Burn Letters- The Chronicle

Note~ This is the 2nd installment in the Burn Letters Series. To read the first episode look in the archives. Thanks for reading.  Additionally, I have started a new blog post at Tumblr. It has the same content, but it is a different way to view the content and be more interactive. Come Join me over there when you have a chance. I will still be putting the same content on here for those of you who want to stay. Either way. Thanks- http://uponfurtherreview-mark.tumblr.com/

His eyes adjusted to the dull flashlight. The only light in the room shone brightly upon the words that were scribbled upon the legal notepad paper used by its author. Robinson Cross was at first nervous, worried he would be discovered reading these forbidden words, but with every passing word he read he could feel his body relax and his nerves fade away. It was a feeling he had never had before; that of going down the rabbit hole and unearthing a world that was not his own. The letters provided an escapism like that of a movie, but without the choreographed movements or dialogue to reach the audience. To Robinson these letters were better, for they came from a different place in a person that is unrehearsed, and therefore, more genuine. His excitement made his hands tremble as he steadied the flashlight upon the words. 

With every word the dark basement room began to transform into the scene from the letter. It was as if Robinson was being transported from the his small lair into this new world that was being set before him. Robinson found himself looking down a long and low lit hallway in the early morning. Suddenly, a gurney shoots around the corner as a group of nurses and various medical staff race down the hall with a man lying upon a gurney. Robinson jumps out of the way of the oncoming traffic and presses himself up against the wall. Robinson cannot figure if this is real or not. It certainly feels real, but that can’t be. Can it?

Before he has time to ponder that question a door opens right across from him. A young man, about his age walks through the door. The young man, Paul, has a backpack slung over his shoulder and headphones that cover his ears. He bobs his head to the rhythm of the music as he walks up the quiet hallway and disappears into a room that says- STAFF ONLY. Robinson looks down at the letter in his hands and reads-

It was Monday morning as I entered the hospital. I was late. Yeah, hard to believe that I was late, but that car of mine broke down. You told me to get it checked out, but with what money?  Of course that was what we talked about- money or lack there of, me going to school or not going to school, me growing up, me tuning you out. We fought as usual and you reluctantly gave me the car, which I didn’t thank you for because I was too pissed. Instead, I just cranked the music louder and drove off with you yelling something at me. I know what you said, but I didn’t care. I just needed to get to work. 

Robinson looks up from the letter when he hears the door open. Paul walks out in his faded blue scrub, tightening the draw string to his pants. Paul looks up and down the hallway as if trying to decide what direction to go. He chooses to go right down the elongated road that led to the ER. The letter continued. 

At work I kept thinking about all the things you said to me and I was angry. I wasn’t angry at you, I was angry at myself because I knew you were right. I was wasting my life. I was settling when I should have been trying to do something better. That thought followed me like a shadow. I couldn’t shake it. Not until I got to the ER. Usually I try to hide out on Monday mornings, but I couldn’t that day. As I was grabbing my walkie-talkie a nurse grabbed me and said, “Paul, we have a patient coming in off the ambulance. Would you mind doing chest compressions?” I didn’t say anything like I had a choice; I just nod my head and follow the nurse. 

Robinson followed Paul into a frantic room. The nurses rush swiftly around the room like fish in a tide pool. Paul snaps on his gloves and hides himself away in the corner as if not to be seen by anyone. He watches like a spectator at a ball game the chaotic action that fills the room. Paul lets out a sigh, his eyes no longer dart from one end of the room to the other, rather they stare into the ground; his thoughts have become fixated upon something else. He slowly slips his hand into his pocket and takes out a small key, no bigger than a thimble, rolling it over and over in his masked hand. Paul, like Robinson, has ventured out of his own realm to a place that consumes his mind. Paul’s letter presses on-

I hate Monday’s at the hospital. I hate everyday at the hospital, but Monday’s especially. They are the constant reminder of what I have not done with my life. I am surrounded by life and death and here I am in purgatory. You are right mom- I live life like I have already failed. Just a state of limbo everyday. No rise, no fall. You once said “I hold the key”. No, I hold the lock that there is no key for. You tried to help mom. I understand that now. I really do. I just wish I would have listened to you. I should have listened to you.

