Welsh Poets and French Food

Key word:  eisteddfod

About 1,000 words or 2 pages

It’s good to be put in your place every now and then, and by that I mean being cut down to size by those more clever than you—whether at work or at home.   Here are a couple of glaring examples from yours truly to help you make it through your day.

First, a tale from Toastmasters.  This is that famous group to help one sharpen public speaking skills.  It’s a great program especially for executives, and we had a chapter which met at our office every week or so with about 20 of us in the group.  In the usual program, Toastmasters has a “word of the day” where an individual is assigned to bring a word to the meeting that all then try to use in their impromptu one-minute speeches.  I watched as the usual suspect words were brought in by my peers:  inculcates and prevaricates and bloviates and so on.   My turn came for word of the day and I offered up raison d’être -- a bit of a show off word, but still useful as “reason for being.”

One of my colleagues, ever fast on her feet, handled this word with alacrity during her minute:  “my mother, being of French extraction, was a great cook; I remember the mouth-watering aromas of the kitchen, for she truly made the best raison d’être anyone has ever had.”   She had no clue what the word meant, but she wasn’t even flustered and fielded it well.  In fact, she got laughter and applause.  Next time, I would have to come up with a better word. 

And it happened.  I was flipping through a concise version of the end-all-be-all of dictionaries, the OED (Oxford English Dictionary) to ready myself for the next word of the day opportunity.   There it was:  eisteddfod.  I said it out loud, ees-ted-fod, which means, of course, a congregation of Welsh poets.  Nothing could beat this.  I envisioned cheers, confetti, the medal around my neck:  yes, all the accolades of word-of-the-day stardom were to be mine. 

And all was as it should have been--for a while.  All were impressed with my great word, and no one could quite fit it successfully in a sentence off the cuff.   It was an afternoon triumphant, and then came an office reception that evening.  Many of my Toastmaster colleagues were there.  And so too was the visiting Consul General from the UK.   Our office even arranged for a picture of the Queen and a welcome “HM Consul So-and-So” sign at the entrance. 

We were ready.  It was my duty as a good executive to make small talk with the diplomat.  After finding out he had studied at fine universities like Oxford and the Sorbonne, I asked him if he’d been on any interesting trips lately.  He said he’d recently been to Wales.

Wales!  He didn’t just say Wales, did he?   My friends, the moment was mine.  I perked up, looked about, and came in for the kill, “Ah, Wales.  Did you happen upon any, uh-hum, ees-ted-fods?”   I asked, delicately letting the word flow from my lips like silk on a breeze.  Conversations stopped, Toastmasters in the crowd turned in amazement.  Boy howdy, he’s done the impossible, they thought. 

And then, Her Majesty’s Consul looked at me, and it was a moment, no, a year, before he spoke, “My dear man, the word is eye-sted-fud.”   I did not speak.  In fact, I was now exactly one half the height I was a moment before.  My choices seemed to be to make haste to Wales, find an eisteddfod, and self-immolate before them, or to quietly sneak out of the building, head home and dismember the OED. 

Now to the home front.  My daughter, filling out college applications, said she planned to self-designate as American Indian hoping to improve her odds of getting into some prestigious university.  She had heard the family story of Great-great-grandmother Matilda who was full-blooded Cherokee and married my great-great-grandfather, just off the boat from Ireland.  This is why my grandmother and my Aunt Wylene both had high cheek bones and red hair, of course.  So, I started doing the math on what the fraction needed to be to claim this ancestry and promote my child to some great school (Hmmm…I envisioned her at Oxford or the Sorbonne, so she could learn to do battle with consuls, but no, I was over that incident). 

My wife scoffed at this whole thing.  First, we shouldn’t be claiming something just for selfish gain, and secondly, didn’t we know that half the stories of Cherokee lineage turn out all confused.   No way, I said.  This has been passed down to me painstakingly through the generations.  My son even tans oh so easily and we were all quite at home in the woods.  Something in the cell memory, I explained to my wife.   Why don’t we leave it all up to science, she suggested.  So we got the DNA test.  

