The door swings both ways...

Hold your anger against the thief

and he’s stolen from you twice

– Anonymous

“Hi Ted, my name is Garret…” And so began one of those days that reminds me that honor, integrity, and character still matter…one of those ‘memory making’ days.

A little background
It was a Southern Californian morning…the kind I have become accustomed since coming here – sunny, warm…not a cloud in the sky. The luncheon had been one of those ‘spur of the moment’ ideas that floated up through the liquid chemistry of my brain. My wife was returning from Missouri that evening; the morning busy and productive, so I called my dear friend Ann to see if she and her granddaughter might want to grab a bite of lunch. They were free; the date made for an early lunch to beat the crowds, and I throttled the morning down.

Lunch was wonderful – you know the kind…pleasant conversation, good food, the relaxing atmosphere that comes in the company of old friends. I like these kinds of breaks from the work of the day.

There were six young military folk eating in the restaurant, and Ann, in the consistent giving manner that has characterized her 76 years, quietly paid for their lunches, AND mine! Theirs because she wanted to thank them for their service in a tangible way…mine because…well just because she loves me! It was gratifying to see the surprise on their faces when they found sometimes there is a “…free lunch…” We finished up, drove back to her house; hugged each other and I headed home.

The Surprise – Yikes!
I parked the car in the driveway and went inside. I did a couple things and then headed to the office to pick up on the morning’s work.

You know what it is like when you see something that seems so strange, for the briefest of moments; the brain simply does not register the reality? I found myself staring at an empty space on my desk...MY DESKTOP COMPUTER WAS GONE! WHAT??!!

For a couple of seconds, I actually looked around wondering if I had misplaced it. I know that sounds strange, but I could not wrap my head around the fact that the house had been robbed.

A quick look around the office resulted in the realization that all my computers and electronic equipment had evaporated into the ether like the evening mists in one of those midnight graveyard movies!

I had just replaced my faithful laptop of 5 years with a brand spanking new sleeker, lighter and faster model. That old traveling workhorse had willingly given up all her secrets to the newer model realizing resistance was futile. Both the old and the new laptop were taken in addition to the one my wife uses for business.

Over the brief time it took to have a pleasant and relaxing lunch, the house has been cleaned out of its electronic glitter! A few other things were taken including my passport.

Once I realized everything was gone, my first thought was, “Man did they get all the backups?”

To put the potential damage into perspective, everything I have done electronically since 1984 was on that desktop machine…it was a lot of stuff. Over the years, I’ve lost a drive or two, and as a result I have become a compulsive ‘backer upper.’ It seems the intruders dropped and broke one of the backup drives, took a second, but left the most important master drive.

It was then I realized, no matter what, the forces of the universe had smiled and with a gentle nod, spared my electronic life. Our home was violated; the cats terrified, but none of us was hurt nor were things broken.

The cleanup
When something like this happens, there is an initial shock that descends into the reaches of the mind – Why me? How could this happen in broad daylight? Who were these people who would violate the sanctity of our little home?

Then very quickly, reality sinks in…realizing all one’s personal information could be found on those machines. Suddenly there was a different feeling of violation and vulnerability…suddenly, there was the potential for significant damage to take place to our personal lives – identity theft…a shopping spree through the internet…withdrawals from our bank accounts. You know, the usual PANIC!

The next few days were consumed with canceling credit cards, closing bank accounts, thinking about password changes and making police reports. We understood sometimes stolen items are recovered, but that is the exception…not the rule.

The day after the ‘event’ I went to the computer store and replaced the desktop. That evening, I hooked up the backup drive, went to sleep and in the morning, things looked pretty much the way I had left them when I headed for lunch the day before.

In the end I lost about four hours of work.

Then came the call
The voicemail said, “Hi Ted, this is Garrett…I bought a computer yesterday from a college student and when I looked on it there was a massive amount of information. I think this computer might have been stolen and it might be yours. Before I wiped the computer, I wanted to check with you.”