EMT’s, as well as fireman, rush a middle-aged woman into the house, quickly transferring her from one gurney to another. The woman is in her late forties, blonde hair, and slim. She lies unresponsive as the team of nurses and doctors begin to hook her up to every machine in the room. The rapid fire dialogue from EMT technician to nurse to doctor makes Robinson’s head spin. The EMT’s said the woman was found near the bus stop lying on the ground. She had a stroke of some kind. It was bad. Paul pushes away from the corner while sliding the small key back into his pocket. He grabs a small stool and places it at the side of the gurney. He steps upon the stool and looks down upon the woman. Robinson can see a small shiver run down the back of Paul and in a mirror that sits upon the crash cart he can see a look of terror upon his face. It appears as if Paul has seen a ghost. The nurse shakes Paul out of his moment of panic. The nurse and doctors order him to begin chess compressions. He does so, albeit with a look of sadness marked on his face. The letter continues-

When they brought in the patient I was thinking of you, Mom. I had decided to change my life. To become something more. Not just because I wanted something more, but because you deserved it. You worked hard all your life to see something more in me. I wanted to show you how much more I could be. That your belief in me was not a waste of time. When my shift ended I was going to make a call to you and make that vow to you. The cruelty of life is in the promises that are not kept. 

Paul pumped his hands down vigorously upon the woman’s chest. The nurses and doctors move about him, but under the light of that room it is just Paul and this woman. He begins to press harder and faster. Sweat begins to form upon his brow, but as Robinson looks at Paul’s face in the mirror he can see that Paul has made it his mission, put the weight upon himself to make this woman live. The woman’s eyes flutter rapidly and it seems as if she is fading into a deeper and deeper sleep. The fury at which Paul is pressing down on this woman has become that of anger and despair as he looks down on her and a body that is fading away. Slowly it fades.

The flat line pierces the room as everyone goes silent. Time has, for the moment, stopped as everyone looks upon the small black monitor. Everyone that is, except for Paul, who seems oblivious to the world around him. Only the small, lifeless body that lay in front of him.

Paul finishes his letter- I am sorry mom. I am sorry that I could not do for you what you did for me. I failed you mom. And because of that I will never see you again. 

Robinson looks up at Paul continuing his chest compressions as the nurses and doctors around him try to get him to stop. All of it to no avail. The singular buzz that signifies no heartbeat becomes increasingly louder and louder into Robinson’s ears. The light of the room, too, shines so radiantly it becomes blinding for Robinson to the point he must turn away, shielding his eyes. His head starts to throb by the stimulus of light and noise that Robinson begins to scream loudly with pain.

Then silence. 

Robinson’s eyes have a hard time adjusting to the light in the basement room. He blinks a few times as he looks around at the familiar sight of letters that surround the walls. He looks at the paper that is crushed between his fist; slowly he releases the letter from his grasp, letting it sit crumpled upon his desk. He sits there and stares, but his reflective mode is quickly washed away with a sobering fact.

The lights are on! If the lights are on then that means someone must be coming. Robinson takes the letter and begins to shove it inside the envelope when he notices a small, dull metallic key inside. He takes out the small key, examining it in the light right before his own eyes.

Heavy footsteps can be heard down the hall coming towards Robinson’s work room. Robinson looks at the address on the envelope, memorizing it by picturing it in his head. Robinson races to get the small key onto his own key ring. The footsteps have picked up a louder thud meaning whoever was out there was near. The small key is hard to get onto the key ring as Robinson becomes frantic with each step that approaches closer to the door.

The door explodes open as if a raid were about to happen inside this small room. It is not Mr. Cole, but a man in a dark black uniform named Harris Barkley. Harris Barkley was a no-nonsense security patrolman for the Post Office. He figured himself a tough ex- war vet who had never actually been close to enemy lines. Basically, the post office was his war zone, the perfect sergeant for Mr. Cole to keep a tight ship. 

Barkley surveyed the room trying to find any activity of wrong doing to report. After inspecting the room he finally sizes up Robinson, who was at the furnace burning a letter using a lighter he had found in the drawer. The letter burned slowly as Robinson fingered the corners before he disposed of it in the furnace. He watched it burn before taking notice of Harris Barkley. 

Robinson speaks as if surprised by the intrusion, “Oh, hey. Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I heard a scream.” Barkley grumbles.

“Yeah, the furnace is broken. I had to light the letters on fire with this lighter. I dropped the lighter and I thought this whole place was going up in a blaze.” Robinson amazed himself with how quickly that lie came out. He stole a glance up at Barkley to see if he bought the lie. 

Barkley just keeps a hard lock on Robinson, still sizing him up, before coldly stating, “Its closing time. Mr. Cole wants to see you now.”

“Okay, I’ll be right up. Thanks for the notice.” Robinson goes back over to his desk and takes a seat to begin tidying up his desk. He can feel Barkley, still standing in the doorway, has locked onto a new perp, a newbie, fresh meat- as Robinson plays cool to his bullish ways. 

Robinson is putting away some papers into his small satchel when Barkley grabs the back of his collar and drags him out of the room.

“I said now! We have some questions for you.”

Robinson struggles, pulling and yanking himself in attempt to free himself. He is sure he is caught.  Shock filled Robinson as he grasped onto the doorway. As he struggles, Robinson takes a look around the room at all the treasure disappearing before his eyes. His fingers begin to slip as Barkley exerts tremendous force upon his neck. Robinson can feel not only his fingers slipping, but his grasp upon the world he wanted to be part of. He felt more alive in that one moment reading the letters than he had at any other moment in his life. He grasped at anything to stay. Barkley though won the tug of war battle, pulling Robinson Cross from the clutches of another world.