In no time, I sealed up the tube of spittle, and off to the ancestry lab it went.   A few weeks went by, and my daughter, now close to an Indian princess for sure, was busy putting the final touches on the college application essays and the like.  It looked very promising.  Then the mail arrived.  Well, email actually, to my wife’s account.

“Gather round, and let me announce the results of the great heritage test,” she said, but she sported this wicked smile.   “Let’s see,” she began, “mostly English with a good bit Irish and some Welsh even [no comment], and the percentage you thought to be American Indian turns out to be from—well, from Senegal.”  I was incredulous.  Senegal?

                “Oh, maybe that explains why we all took French,” said the daughter.  I shrugged and went off.  To eat some raison d’être.     

©Copyright 2018 by JP Harrison.  All rights reserved.

Not Exactly Gone with the Wind

Not Exactly Gone with the Wind

About 1,000 words or 3 pages

                Most people living in the United States today, including myself, haven’t really lived through much of anything in terms of earth-shattering historical experiences.   We squirm and squeal like we’re either victims of some huge tragedy or smug heroes of an advanced technology era, but we’re powder puffs in terms of historical catastrophes or even having seen significant events of the ages.   We would do well to remember that as we carry on about our causes celebres and other nice social fine tunings; these are all well and good, but let’s get real, we experience but faint echoes of troubles past or far away. 

I was reminded of this when visiting a remarkable woman recently:   a Southern belle, now in her 80’s, having risen from poverty in the middle of Georgia to live many years in Europe and now retire in a comfortable setting back to the South.   I remember having visited this fine lady once during a storm.  We were catching up on the latest in her small town and the fact that high-speed Internet wires were just installed when sleet and freezing rain came down and the power went out while we were sitting in the den.   It went dark; I heard fumbling around, and then the strike of a match.

“Let’s move to the parlor,” she said, lighting a candle and walking us to the next room.  She lit an oil lamp, two sconces on the wall and a standing candelabra by the piano.  She went to the fireplace and deftly lit the tender and kindling.   We finished our chat, and she insisted I play background music on the piano while she read the paper.  One of her dogs curled up by the fire, the other by the piano as I played.  

“What’s really changed most in the past 70 or so years for you?”  I asked, partly to make conversation but mostly from genuine curiosity. 

“Well, for one thing, if you go into the kitchen right now, it’s completely dark like when I was a little girl.  Normally, when the power’s on, it seems like there’s this glow from all the little blue and green ready lights and digital clocks on everything,” she said.  About that time a grandfather clock chimed, followed by a few quaint cuckoos of another clock, telling us the time without us even having to look at any blue or green lights.

“And I’ll have to say,” she added, “that cars start a lot better than they used to.  It seems like we had to pump the gas, turn the ignition and coax them to get them started.  Now they just start with the push of button.  Every time.”  She thought some more,  “And TVs don’t wear out like they used to.   Remember when we had to go up to the TV and bang on the side of it and fiddle with the vertical control to keep it from endlessly rolling up?”   I had forgotten about that; once upon a time everyone had to fiddle with the television to get a steady picture on one of the three or four channels available. 

“I believe I left my cell phone in the other room, and that’s a big change of late, I suppose,” she said.  “It’s cute and handy, but really not that big a deal,” she added.  “I have an alarm system that’s state of the art,” she said, “but I’m not sure it’s as effective as the dozen dogs that lived under the house and the shotgun under every bed.”  I remember those dog and shotgun days; they were still around in my grandparent’s old farmhouse when I was a boy.

I had just finished a tome of a book, The Rise and Fall of American Growth, and indeed there were several chapters about what had really changed since the middle of the last century.  Most all of the everyday life advances in the past half-century have been in the form of improvements in communication and entertainment.  We may all think things have really progressed, but it’s not really earth-shattering when things go from one computer operating system to the next.  For the most part, we get minor updates of things invented a couple of generations ago—and the updates seem to be for sales purposes, nothing really new. 