In a world where the economy is tough and people are doing all they can to survive, this young man made the call. He didn’t have to, but he made the call. It would cost him more money and could have exposed him to legal action for purchasing stolen goods – knowingly or not, but he made the call. He had a small business, four young children and a wife to care for and a financial situation with his own home, but he made the call.

I explained that I would not now be able to claim insurance loss for my computer, and that if he wanted to keep the computer I would be happy to sell it to him… For him, doing the right thing was going to cost him more money - it stung. I couldn’t just let him keep it, and had not budgeted for a new computer myself. He confessed for a moment that if he had known he might have to pay more money, he might not have contacted me, BUT HE MADE THE CALL.

Character...you have to love it
We negotiated a price that we both felt was fair. There would be a little financial pain for both, but he did the right thing. I told him, in the big picture he would be rewarded for the sake of character, because character is never apparent when there is little risk. It only truly emerges when ‘…the shoes are tight…’ and the choices difficult.

The price this young man paid for the sake of his integrity and willingness to do the right thing will be repaid in his life many fold. I was grateful for being a part of that teaching moment for both of us.

A postscript… Garret and I met at a Starbucks this week and formalize the transfer of ownership. He was a bright and thoughtful young man. Our transaction over coffee lasted long enough to sign the papers, and the nearly three engaging and interesting hours of conversation before we signed off, made the day.

This all began having lunch with an old friend, and ended having coffee with a new one. Not too bad, all things considered.

Lemonade anyone?

- ted

Fathers and sons...

"It's not just flesh and blood, 

but the heart that make fathers and sons."

- Johann Schiller

It was late when I got home…purposely late. I was still burning with anger and didn’t want to see his face or hear his voice. It was Friday night, I knew he would be in bed, and if I played it right he would be gone Saturday working to finish his Sunday morning sermon…I could avoid him for at least the next day.

When I quietly slipped into my bedroom, it was waiting…pinned to my pillowcase…an envelope with my name, penned in his hand – containing a letter. My heart began to pound, my breath short…I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would he chastise me? Would he say I was an ungrateful son? Would he say he was ashamed of my behavior? I just stared in silence for what seemed a very long time.

The precipitating event….
I had come home from school after a team practice. For some reason, we got into an argument, the particular reason for which escapes me. While not terribly common, it was not unheard of for us to occasionally disagree – I was a teenager after all!

By now I was a 6’5” (1.9m) high school junior in fairly good physical shape. I had, however, committed an offence of disrespect for which he would inflict corporeal punishment. Physical punishment from my father was not frequent in my growing years, but when it happened, it was memorable. It worked like this…I would generate the offence; he would set the punishment (generally something to do with a belt and me in a bent over position); I would accept; he would administrate, and that would be the end of it.

This day, unbelievably, I refused. The expression on his face was, “I’m sorry – WHAT???” That refusal escalated, and for the first and only time in my life, I found myself – mindlessly - in a full-fledged fight with my father. This was inconceivable to me…completely new, unknown and dangerous territory. What did it mean? I had no idea, but in the heat of the moment – I didn’t care.

It went on for sometime, until we found ourselves both exhausted, holding on to one and another, and locked in a stalemate, where neither one of us could inflict any hurt on the other. I said, “Truce?” He hesitated and then agreed. As we released one another, he threw a well-connected punch, something he had never done…something he would regret the rest of his life. As I stormed out the door, my pride injured more than anything else, I looked back and said, “I want a father, not a god!!”

The letter…
I took a deep breath, opened and started to read, “My Dear Son Ted…” it began. I was already disarmed. He said how deeply he loved me, how profoundly sorry he was for having allowed the situation between us to have gotten out of hand. As an adult, it was ‘his’ responsibility to control this; as an adult, it was his place to protect not hurt his family; it was he who would be accountable for this before his Creator. He said the very idea that I could have been hurt – physically or mentally, was almost more than he could bear. He said I was..flesh of his flesh…bone of his bone, and words could never convey the depth of regret he had over this event nor his love for me.

My father was apologizing to me!!