Robinson looked down the long, dark hallway of the basement in dismay. Like Paul, Robinson was sure he had failed.

To Be Continued…. And Merry Christmas.

Burn Letters

 This is the first story, in the line of many short stories, for a series I will be writing entitled Burn Letters. It will follow the adventures and readings of one Robinson Cross, as he uncovers the life and stories of a variety of characters in his position of Undeliverable Mail Custodian(UMC) for the post office.

     "Do you understand?" Roger Cole stood there a little more than annoyed as he posed this question, once again, to the wandering young man who walked around the small basement room looking at all the letters as if he was looking at priceless pieces of art in a museum. The young man, Robinson Cross, wasn't amazed as much as fascinated by his new job in the basement of this post office. In the bowels of the tiny post office the two men stood inside this small, dark room filled with thousands of unopened letters.  There also stood a menacing black furnace that took up one side of the room. The furnace stood like a hideous monster waiting for its moment to be awoken. To be free to destroy. Robinson blocked out that side of the room, content on fantasizing of the possibilities that were captured inside these thin, white envelopes. As a writer, Robinson always thought in pictures and as he walked by each stack of letters he could not help, but feel an impending sense of mystery and possibility that lay within each letter. Robinson could not wait to get started.
     "This one is from 1957. What is the oldest date you have found unopened?" Robinson said finally turning his attention to Mr. Cole.
     Mr. Cole found his normally cold demeanor turning toward an irritation at this young man that he had hired. Had this kid heard anything that he had said or had he been too caught up in this basic task that was given? Mr. Cole unfolded his arms putting his clipboard down emphatically on the empty wooden surface of Robinson's desk. Well, what would be Robinson's desk; that is if Mr. Cole didn't fire him first.
     "Mr. Cross, I need-"
      "You can just call me Robinson or Rob, though I prefer Robinson if it's all the same to you. Mr. Cole you can't actually expect me to burn these letters here. These are treasures." Robinson picked up a few letters and began to examine them. "They were meant to be delivered. You can't just burn up the words of others. There could be something important buried in all of this."
      Mr. Cole closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He walked over to Robinson Cross and jerked the letters out of his hands. Mr. Cole placed the letters back down in their place. He figured that he now had Robinson's full attention "Now, Mr. Cross, I need your full attention. I need to know that you understand the importance of your job and how to do the job properly. It is imperative that you are on the same page in understanding the inner workings of this post to maintain-" Mr. Cole paused a moment to register the affect of his words upon Robinson. It was important to Mr. Cole to control each and every detail of  post office operations to his specifications. Mr. Cole not only enjoyed order, but demanded it and the post office afforded him that order in its meticulous schedule and time honored tradition. He engaged  Robinson's eyes, knowing he would not allow some newbie to throw off his operation with dim witted questions or an inability to execute his exact commands.
       Mr. Cole moved quickly to the furnace and bent down. Feeling around the base of the large contraption he pressed a small button. A low rumble arose from the beast as if awakening from a long winter slumber. Mr. Cole moved slowly away from the furnace making sure to never look away as it slowly came to life and began to breathe hot angry fire in anticipation of its feeding time. As the furnace breathed angrily on the room Mr. Cole found himself staring down his young employee, capturing his full attention that now allowed for him to finish his poignant statement "the integrity of not only the the post office, but to the many whom felt this method of delivery would afford them the privacy that they commanded with their personal ruminations that they felt us worthy to accommodate their wishes. And now that the command was unable to be delivered we must uphold that bond of trust by destroying the very contents we were entrusted with."
       Mr. Cole took a letter and coldly dropped it inside the furnace as the flames of the furnace ate away at the lost words as the smoke drifted upwards through a shaft and into the cold winter air to be lost again, but this time forever.
      Mr. Cole looked upon young Mr. Cross for any type of spark or recognition that would mark an understanding. A look that would state that Mr. Cole was in control of this department like he was of all other departments. He did not receive that indication; instead, Mr. Cross was met with an icy stare and words that rattled within him, "Mr. Cole, I thought the post office's purpose was to deliver mail. Wouldn't we be better served trying to locate these people and giving them the words of their family or friend or whatever is inside of these. Burning them will only leave an emptiness inside of them that was meant to be filled."
     Those words nearly sent Mr. Cole through the roof. This simply would not do he told himself. He demanded an understanding, "For God sake's Mr. Cross, I feel as if I am always talking to myself. You gaze about the room like a five year old on Christmas Day. As if you will unearth a prize unknown to any other. This is serious work not an Easter Egg hunt. We cannot waste the time trying to solve these mysteries. Most things are better left done away with as the ashes of the past. This role you want may not suit you fore I am afraid that you are not ready to handle such an immense task. I require an unabashed assurance be given to me of your competency. And well, I do not know if you have the slightest or requisite knowhow that is desired."
     Mr. Cole walks over to the desk and quickly picks up his clipboard. He flips through it and begins to scribble a few notes down. He then stands at attention between the doorway continuing to scribble as he addresses Robinson, for what he believes will be the last time, "As you have really nothing to say for yourself I would like you to excuse yourself from the room. I obviously have made quite an error in judgment. Good day."
     Robinson holds his position amongst the mass of letters that would engulf him like a tidal wave with the slightest shake of the room. He looks around the room wide-eyed and can hear the voices of ghosts speaking to him in unison. They pleaded with him to stay in a compelling whisper of stories that needed to be uncovered. The fact of the matter is Robinson never had any intention of leaving. There had been a strong allure he felt when he read the advertisement for the position. He was even shocked to find that he was the only person that had applied for the position. Robinson looked toward Mr. Cole and smiled, "I apologize Mr. Cole for any perceived lack of acknowledgement. My role as curator of this department requires me to the strictest confidentiality with regards to the numerous letters that reside here. It is my duty to retrieve any and all merchandise- jewelry, money, and any other items of value into a secure collection box to be itemized and shipped to the postal headquarters. It is not my duty to read or report on any letters that I find within these confines, but rather to burn the lost, insufficient, and all undeliverable letters in this department. Also, I will leave the contents of all items within these walls upon my departure everyday. All of this I understand."