                  The phone call came early in the morning from my little brother about this very lady of which I speak, our mother, a couple of weeks ago.  A tornado, an F3, hit mom’s house and neighborhood.  I was the closest son and should get there pronto.   I did.  Once I got through the workers’ freshly chain-sawed paths, I got to the remains of my mother’s home.  Two of the fifteen rooms had survived as evidence of mercy in the fury:  the dining room and kitchen.  The rest of the house was demolished.  Forlorn, fine-laced curtains hung some twenty feet up in snapped-in-half pine trees.  Thirteen rooms of finery and memories were drenched and scattered.

                My mother was with her dogs in the dining room, warming coffee on a silver chafing dish.  She poured me some in a Limoges cup and saucer.  Apparently, she had spent the night on a pile of coats with her dogs and her .22 Beretta (lady’s edition) pistol by her side and alerted us with her cell phone.  She had run water in a bathtub at the beginning of the tornado watch; and now even though the toilet was open air, there was at least a handy reservoir of water to use for flushing. 

                “See if you can find yourself a chair,” she said, “We can’t sit but a moment.  I’m afraid I’m terribly busy.”   And I instantly saw the strength of a generation whose brothers had fought the largest war in history and whose great grandparents had told stories of the War Between the States.   Her cell phone had come in handy, but it would not have changed things much if the wind had taken it too. 

                               

               

©Copyright. 2018.  JP Harrison.  All rights reserved.

Graduation Has Meaning

Graduation Has Meaning

1,000 words or about 3 pages 

Summer is just around the corner, and that means graduations.  And that means graduation ceremonies, and of course, commencement addresses.   There are some such speeches which are inspirational and make the news.  I frequently read those and have even been moved to wonder what I would write if I were given such an opportunity.  Would I bring the newly-minted graduates great wisdom and inspiration?  Or would I sink low and use the chance to nitpick at some of the things that are growing nuisances.  Here goes:

Ladies and gentlemen, congratulations! I’m here to provide you some parting advice as you leave this great institution.   In the interest of time I shall use only two-thirds of the tried and true formula of tell-em-what-you’re-going-to-say/say-it/and-then-tell-them-that-you’ve-said-it.  I’m going to speak to both sides of your brain and impart droplets of existential knowledge and then tell you the meaning of life without any summary at the end.   So, please don’t wait until the phrase “in conclusion” to pay attention because there will be no summary at the end.

First, all the women in the audience please stand up.  Now repeat after me, “I—state your name--am a proud alumna of this university.”  Good.  Now, all of you ladies together say, “we are proud alumnae of this university.”  Right, that’s pronounced, alum-nay, by the way.   Now, if the ladies will please sit down and all the men please stand up.   Now, gentlemen, repeat after me, “I—state your name—am a proud alumnus of this university.”  That’s good.  Now, guys, all together say, “we are proud alumni of this university.”  Perfect.   OK, everyone please stand up, and say together, “we are proud alumni of this university.” 

I bet some activist out there is wondering why is the masculine plural, alumni, used for everybody.  My answer is this:   the common and mundane generally take on the masculine, and the special and life-bearing take on the feminine.   Thus, some say, “you guys,” for everyone; most use “gay,” the male version, for gay, lesbian, etc., and originally we said “a person, he,” instead of the more cumbersome, “a person, he or she.”   Ships, airplanes, nations, and yes, our mother earth, are special and feminine because they carry life.   Please respect that.  Unless we in the work force, in our speech, and in our daily lives accommodate and honor motherhood, our future generations may not be plural.