My head was reeling! He said other things, but the words were blurred by tears that had begun to flow as though some invisible switch had been flipped, releasing pressure behind a dam prepared to burst. It was as though an invisible door had opened in the floor and all of the anger and resentment slipped away at the speed of light…I was naked…I was exposed!

I didn’t see him Saturday; he was buried in preparation. Sunday morning, his sermon was slightly more subdued than usual…more circumspect in word and delivery…more personal. I was used to his style…I had heard and seen it many times before…today was different.

His calling
My father was a great minister and really good preacher...one who could hold the congregation. He had ‘it’ when he had tirelessly prepared, opened his mind to the spirit and entered the arena of the pulpit. His words could soar, he could whisper, he could laugh and nearly weep, glancing from person to person – lightly touching, then hesitating…bringing his well crafted point with professional elegance.

He had fought the poverty of his early life for an education and coveted the discipline and access it had given him. He had a scholarly education, but in moments…the fire of a Pentecostal preacher – the youthful background from which he had come. He clothed his zeal, in the pulpit with words of theologians, philosophers, and social commentators, but always reminded the congregation that all of it…all of it…lay at the feet of Jesus Christ. He was a true believer….

The connection
This morning, he had been weaving the timeless story of the man with two sons. One had been faithful, honoring his father through hard work and obedience. The other, known often as the ‘Prodigal Son,’ had wasted his inheritance, and in shame returned home hoping for nothing more than the role of a servant in his father’s house. In the narrative of the sermon, he looked directly at me…held my eyes…paused thoughtfully, and then spoke these words – he could have read them, as he often did when quoting the scripture, but not today:

“But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had

compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.”

He paused again, still holding my eyes, in a timeless moment of intimacy and then he moved on. The words stung, and the tears began to quietly flow, staining my khaki sports jacket…for this was not about the biblical father and son…it was about he and I – a father’s love for his son…no matter what! What was spoken in a public forum to a large congregation, was for us an intimate acknowledgment, an understanding, a closure only he and I understood. Not only had he been by far the bigger man, driven by a larger love, but gave me a life lesson I would never forget.


The result
It is said that change doesn’t occur without tension. The event that occurred between my father and I was surely tense. The change? A deepened respect for the man who had brought me into this world...for from that time forward we remained father and son, but more importantly friends. We had found a place of love and respect that deepened through the remaining years of our lives together.

While I carry him firmly in my heart - I surely miss that man…

- ted

It sometimes rains cats and dogs...

Emotional healing is a most amazing gift that's bestowed

by our furry friends ... The choice to nurture a pet in our

life can bring huge returns on our investment.

Chelle Thompson - Inspiration Line

Unexpected loss is one thing; taking responsibility - holding out hope – at the end of another creature’s life is another thing altogether…

It started like this
We’d had sporadic interaction over the years, but there was much less contact, than more. He and his wife loved cats, and during a recent ‘catch-up’ Dick wrote,

“…Boaz, our cat of 16 years died this week…It was my second euthanasia experience…

we asked for the sedative first so we could say a final goodbye while he slept…

Mar has had a hard few days, but we got O’Toole from Second Chance...on Saturday…”

Recently, a new friend from Los Angeles lost her dog…a companion and friend ‘Fanny.’ She shared her loss on a social networking site and many friends consoled her for her loss. More intimately she wrote about the sorrow and agony of the final decision to end Fanny’s life. Near the end there had been illness and discomfort, but was it really the right time? For pet lovers, this is really the question, isn’t it?

All of this reminded me of Sable, the first cat we had in our household. We lost her in 2001 to renal failure, and like my friends, it was a hard goodbye. Would we let her die of natural causes in painful discomfort, or take her life? While the decision was clear, the humane choice was difficult. She was the fourth animal I had put down in my life, and none of them – NOT ONE was an easy deal.


Big boys don’t cry
When I returned from Vietnam in the early 70s, I still had a year of military service left and found myself in Southern Alabama. Several of us moved to ‘off base housing.’ I lived with a guy named Dave in a trailer, but two other guys – Gerry and Walt – made a foursome for any number of things.