     Mr. Cole put down his pen and clipboard and looked upon young Robinson. He had his reservations about the young man as he did not seem all too bright; a little rough around the edges in terms of efficiency and time management. This kid was a dreamer. He could tell upon his introduction to this mess of a room that he saw possibility instead of loss. He did not see a job, but an adventure. Mr. Cole frowned at the thought. However, that was the challenge for Mr. Cole- to mold this worker into his image. To change the dreamer into a serious and accomplished worker.
      "Mr. Robinson you will start at eight sharp every morning. That means you must be here by seven-thirty. Punctuality is key in this business. You will report to me every lunch with a detailed report of your activities. You will do the same thing in the evening before you leave. Mr. Sanders our security officer will also be checking all items on you. If even a trace of an item leaves this room you will be immediately terminated and the authorities will be notified. Mail theft and tampering is something I take very seriously and I will see you receive the maximum punishment. Do we understand each other?"
        Robinson looks around the room at his new life as the whispers grow louder and louder. He smiles at Mr. Cole and nods affirmatively "yes".
       "Good" a blank faced Mr. Cole states, "I think you will do very well here if you follow the rules and  do your job. There are no shortcuts and there are no hand outs here. Just work. Figure that out sooner rather than later."
       Robinson walks around to his station in the small office to embark upon his new adventure. As Mr. Cole is about to close the door he stops and sticks his head in the door, "Oh, and to conserve energy and cut costs we turn off the lights in here. You will see we have supplied you with a desk lamp and if that goes out a small flashlight resides in the cabinet drawer by your right knee. Any questions?"
       Robinson looks around and turns to ask a question. "Mr. Cole why does the door need to be-"
      Mr. Cole declines to hear the rest of the question as he breaks in with a casual order, "See you at lunch with my report." Roger Cole begins to shut the door, but not before hissing one last demand, "And remember under no circumstances are you to read the letters."
     "I have no intention of doing so-" The door shuts with a dull thud behind Robinson as he looks around the room. The lights soon shut off and he sits alone in the darkened room fumbling around for the lamp switch. He finally locates the switch, but not before knocking off stacks of letters to the ground. Robinson gathers the letters off the ground like one would gather a pile of leaves. He takes the small flashlight from the drawer and turns it on as he sorts through the letters making his way to the dark furnace. He bent down and, like Mr. Cole did, hit a small button on the bottom of the furnace once again awakening the fury of the black monster. He moves back slowly towards the desk as the furnaces breathing becomes heavier and heavier. The smell of burnt ash permeates the room, stinging Robinson's nostrils.
     With the small flickering light shining only upon his desk, Robinson Cross, having returned to the desk to place the flashlight back in the drawer, feels an eerie loneliness inside the room. Robinson, having watched the hissing tongue of fire become ready, stands up and suddenly the room begins to take on a different mood that gives young Robinson a painful shiver as he tries to adjust his eyes to the new atmosphere of the room. Where once he was surrounded by possibility he is now surrounded with a spinning uncertainty of his senses. He starts to feel queasy as he stands up to deliver the mail to its final resting place. His senses, though, are panicked as he tries to control his breathing in this dungeon inferno. Gripping the edges of the desk tightly to regain his balance; his knuckles turn a papery white as the letters spill to the ground. His breathing is uncontrolled as his heart pounds manically. Robinson feels an iciness upon him as he tries to inch closer to the furnace, but his steps become heavy as if dipped in cement; he tries to call for help only to find his throat restricting into a tightly coiled ball of distress. What is happening?
     Robinson tries to settle his nerves and reaches for a letter. Words always having the ability to calm and focus him. Frantically tearing open the letter he looks upon the handwriting to find a chaotic mess of words that are indecipherable to his mind. His eyes are trying to focus. Trying to decode and unscramble what is right there in front of him. He grabs for the light, but with his rattled nerves he knocks it over onto the ground with a crash. A queer gust of wind whips through the tiny room, causing Robinson to lock onto the desk, as the furnace returns to a grave slumber. The darkness engulfs him again, but now the panic and fear has subsided. Sitting in the dark he is now able to breathe slowly and fluidly. He slowly releases his death grip on the desk and his muscles relax. He sits in the dark and just breathes.
      A moment passes and he now feels comfortable within himself to open the drawer to grab the flashlight. He turns on the flashlight; slowly he moves it from one side of the room to the other and then back again. Where did that cold wind come from? The door is closed behind him and there is no window or vent in the small room. It must have been part of the panic he felt. His imagination running wild like usual. That would not be out of the ordinary. Just chalk it up to your imagination.
      He moves to the furnace and checks inside of it. Everything looks fine. Robinson tries to turn it on only to hear a low rumble and then nothing. What now?
      He definitely did not want to tell Mr. Cole. The last thing he wanted was to be scolded by him and lose his job. He already could hear the mocking "tssk, tssk" forming on his thin lips. No, Robinson would rather sit here in the dark with his flashlight in the ghostly silence. He checked his watch that stated it was nine-thirty. He still had time to kill. A lot of time to kill before lunch.
     Robinson took a seat at the desk trying to not make eye contact with the letter. Maybe this was a test: the darkness, the furnace, the fear- all just a test to see if he would read the letters. If he would slip up. The words on the letter in front of him were popping out to him as he tried to avoid their gaze. He had to resist.
     He couldn't. The temptation of what was written, of someone's unread words to another were to much for Robinson Cross to bear. Somebody had to read them. That was what was meant upon their conception was for the letter to be read. Maybe not by him, but sitting there in the darkness, armed only with a flashlight, maybe the letter was meant for him. Just maybe something good may come out of it. Who knows? Does anyone ever really know?
      Robinson Cross was about to find out.
   