Speaking of plural, when you combine with another person in marriage or in a sentence, let it bring out your best.  Do not say, “me and Mike are going to the store.”  Think about what you would say if you were going by yourself, without Mike.  Would you say me is going to the store?   No.  And do not say, “they gave the prize to Mary and I.”  Would you say, they gave the prize to I?   Treat the concept and the grammar of the team properly; let not combination cause sloppiness.  When together in a partnership, the rules of civility and pleasantness are important.  Your grammar should reflect this attention.  You have now been educated.  Mike and I should show this to Mary and me.

Now to the other side of the brain, the more quantitative.  Numbers and graphs are important.  They tell a story in few words or images.  The greatest graph of all time is the space and time record of Napoleon’s march into Russia.  In that fascinating picture, the x-axis is time and the names of the battles and terrain features (those are the independent variables because they keep going independently no matter what), and along the y-axis is the number of soldiers remaining (that’s the dependent variable, because it well, depends on the independent variable).   You can see the march of the seasons along the time and terrain axis and how the number of troops starts to wither.  You can picture the poor souls dropping from hunger, disease, and frostbite and perhaps even battle.  Remember there is poetry and meaning and effort behind the numbers.    Appreciate the effect of a good graph.

Learn to understand a few basics of accounting.  It has little to do with math; many a mathematician has perished in accounting.  It is simply a set of rules for putting quantities in a certain holding place.  Don’t let it be a mystery, for you will pay a higher price.   The basic equation is ALE, Assets = Liability + Equity, or in other words, what you have on hand is a summation of what you owe and what you own.  Drink up the ALE and try to own more than you owe.

And when you do own something, invest it or in it wisely, for if you lose it you must earn a higher percentage than you lost to get back to the same starting point.   Remember that:  if you have a $1000 and lose 20% you end up with $800.  You then have to earn back 25% or a higher percent than you lost, to get back to $1000.  This is part of the reason why a loss causes more pain than a gain causes pleasure.  

Now, the moment all you alumni have really been waiting for:  the meaning of life.  It is very simple.  The meaning of life is [drum roll, please]-- to give life meaning.  It sounds easy, and it can be.  Do not be misled by your education.  You had faith in something originally—or before you became informed.  You must make the transition back to the pre-informed truth—and have post-informed faith.  That, will give you  meaning to give life meaning.

I told you at the start I would give you two thirds of the formula and simply tell you what I was going to say, and then say it—that I wouldn’t tell you that I said it; that is to say, no summary.  And I won’t.   Always keep your word, and if you--for good and unselfish reason-- ever need to amend it, do so cleverly and in a fashion that still complies with the contract.  In other words, use both sides of your brain.  Pay close attention to respectful grammar.  Appreciate that which carries life.   Love numbers, for they too contain a poetic story, as do all the languages.  It all has meaning, as it did before you came here and will after you’ve gone.   Especially if you give it such.   

©Copyright 2018 J.P. Harrison.  All rights reserved.

Diversity Shmersity: or Herbal Tea on the Job

Keywords:  diversity

970 words, About 2 ½ pages.

Diversity Shmersity:  or Herbal Tea on the Job

Fresh from a non-profit board meeting, I’m happy to report on an eye-opening event.   Someone said, “I’m all for any new program for us that doesn’t involve the word ‘millennial’.”   I heard shouts of amen.  “Millenial shmennial,” I said.   Soon followed by “diversity, shmersity,” from someone.  Now that I’ve got your attention, let me explain. 

                I’ve had to fire several millennials already unfortunately.  I hope  it helped them out in the long run.  I did see one really good one:  a young lady, marketing major from Auburn.  She grew up with a no-nonsense old school dad.  She showed up for work dressed nicely, said yes sir, no sir, was on time, worked hard, no fooling around.  She never asked about a ping-pong table or a chocolate fountain for the office or tried to skip out of work for a ropes course.  She didn’t waste time with personal stuff on the computer and respectfully made occasional suggestions for improvement.  We promoted her so much, she left the organization for a well-paying management job elsewhere.  They exist, ready-for-the-workplace millennials. 

