Enjoy the Journey

The author of one of the blogs I read has stated "Life is not a destination. It's a journey. Enjoy the journey." Yesterday was a journey in more ways than one. I departed on travel to a conference. Since conference activities were scheduled to start at one, I booked a non-stop that would get me to the hotel shortly after noon. No problem. My wife dropped me at the airport in plenty of time. I breezed through security, bought a breakfast burrito and a cup of Starbucks on my way to the gate and sat down to await the boarding call. I should have guessed that something was awry when my coffee cup leaped from my hand to the floor, spilling about half of its contents and bespattering my white shirt. "No problem", I thought, rejoicing that it had missed my coat and trousers. "I can change my shirt before the meeting." The next indication that something might be amiss was when they called "the persons assigned seat numbers such and such" to remain at the podium during boarding. You guessed it --my number was among those announced. Still, no problem. Then, at the podium, we were informed that weather conditions required the pilot to carry more fuel than normal so that, if needs be, he could fly to and land at an alternate destination. You guessed it again -- I was among the lucky few selected to be involuntarily bumped and was left standing at the counter with seven of my soon to be best buddies as our luckier compatriots boarded the plane. Potential large problem. The gate agents tried frantically to sort things out. I felt sorry for them. I felt equally sorry for the customer service representatives assigned the task of getting us alternate flights to deliver us where we needed to go. At least three of us ended up on another carrier with a connection through Dallas Fort Worth. Kudos to the customer service people! The connection would be a bit close, but not frantic. I'd miss most of the first day sessions, but at least get there in time to pick up my registration materials. After a brisk walk and a train ride to another terminal, I found myself seated in the aft bulkhead window seat of my new flight. I was squished in with little leg room, no way to recline, a great view of the right engine and two people to climb over if I needed to avail myself of the facilities. Still, I had a seat and was on my way. Then, the alternate flight departed a half hour late due to a maintenance delay and what should have been an easy connection became a mad dash, again via train, from the arrival gate on one side to a departure gate on the exact opposite side of the terminal complex. I arrived at the gate, walked up to the podium, presented my boarding pass and was seated immediately -- in first class! Hey, those customer service people are all right! Suddenly, I had leg room, hip room and beverages served in real glass tumblers! It was only forty-five minutes, but it was wonderful! Five minutes after I was seated, the doors closed and we were wheels up to San Antonio. The rental car was ready. The directions to the hotel were clear enough that I only had to stop one time to ask for directions. I missed the afternoon session, but I arrived in plenty of time to change my shirt and pick up my conference materials. I even treated myself to a much deserved Starbucks. Modern business travel is definitely not about the destination, but the journey. It's more fun and a lot less frustrating if you relax and enjoy the journey.

The First Rite of Spring

Winter is officially over. It may not yet be warm enough to say that spring is here, but winter is officially over. We will certainly have some more raw days and cool nights before it gets warm for good. We could even still experience a frost. But six weeks after the ground hog saw his shadow, winter is officially over. My lawn told me that winter is done. It told me by growing green and tall enough that decency forced me to drag out the mower and cut it. It told me by teeming with new life, grass and clover and violets and even the lowly dandelions. Even the bare spots -- of which there are more than a few -- are bringing forth an abundance of moss and wild onions. In the first rite of spring, my mower responded to the second pull of the starting rope with a pop and a cloud of blue smoke before settling into a satisfying purr. After a winter in the shed, it seemed almost eager to get back to work. I acknowledge that winter is over to the point that I am surveying the yard for the best place to grow some tomatoes. The winter storms took out several trees allowing me more choices than last year. Winter is over. The old brown grass is fast being replaced by a new coat of green. In the sunlight all things seem new. Winter can fool a person; on occasion, it can even fool the ground hog. But it can't fool your grass.