Defining Success

Do you know of the Fitzgerald Effect? I wouldn't be surprised if you are shaking your head "No" at the very question. It is a little known theory that even I was not aware of until I saw it. The theory gets its name from the great writer F. Scott Fitzgerald, who wrote The Great Gatsby and... well, countless other novels you probably never read and Robert Redford did not play the lead role in. However, the theory and its effects have plagued people well before Fitzgerald, but it is Fitzgerald, the writer and person, that is the poster boy of how people become a casualty of failure. Fitzgerald is now one of the most recognizable names in American literature, along the same lines as Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner. That would by all accounts make him a success, right? Sadly, no.

Fitzgerald's most successful book during his life was an overnight success- This Side of Paradise. At the time of its publication, Fitzgerald was a poor, unknown writer who wrote this novel, based upon his own life, to earn enough money to marry his love, Zelda Sayre. His plan worked, as his book sold over 3,000 copies in three days, making the 22 year old an instant success.  This taste of fame and notoriety would be a fleeting moment for Fitzgerald, as the high life of success would quickly evaporate into a dark spiral of trying to recapture that moment of ultimate accomplishment. It is because of his struggle that the Fitzgerald Effect postulates that people fall victim to the definition and standards of success that society has set forth.

The American Dream has made many a great success, but on the flip side, has become the downfall for many others who become Icarus as they try to soar towards something that is not always obtainable. The America of infancy, the America of Fitzgerald's time, all the way to the America we live in, has been defined by one thing-- Always wanting more. More land, more money, more power, more everything. And in wanting more, we fall into a trap; we become hungrier. But can we always fulfill our cravings? The bar by which we measure our success continues to grow and stretch until we are unable to see what we truly want or really what we truly need. People surround us and tell us that we need more; they tell us not to settle for what we have, but they urge and prod for us to get more because what we have already is just scratching the surface.

With the success of This Side of Paradise Fitzgerald was only "scratching the surface" of his talents and fame. Surely, he should be able to soar higher and obtain more success, as his fans and critics continued to say. He was part of that America where the evolution of a person was defined by their standing in society's hierarchy. He lived in a nice neighborhood in St. Paul and followed his mother's lead in how to mingle with the social elite, so when he was older, he would fit in and grow into that role of success. He knew the elite from his time at Princeton and that his contemporaries' success was already established by their parents and their wealth, even before they set foot upon campus. He knew to marry the girl of his dreams, one that came from a wealthy family that would accept nothing short of a well-to-do husband. He had to become a success himself. And he did.

