Edmund… A seldom seen uncle changes my career path.

Emma Played On… Emma perseveres through adversity.

Political Name Dropping… On the plane with Bob Dole.

March Madness… Remembering the 1980s Jayhawks.

Canoe Champions Still?… Devine intervention at Lake Atwood Days.

av-a-tarˌ [av-uh-tahr, av-uh-tahr] –noun

Emma designed my new avatar. I am using it as my “face” for making comments on WordPress and on Twitter.  It’s a little hard to see on Twitter but we can work on that.

Emma imagined this as more of a logo. When the early drafts were developed, neither of us knew the term “avatar.”  I had no idea the term originated from Hindu mythology.

This logo/avatar was originally conceived on the beaches of Los Cabos, Mexico.  Emma spent time each day etching in the sand.  She called me over one afternoon to show me her work. 

“This is your new logo,” Emma reported. 

I didn’t know I had an old logo but I thought this one looked cool.  I asked Emma to turn it into a logo I could use when we got home.  I only discovered recently that rather than a logo it makes a decent avatar.

The main elements of the avatar are the same as Emma first sketched in the sand – the C wearing sunglasses, four hairs sticking out in back (I’m not sure what Emma’s trying to tell me.  The KU colors and John Cr8on were added when Emma transferred her idea to paper.

Emma loves design. She spends many evenings sketching clothes ideas, making jewelry, crafting greeting cards or creating magazine covers on the computer. 

I first noticed Emma’s fondness for design when she was in the fourth grade.  I walked into her room one February night and discovered her hard at work on a project of some sort.   Colored pencils were scattered about her bed spread. She was folding into fourths a piece of paper from the stack at her side.

Emma loved to doodle and draw from an early age. I assumed she was doing more of the same.  It was getting close to bedtime so I asked her to wrap it up.

“I can’t Dad,” she replied. “I’m under a lot of pressure.”

Emma is a normal kid and likes to lobby for a later bedtime but this tactic was new.  “What do you mean,  pressure,” I asked.

“I have to finish 12 more Valentine’s cards by tomorrow,” she replied.

“I thought you finished your Valentines.”

“These aren’t for me,” Emma explained. “I’m making these for my company.”

Now I was confused. “What?”

She handed me a card from her pile and continued to explain, “I have a card company and I’m selling these to my friends.”

I examined the card. The front was covered in hearts and flowers. The inside included more hearts and a bit of verse.  The back of the card is what caught my attention.  Centered on the back of the card was a tennis shoe with large laces. The word “Shoelace” arced over the top. The words “Greeting Card” formed a half-circle underneath.

“What’s this,” I asked.

“That’s the name of my company,” Emma responded without looking up.

“You’re company?”

“Yeah, I have a greeting card company and that’s my logo.”

“That’s really cool,” I said with enthusiasm.  Having grown up with a lawyer the next words were out of my mouth before I thought through the implications, “This looks a lot like Shoebox Cards.  It might be a copyright problem.”  I know.  Let the kid enjoy her moment.

“That is where I got the idea,” Emma admitted with some concern.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said trying to tamp down a late night break down.  “These cards are really cool.”

“So I can stay up later,” Emma asked hopefully.

“Thirty minutes.  Then you’ve got to get some sleep.”

I noticed a new set of cards a couple of months later.  And, a new “company” – Heart the Earth.  She had tested the idea of Carnation Your World, but that didn’t stick.

Logos appear in many places.  Heart the Earth produced our family Christmas letter this year.  And, when the kids made me a Father’s Day t-shirt – painted with lady bugs on the front – Emma covered the back with a number of “sponsor” logos just like a road race t-shirt.

Who knows where our children’s youthful interests will lead.  As parents, we wonder is this just doodling or the beginnings of a career path.

For now, we just let her have fun.  And, I’m keeping my legal concerns to myself.