The Second Cup

Let there be no doubt. I like my coffee. I like my coffee so much that I measure my workday in units called "Starbucks". A one Starbucks day is nothing worth writing about. A two Starbucks day is normal, and a three Starbucks day is a super active "my pants are on fire and the devil is after me" kind of experience. Luckily, I have only experienced a couple of "three Starbuck's" days, and only one "Four Starbucks day" in my lifetime. The fourth Starbuck's was a "Venti Double Red Eye" from which it took several days to recover. The first cup of coffee in the morning is always "wake me up and shoot me flying out the door" urgent. The first cup starts the day, gets the body moving, starts the blood pumping and clears away the cobwebs. On workdays, the first cup is all I have time for before hitting the road and getting down to the business of life and work. On weekends, however, there is time to relax and enjoy a second cup. My second cup of weekend coffee is my favourite of the week. For some unknown reason, the second cup of weekend coffee tastes better than any other. As I drink it, I find myself living in the moment, savouring the aroma and contemplating the subtle nuances of bean, roast, and taste, enjoying the blend of bitter, sweet, acid, and a hundred and one other things only hinted at that combine to make each pot and each cup unique. At such times, the world narrows down to three things: me, the morning, and the coffee. At such times, life is very good. The first cup of coffee is all about waking up and getting down to business. But on weekends at least, the second cup is all about luxury and leisure. Others may urge that we "wake up and smell the coffee." I urge you instead to take your time, linger, and enjoy all that coffee and life have to offer. Life: it's all about the coffee.

Spring Fancies

Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote that "In the spring, a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love", and perhaps it does. However, it's been my experience that a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love just about every season of the year and that in the spring a young man's fancy turns to a lot of things other than love. In the spring a young man's fancy seriously turns to thoughts of baseball! From the day that pitchers and catchers report for spring training in late February there is a feeling of expectation. Maybe this will be the year the home team brings home the pennant. After long years of home baseball deprivation since the Senators moved to Texas, I find myself once again feeling the thrill of reading the training reports and grapefruit league results in mild to wild expectations. Alas, after two games my beloved Nationals are zero and two for the season. In the spring a young man's fancy seriously turns to thoughts of vacation! Lazy days on sandy beaches, watching the waves with a book in one hand and a tall cool drink in the other. Or maybe, lounging on the deck of a cruise ship scanning the distant horizon for whales. Maybe this will be the year that my wife and I will get to enjoy the wildlife of Denali National Park in Alaska. From experience, I recognize that planning and anticipation are almost half of the fun. And, for me at least, in the spring a young man's fancy seriously turns to thoughts of gardening as surely as my wife's fancy turns to thoughts of spring cleaning and organizing our mountain of stuff. Maybe, with the snow-damaged trees removed, there will be enough light to grow some really good tomatoes. As John Denver says in the song "What would life be without home grown tomatoes?" He also sings quite correctly that "I forget all about the sweatin' and diggin' each time I go out and pick me a biggun!" And he's right! And not only home grown tomatoes, but maybe we'll also be inundated with zucchini and swiss chard and green beans. In the words of the same song. "There's just two things that money can't buy. And that's good lovin' and home grown tomatoes!" So maybe Tennyson was right. In the spring a young man's fancy does lightly turn to thoughts of love and more seriously to thoughts of baseball, vacation, and home grown tomatoes.

My Father's Wisdom

Other than his wallet, my dad always carried two items in a trouser pocket. One was a very short stubby pencil, hand sharpened almost down to the eraser. Too short and blunt to be a stabbing hazard, the pencil rode in his the right side trouser pocket along with the pen knife he used to sharpen it and a clean handkerchief. The other item, always carried in a hip pocket, was a piece of paper, most often the remains of a used envelope, neatly folded and tucked inside of his wallet. Wherever he was, Dad used these two items to record and conduct the business of farming.

I've watched him spread the paper on a dusty tractor tire to record the number of a needed part. I've seen him spread it out on a wagon bed or the hood of the pickup to calculate how much additional fertilizer or how many plants were needed to prepare or plant out a field. And I've seen him support the paper against a wall or even on his knee to write down some item for future action. Once the needed information was recorded, the pencil went back into the correct pocket and the paper was again folded carefully and returned to the wallet from whence it came.