However, it was obtaining and then subsequently maintaining his newfound wealth that haunted Fitzgerald for the rest of his life. For, it was in those next few years that Fitzgerald wrote his new novels- The Great Gatsby and Tender is The Night- only to be panned by critics, become broke, watch his marriage crumble, and see his once bright career turn as empty as the bottle of bourbon he would stare into on those cold winter nights. Fitzgerald became the living emblem of his tragic hero, Jay Gatsby, in seizing the American Dream of great wealth and notoriety, only to find that for all its pleasure and high standing, The American Dream can crumble and fall, leaving those in its wake to pick up the pieces of a shattered existence.

It wasn't until after his death that Fitzgerald finally received the recognition that he fully deserved. A man whose writing not only captured the "Jazz Era," but also provided a look into his own soul, died thinking of himself as a person that did not live up to his potential. He died broke and with critical success out of his reach; the sun too high for him to reach as he crashed down to the reality of America's ideals. It is in looking at the life of F. Scott Fitzgerald that we should all take note not to fall prey to the expectations and standards of everyone else. Though we live in a world with a tribe or pack mentality, where the values of a few reign down upon us all, it is imperative to set out with our own definition of success- not what those around us claim for it to be. In doing so, we finally escape the pressure of "The American Dream" as the embodiment of success and we can redefine that antiquated idea with a more reasonable, updated notion that can be fully recognized. One that is shaped and molded for each individual and not based upon the history of the past. It should be in each of us that a credible definition of success should not only be created, but defined.

In what would become an ironic lament for Fitzgerald's life, his main character, Amory Blaine ( who was in fact based upon Fitzgerald himself), utters this final line in This Side of Paradise- "I know myself, but that is all." In those seven words, Fitzgerald found the cure to the Fitzgerald Effect- Just Know Yourself.

Art: The Playground for Innovation

But that the world is colored

With light and shadow

And forms that intertwine-

--Ivan Albright

            The sun hangs high over the Wasatch Range on this clear, crisp autumn day as I walk upon the idyllic campus of the University of Utah.  The campus is a perfect compliment to its panoramic, postcard-like backdrop with its pristine buildings, lawns of flowing grass, and bountiful array of colors that give off the very real feeling that maybe everyday here could be a Fall day.

            My focus shifts, from marveling at the scenic beauty, toward an unassuming building. Tucked away in the autumn harvest of this college campus stands what appears to be a revivalist home; complete with stone structure, requisite vintage windows, and neighborly porch, which upon first glance, would seem to be more befitting of an architectural journal than a college campus.  The building’s revivalist feel is modest, yet refined; a stature that extols an inescapable feeling of a rich and storied history. It is a structure that emits a palpable sense of a greater story than at first meets the eye. 

            Walking up to the Pierre Lassonde Center, one can sense a significant evolution taking place, and yet, would be hard pressed to know that this building is not only home to the preserved chronicles of the past, but also to a burgeoning entrepreneurial community that is leading the nation. Upon entering the magnanimous Pierre Lassonde Entrepreneurial Center, it will be with your feet in the past and your eyes squarely set on a vision of the future. 

            Stepping inside the newly remodeled quarters of this nearly century and a half old building, the transformation from one time army post during the Civil War to top-flight entrepreneurial school is both remarkable and stunning.  Boardrooms and conference rooms have now replaced what were once a parlor room and a dining hall.  This house, previously the Captain’s barracks, now stands as the future home for Captains of Industry.

            Much like its down-to-earth exterior, there is more than meets the eye than just business models and bottom lines inside these walls. There is an effervescent life, a creative force that adorns the walls of the Pierre Lassonde Center. Throughout these hallowed halls hang pieces of art that are emblematic of the culture and goals the Pierre Lassonde Center has created for its students. The art of Howard Clark is not only aesthetically gratifying and visionary; it also, as one time Presidential Chair of the Lassonde Center Dr. Jack Brittain observes, “projects a creative energy that is always interesting and ever present”.  

            To understand why this innovative business entrepreneurial school has chosen Howard Clark’s abstract paintings, which explore color, shape, and texture, to display to its student body is a study in creativity in its most simplistic form. What is the root of business? Is it is the perfunctory words many people associate business with, such as budgets, capital, market trends, and production? The answer is no. While these words are certainly necessary within the world of commerce, they do not capture the essence of what business is truly about. The root of business, much like art, is to explore a world beyond what we have seen or its perceived possibilities. The beginning of any business venture starts with an idea, a single vision of a product or industry.  The beginning of any artist’s journey in creating a piece also begins with a single image, an inspiration that moves them to the canvas to craft and form an experience. 