Somehow we acquired a dog that had an orthopedic anomaly in its pelvic area - its hind legs were spread a little further apart than normal...we called him ‘Widetrack.’ He wasn’t particularly attractive, but had a good personality and liked being around us. We laughed and joked about this mutt, but he was, of little doubt, special. We lived near a highway, and as fate would have it, Widetrack got hit by a car. It didn’t kill him, but broke his back. We didn’t know this, and rushed him to the Veterinarian, who gave us the news that he would need to put the dog down.

By then it was a warm and sultry summer’s evening. There was a single light bulb in the small room with concrete walls and floors, where the Vet had worked on Widetrack. It was stark…it was ‘…cold…’ – not temperature – feeling. We understood life and death issues, and said we wanted to be with the dog at the end.

I will not forget the look of trust in Widetrack’s eyes as he gazed at the four of us standing there…I will not forget the small yelp at the prick of the needle when the Veterinarian slipped it into his foreleg, …AND I will NEVER forget watching the life slip quietly from the eyes of that dog as four, tough, recently returned Vietnam Veterans wept with tears of genuine sorrow – and almost sense of betrayal – at the loss of this dog.

There is something special
What is it, about these strangely domesticated creatures, that steal our hearts so deeply? Is it because they love us with no strings attached. Is it because, five minutes after punishing them for an unanticipated accident on the carpet, they climb back in our arms? Is it because they seem to have an innate sense when something is wrong...they ‘know’ how to bring some crystal clear resiliency to absorb our hurt, loneliness or sorrow?

The scientific data are clear…people with family pets have much less stress. Companion and visiting animals in assisted living centers and nursing homes bring a calming effect to those people with whom they live and come in contact. It’s not just dogs and cats, but other pets provide a wonderful relief for loneliness and despair.

Those of you that have and love animals will identify with all of this. Those who do not, probably will not.

In the end it’s personal...
Sable has, by now, been gone a decade. We worked to keep her with us as long as we could, but her time was short…she was listless and clearly in pain. The last day was tortuous, because the decision to end her life had been made…and time seemed to move so quickly. At the end we held her as she breathed her last breath…it seemed so, well…clinical – we wept bitterly.

On the advice of an experienced and dear friend, we went straight to the pound and ‘rescued’ two more kittens. It helped, but did not, of course, take away our sorrow.

For those of you, who resonate with this, here are a few words written at the end of this gentle creature’s life.

Sable

We had wondered how it would be

when the moment of truth came…

She had come so close to ‘being us’

that we felt the same

As if we had lost a child,

or a sister, or a family member with whom

we had come to feel

that we had known ‘from the womb.’

Life is sometimes a strange contradiction

when so much joy and sorrow find

their way into one’s life,

and heart, and surely into the mind.

And so we closed the chapter

on this gentle loving soul

who brought with her nothing more

than giving pleasure to us as her goal.

Goodbye seems so final

and indeed it appears to be

a way to bring to the end

those things which we

have so dearly loved.

It is written in the scripture, “Wisdom is the principle thing, therefore get wisdom, and with all thy getting, get understanding.” In circumstances like this, it seems understanding is not quite enough….

- ted

Bells...they toll...

For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth

for a little time, and then vanisheth away.

James 4:14 - Bible

“Tell mama what happened big boy!!!” “Please tell mama what happened!!!”

And so it was at the beginning of the funeral service at the end of that young man’s life.

Barry and Benny…yes indeed…the Merchant brothers. I was starting high school in Fairmont, West Virginia – a small town nestled in the softness of the Monogahela Valley on the sides of the river also so named. Fairmont, West Virginia one of those small towns whose existence owed itself to the back-breaking work of bituminous coal mining. It was surrounded by some spent; some active mines and the brick and mortar ghosts of what were once company towns. Company towns…an appropriate name for institutions that kept workers forever in just enough debt to the ‘company store’ whilst inflicting black lung and other chronic diseases on the laborers for whom there was little chance of escape.