                She came in the first day for her fist real job out of college.  I told her about my first day on my first real office job:   the boss said, “here’s your desk, here’s your phone, here are your goals, and, of course, your secretary who knows everything.  Oh, and there’s the coffee maker.   I’ll check back with you in a month and you better have reached your goals.”   No namby-pamby worry about where you came from or your inner child profile or any hot tub talk, herbal tea or other therapy.  Note:  I got serial promotions too after I kept achieving the goals.

                For this young lady, a millennial, I said “here’s your desk, your phone—it’s a land line, you don’t have to recharge it, your goals, and, of course, your computer with tons of pdfs on everything we do, and your employee buddy’s office is over there.   Here’s the coffee machine and herbal tea, and I’ll check back with you in two weeks.   If you reach your goals, there will be another two weeks.   Go for it.“   She nodded and then proceeded to excel.  I learned a great lesson for the second time in my life.   Goals, hard work without fooling around and respect make for a winning formula.  No matter the generation.

                This brings us to diversity.   Many run, hide, and pull up the covers with this topic.  I don’t get it.  You see, plug in the same story of the millennial above with any variation of respectful, well-dressed, hard-working person, and I could not care less about diversity:  their skin color, gender, whatever.  Isn’t—or wasn’t—that supposed to be the point?   Somehow we tend to veer.

                We were taught by enlightened civil rights messengers that skin color is irrelevant.  Maybe I’m missing the message, but official diversity now tells us that color is everything.  Perhaps it’s “victimeering” or perhaps I just don’t get it, but we seem diverted by diversity.  For those who know Latin, it is indeed the same basic word.  Perhaps, we’ve diverted from the “here’s the desk, the goals, etc.” talk.   Just give the same talk to everyone and see who gets it.  The others can go elsewhere.   If diversity is the self-evident end goal, then there are a lot of NBA teams in trouble—just saying.

                One summer, I was fortunate enough to make it to the Olympic training camp.  I fit in well, I thought, had a great attitude, worked hard, even dressed in all the right gear.   Every Friday morning we had a time trial to make sure everyone made the minimum standard.  I was sore, nursing an old injury, but still did pretty well on the time trial that Friday, or so I thought.   At lunch, one of the coaches came by and said, “Harrison, I’m afraid you missed the time; are your bags all set?”  I looked bemused.  “your ride to the airport will be out front in about an hour and a half,” he said softly but factually as he looked sad and shrugged.  I said, “Sir, I’ll be ready. I appreciate having had the chance.”   Smarts didn’t count, parents didn’t count, skin color didn’t count, money didn’t count, et cetera didn’t count.  Only the stopwatch counted, and I was a click too slow.  I learned a bunch during lunch that day.

                 My son plays high school football.  I’m ambivalent about it because the risk-reward equation isn’t all that favorable, especially if one plays for all four years.  I asked him what he likes most about football,  “It’s not soft, but hard and makes us work together to get something done,” he said.  Indeed, it’s the only semblance of military training American teenage boys still get.  There’s no mandatory service here as in most other major countries, no compulsory giving of youthful time and energy to serve society at large.  Like it or not, some essentially American can-do, get-it-across-the-line thinking will die with the last good football coach.

                A few years ago, some terrorist tried to blow up a plane by lighting a shoe bomb or an underwear bomb or something like that.  Some football player type saw him trying to light the fuse and  knocked the bejeezus out of the guy.  I remember it because I had lunch with the most artsy-craftsy, left wingy, wonderfully kind friend I had soon after the news of the attempted bombing.   She said about the incident, “sometimes all the grief therapy and herbal tea in the world can’t get it done like a tough dude with a job to do.”

                Sometimes, many times, nearly all the time—let’s not divert--it’s about getting the job done respectfully every time. 

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Copyright © 2018.  All rights reserved.   JP Harrison