            Howard Clark, a successful businessman himself, works to a rhythm when he paints.  It is from that rhythm that he is able to begin to collaborate with the colors in order to create his ultimate goal for the audience- emotion. Mr. Clark understands that to be effective he must have a freedom to shape brilliant and bright colors to draw in his audience. Mr. Clark remarks, “ the vibrant red of Coca-Cola or the innovative Apple logo are not just designs, but beautiful pieces of art that draw people to the product.” His art is an example of art imitating life-imitating art.  An idea that he and the faculty of Pierre Lassonde Center share; imploring their students and their ventures to be like the colors of a Howard Clark painting- Brilliant and Bold.

            What the Entrepreneurial school has crafted, in exhibiting Mr. Clark’s artwork, is a way to stimulate the creative thought of its students. Each painting that the students see helps trigger various emotions or feelings that can possibly evolve into a solution or venture for the viewer. The very crux of what the Entrepreneurial School is trying to accomplish, in the words of Dr. Brittain, is to “challenge students to develop new solutions to address human need.” By showing students abstract pieces of art, the school is encouraging students to be the artists; to have the passion and courage to risk trying something new in order to share themselves with others.

            The vivid colors and emotions that are drawn from the diverse collection of Howard Clark’s pieces illustrate his keen observation of his surroundings.  It is the process of creating that Clark calls an “exercise of the cultural mind.” It is in this exercise that his creative vision opens the door to self-discovery, where he becomes free to teach an invaluable lesson that celebrates innovation. The Lassonde Center hopes that its students will draw on this influence to escape the traditional methods and standards long associated with business. Instead, the University hopes to influence a fresh approach that teaches the students that innovation does not spring exclusively from boardroom meetings, focus groups, surveys, and business reports; but rather, a new synthesis of thought, where the purpose and passion is in creating and inspiring a student’s work, in such a way, that it will connect with others in a fresh and exciting way.  The results have been more than positive, as the Pierre Lassonde Center is the top ranked entrepreneurial school in the entire nation.

            Art is always on the forefront of ingenuity, constantly breaking the mold and creating new experiences for the audience.  Howard Clark’s artwork is teaching these budding students that their business ventures should always push the envelope or alter the established patterns of business thought, and in doing so the students will be able to make the audience take notice of their bold new ventures. Though an idea may be basic, influenced by a person’s surroundings or the times we live in, it is what comes of that idea that will be complex and, ultimately, the picture painted for the world to see. 

Flight Delay

      She parks the car near the entrance of the bar.  She stares forward at the steering wheel for a second to focus her thoughts. Her attention moves as she readies herself looking at the rearview mirror. She sits and studies the face that looks back at her.  A middle age woman she had a youthful look, but today was an exception, as the years of labor and frustration have taken its toll on her. Her bones ache and her body is tired from pulling a double shift at the hospital.  Quickly, she begins to fix her hair in the mirror, but then she slowly stops, deciding it does not matter.  Opening up the trunk she grabs a suitcase, grunting as she pulls it out, feeling her back about to give out she wrestles the bag to the ground.  A shadow from above cast down upon her as the howl of a plane echoes in her head giving her a welcome relief from her thoughts. 

            The woman enters the bar, luggage in tow, examining the giant glass window that gave her a view of the large landing strip. A plane slowly taxies on the runway.  She wonders to herself whether it was coming or going.  Her attention quickly shifts as she makes her way into the bar.  A group of men are huddled up around the bar laughing and slapping each other on the back.  She stops; standing away from the herd, noticing inside the huddle of older men wearing business suites a young man sits holding the group’s attention.  She sits off in a corner away from everyone. Out of view from the rest of the room she fixes her gaze upon the young gentleman who entertains the legion of patrons at this, his board meeting.

            “One More! One More!” the men began to chant as they slap the counter rousing the young man.

            “Does anyone know about Flight 890 to Boston?” the young man says pouring down another drink, “My other flight was delayed so I gotta catch that one.”

            The men stared at each other shrugging their shoulders unknowingly.

            “Alright one more about the good ol’ days,” the young man says glancing down at his watch, “Then I gotta run and see if this flight will ever get back on track. Damn planes! Great invention, but man if they don’t hold you up. Who’s got this round?”

            A man steps up to order drinks for the group.  The young man rubs his hands feverishly, concentrating his stare at the men eagerly awaiting his tale.

            “Alright well this one is a personal favorite about the all city football championship. This was supposed to be a coronation for the top player of the league. A fella by the name of Irving Cotton.”

            A man pipes up, “You played against Irv Cotton? He just made first-team All-American his last season at Alabama!”

             The young man stares down the men and soaks in their admirations as they nudge each other over their newfound bar room hero “Damn right I played against that Son-Of-A-Bitch! Hell of a player. Going to the league next year.”