It’s funny how the ever-expanding busyness of youth brings with it a naiveté that, in retrospect seems so obvious.

Barry and Benny were African American kids, living in the lines of demarcation that separated the black and white communities. Benny and I were in the same class. Barry, the elder, played basketball for the varsity team at my high school. He was one of the best athletes I had seen at the time, but he played primarily a back up roll. I didn’t understand why in that day and only later realized this was due to a social demarcation related to “…the color of his skin…” not “…content of his character…” Those words had not yet been openly spoken...it was the early 60s.

I admired that Barry Merchant. He was quiet, thoughtful and had a twinkle in his eye. He understood, in a way I did not for many years, the role into which he had been ‘caste’ – pun fully intended. I spent a fair amount of time playing with African American kids in those days, and didn’t understand then, as I came to understand later, there were certain expectations for me as well as them. I was oblivious at the time, and as I look over my shoulder, am grateful for my ignorance.

My father was a Baptist minister in this town – a minister at one of the more social churches. He did the things most pastors’ do, and he did them well. He gave his life to the elusive woman of faith, and in doing so, helped many for whom life seemed simply too much to endure. Being a minister in this particular church was somewhat of a paradox, because while my father was white, he was an activist.

The circumstances that brought me to this particular day were part of the tapestry of my father’s life and my emerging adulthood. In Canada, my dad had grown up from the streets. A tough kid who believed the underdog – in any fight – deserved an advocate. The first educated in his family, he carried with him this life history that had lead him to be a vocal and social activist as a youth, and as a minister of the Gospel. Wherever, in his judgment, there was a wrong, he felt obligated to fight the good fight. So it was with social activism of the civil rights movement in the 1960s.

Because of this unwillingness to be silent, he had become trusted by the African American Community and had been asked to participate in Barry's funeral. It was here I found myself with my dad, in this little church filled to the brim on this warm summer’s day.

Barry had only had his driver’s license for a short period of time when, for a completely unknown reason, he left the highway on a clear straight stretch, and ended his life at the base of a tree, even less forgiving than the social environment into which his birth had brought him.

This morning, as I wrote the words that began this piece, I once again felt the electricity and presence of a mother’s pain and open sorrow as she draped herself over the open casket holding her son. I still feel the collective sense of loss amongst the community from which this young man had come. It was rich…it was deep…it was healing. My father and I were the only white faces in a group of people from whom came a shared agony I had never known…open and vocal expressions hoping for some understanding as to why this young man had been so senselessly taken with no warning.

I don’t know what is was like when these unanswered words of confusion and doubt were uttered, “…my God, my God, why has thou forsaken me…,” – A son to his father.

I do know, however, what it felt like when a mother cried and hoped for the unanswerable “…tell mama what happened, big boy, PLEASE tell mama what happened…”

- ted

Berlin and the Fourth of July...

Those who expect to reap the blessings of freedom, must,

like men, undergo the fatigues of supporting it.

Thomas Paine – The American Crisis

George thought taking a bicycle tour of the city might be something I would enjoy doing. A little checking on my part revealed the ride would be about 4 hours and provide an intimate and informative view of Berlin in a way that other tours could not. Walking is good, but is limited in the distance covered. Buses work, but cover so much that it is hard to get a flavor.

I do a little recreational bicycle riding in Southern California where I live. Actually, this calls for a context, because recreational riding here can mean an 80 to 100 miler (129 to 160km) on a Saturday…uphill and on narrow roads! No, I am what real recreational riders call a ‘noodler.’ I explore and poke around neighborhoods and areas within a 15-mile (24km) radius or so. I don’t have the right riding pants with the built in butt pad. I don’t have the right colors for a road jersey, and my helmet is pretty bland looking – protective, but bland. I don’t have the ‘it’ appearance, nor fitness index to compete. Compete? Yes, recreational riding here can be a blood sport, with small packs of riders, determined looks on their faces, iron strong thighs and calves that would make Hercules feel inadequate. Sometimes I ride for an hour, maybe even two – I’m feeling a little inadequate just writing about this – but confession, they say is good for the soul.