Dad pretty much ran his farm by writing things down. In the evening, he would look over what he had written during the day as he considered and recorded what he needed to do or think about tomorrow, the next day, the next week, or the next time he went to town.

 From my Dad, I learned the wisdom of always carrying something to write with and something to write on. In fact, woe be unto me if Dad ever asked me to write something down and I was found without the necessary equipment. As a result, writing things down became and remains a fairly consistent habit.

As my circumstances changed, I graduated from writing things on the backs of used envelopes with stubby pencils to writing in bound notebooks with some pretty fancy pens, but the principles remain as my father taught me. "Write it down. Get it on paper. Deal with it later".

Amazingly, the act of writing helps me remember what I've written. And, although I review and deal with my notes after I have written them, I'm don't really write them to remember later so much as to remember now!

 Long before David Allen documented and popularized how to get things done, my Dad was using his stubby pencil and neatly folded used envelope to apply the Getting Things Done principles. A wise man, my Dad. Makes me proud to be a chip off the old block.

How do your record things you need to remember later?

Masters of the Craft

My second paying job out of high school was as an apprentice scientific instrument maker in the machine shop at the National Bureau of Standards. I was the first candidate accepted into their apprenticeship program. Once accepted, I spent the next four years learning the art and craft of using hand and machine tools to make useful items out of metal. When I graduated four years later as a journeyman, I knew how to grind my own tools and mount them correctly in the machines. I knew how to operate the machines themselves, some of which had seemed as complex as a multi-engine aircraft when I first saw them. By the end of my time, I was able to build complex assemblies from scratch. Moreover, at the end of the day I was able to point to or hold something in my hand and say with a degree of pride "There it is. I made it. And it's right." I owe my trade to a succession of senior mechanics who were entrusted with the responsibility of passing their skills to me. These men would show me how something was done, and stand by to see that I did it right. They showed me how to check my own work and then followed through by checking it exactly as they had taught me. And they exercised extreme patience when my fumble-fingered first attempts produced not the desired item but a useless piece of scrap. As I worked under the guidance of my instructors, I learned that each of them had at least one person whom they considered to be a better craftsman and to whom they would go for guidance when faced with a difficult set up or fabrication challenge. My instructors were quick to point these men out and to introduce me to them; they wanted to be sure I learned how to do things right, and they wanted me to learn from the best. My instructors were equally quick to point out those from whom I should not learn, lest I pick up bad habits. Through their actions, those who gave me my trade made me want to be like them, a master of the craft. Mostly by example, my instructors taught me the truth of words first spoken by Aristotle: "We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then is not an act, but a habit." My apprenticeship not only gave me a trade; it taught me to practice excellence, to make it a habit, and in all things to become a master of the craft. And that has made all of the difference in the world.

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

The last time my wife and I visited Alaska, we were privileged to ride the White Pass and Yukon Line from Skagway, Alaska to the top of White Pass in British Columbia. The scenery was magnificent; the rail road, built in 1898, a marvel of engineering. During our excursion, we passed through two tunnels inside of which the rail cars are immersed in obsidian darkness. I, for one, was glad to emerge once again into the light. The image of light at the end of the tunnel is a popular one. People experiencing or emerging from hard times speak of seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Others speak of hope that the light at the end of the tunnel is not an oncoming train. Still others opine that "due to the current crisis, the light at the end of the tunnel has been turned off," and "things always look the darkest right before the light goes completely out." The vision of light at the end of the tunnel says that darkness and gloom are temporary, that we can hope one day to emerge into glorious light. I've spent time in the tunnel. All of us have. I've stumbled forward and cringed as each hint of light proved to be an oncoming train of some sort. And I've survived. And then, one day, as I saw a light and stepped to the side to avoid the oncoming train, I discovered that was no wall. I looked up and saw sky, and twinkling stars and realised I was no longer in the tunnel. When and where I had emerged were lost to me. I was out of the tunnel, and free to go left and right at will. It was night and still dark around me, but there was light ahead. The light wasn't at the end of the tunnel -- I'd left the tunnel long ago -- but ahead, on the horizon, the dawn of a new and promising day.