The city tour
So, here is George, a young, very fit German colleague who exercises with the precision of one of those finely tuned German cars. While he was talking, my mind was questioning whether I thought I could sit on that seat for four hours. Of course, because I have not run completely out of testosterone, I said I thought this would be a great idea. I should add here that I had never done a city bicycle tour, so in fact had no idea what it might entail…all those cars, pedestrians and NO HELMETS!

This is, of course, part of the dynamic of growing older…I mean, this is my first time growing older, and as Kermit the Frog said, ”It’s not easy being green,” It’s not easy growing old…

At 11:00AM – bikes assigned and tested – Carrie, a 40 something, 6ft (1.8m), 180 pounder (81.6kg) with braided hair arrived to lead 15 hearty souls through a 12 mile (18km) route to get a flavor of this famous city’s underbelly.

An historical sidebar
For Westerners, Berlin represents a line in the sand against the, then Soviet Union, and her Eastern Bloc Allies. The city lies deep within what was East Germany, and became completely isolated with the creation of the East German State. The city had been divided into four sectors (French, English, Soviet Union and United States) by the allies following the end of the Second World War, but because of its location, the Soviets wanted complete control of the city.

On August 13th, 1961…overnight and without warning…a barbed wire barrier was erected, ultimately replaced by a 12 foot (3.65m) high wall, completely isolating the Eastern part of the city from the west…and so it would remain until November, 1989. While it is impossible for us to imagine, one (1) out of every seven (7) East Berliners were informants to the secret police – the ‘Stasi.’ There was not only a physical wall, but also a mental one. No one could be sure their thoughts were secure, so many simply went unspoken. That day in the early 1960s some families unceremoniously separated by this barrier, would live years before they would see, and in some cases speak to, one another.

Back to the bikes
Carrie turned out to be smart, thoughtful, extremely knowledgeable and very diligent in caring for her pedaling flock – we did have the appearance of a mother goose and her goslings following behind. In addition, while she looked like what I had imagined as the prime example of a strong German woman, she was, in fact an expatriate Australian!

Frequent stops and animated information flowed from her as we passed from East to West and back again with no barbed wire, walls or checkpoints to navigate. For the youngsters on the tour there was little context for the Brandenburg Gate, permanent city art in small parks, apartments built on the demarcation line or the Holocaust Memorial….it’s hard to “…never forget…” when there is nothing in the memory to remember.

For me, however, there came an understanding as I rode through and stopped at places I had only read about or seen on television during those tense years of the 1960s…they seemed surprisingly resonant, touching unexpected places in my heart and mind. Others have told me, how a kinship with this city is felt by those who visit her, and so it was with me. I felt a sense of meaning in the iconic words spoken by John Kennedy on that day in June of 1963 – “…I am a Berliner!”

“…Two Thousand years ago the proudest boast was civis Romanus sum (I am a Roman citizen). Today, in a world of freedom, the proudest boast is ‘Ich bin ein Berliner!’…All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin, and, therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words ‘Ich bin ein Berliner!’

It is hard to put in words the kindred spirit, a thirsting for freedom, that seemed palpable…even in this day…from each place we visited on what turned out to be a touching and intimate visit in Berlin.

It is appropriate I would have preceded the Fourth of July celebrations fresh from visiting this place. It is appropriate I would have been so recently reminded that freedom is not so much a right as a gift…a hard fought for and hard won gift.

This year as I visit with family and friends on the Fourth of July, I will be a little more grateful and a little more appreciative of the land in which I live…where for my entire lifetime, I have been able to do and say pretty much whatever I have felt like.

Thanks George for providing me with an opportunity and a place, to remind me that contrary to Kris Kristofferson’s lyrics and Janis Joplin’s rendition of “Me and Bobby McGee.” Freedom is NOT just another word, for nothing left to lose…It is precious, meaningful and becomes truly resonant when we realize that without it we have everything to lose.

- ted