Our hero rolls up his sleeve, but manages to take down a shot in that same moment as if he had three hands before diving back into his story, “Anyway it was old Irv’s last hurrah for this great career of his.  Everyone came out that day to see him and crown his ass as the best player alive.  You would have thought the President was in town with this crowd.  Now this son of a bitch was big, like Andre the Giant big.  He was an All Conference, All-State, All-Everything linebacker headed to Alabama to play football. Heard that he broke his dad’s ribs when he was twelve playing touch football.  Shoot, I’ve been on the other end of some girls pissed off boyfriend who wanted to hide and tan my ass that were less scary than Irv Cotton. 

Well it’s late in the game, our team is just hanging in their down by ten points with about 5 minutes on the clock and our defense holds them and they have to punt. And who do you think comes out to punt the ball?”  He stops and takes a drink. He steals a glance over to a pretty blonde woman stirring her drink at the end of the bar.  Their eyes meet briefly, a hello of sorts, before he turns his attention back to his audience.

            “Well none other than Paul Bunyan Mr. All Conference, All-State, All Everything linebacker headed to Alabama.  Well it seems Mr. Everything could not just kick the ball, but he could kick it a country mile.  I mean just kick the snot and piss out of the pigskin. And who else, but yours truly, was on the other end of that kick. All 5’6 and a hundred-forty pounds soaking wet, no bigger than a hiccup.  I swear to you boys that when he kicked that ball it sounded like a goddamn canon going off. Hell, I almost fell to the ground thinking we were under attack.”

            Suddenly, the young man jumps off his chair and all the men take a step back to give him room.  He grabs an empty beer bottle and tosses it toward the ceiling to reenact the catch.

            “The ball went five stories up and right then a heavy breeze came from my back. Boys’ you know that tingly feeling you get when you’re excited? Well, I had that plus ten. I thought a lightning bolt just struck me in the ass from Zeus himself. The ball came down and just settled right into my arms.”  He went into a crouch like a jungle cat. The men alertly back away from this lunatic not knowing how far the young man will pantomime the story.

            “Fellas, the play was for a wedge up the middle and God if those boys were not the best soldiers, laying themselves out to make a jailbreak for me.  Hell, Moses would have been envious cause the Red Sea didn’t part as much as this wedge my boys’ set up for me.”

            The young man begins to heat up.  He reaches back to take in a drink. The blonde woman has moved closer to the pack. She listens intently, stirring her drink slowly to this madman tell his story to a captivated audience.

            “I take off down the middle of the field like a man on fire. It looks like this jailbreak is gonna see some light. Then that light got extinguished when fifteen yards downfield old Mr. All Conference, All State, All Everything headed to Alabama rears his ugly mug towards me. This is shaping up as a modern day David and Goliath, except I didn’t have a trusty slingshot and rocks to fire at Mr. Irv Cotton. It was like staring down the barrel of a gun. Now it is right here I have a choice and Mr. All Conference, All State, headed to Alabama knows it.  I can go to the right or to the left and easily score a touchdown. Pastures are not as wide as the space I had on either side. I see him staring into my eyes cause I’m staring into his.  He is planted there waiting for me to give him a clue. Right or left. Well boys a time comes in every man’s life where he comes up to that fork in the road and has to make a decision which way to go. In this instance I chose straight.”

            The young man slips back down into the stool. He grabs a beer, slowly sipping it as he observes the eyes looking upon him. 

            A man steps forward with a quizzical look etched upon his face, “So wait, are you telling us you sacrificed the touchdown and the glory?”

            Springing up from his stool the youngster looks over the crowd, “No sir, no sir I am not. The cowardly thing would have been to sidestep him. Lots of people will have a chance to score a touchdown. Not many people go head to head with a challenge like this. No sir, they sidestep or turn around. Not me! Not this time! Nope, I looked him in the eyes and challenged him.  You should have seen the look in his eyes. I do believe I caught him in the headlights.  Rocketing at him I threw all I had into him and if it was not the most beautiful collision you ever did see. I still get goose bumps thinking about how I rose up out of that car wreck and looked down at old Mr. All Conference, All-State, All everything linebacker going to Alabama laying there- out cold on the ground.”

            A unanimous roar was unleashed.  The men began to clink their glasses, slapping fives, and hitting each other.  The young man sat back with a beaming smile watching these men delight in his glory. 

            A man hollers, “A round on me in honor of Mr. All Conference, All State, All Everything headed to Alabama! Congratulations Irv Cotton on finding your head after your nap!”  All the men roar in approval.

            The men giddily down their beers.  The men begin to pick up their briefcases or luggage in preparation for their takeoff. The young man picks up a bag of his own then sets it back down just as quickly, patting himself down in search of something.

            “Hey there boss,” a man said breaking off from the pack of men leaving, “You coming or what?”

            “I can’t seem to find my cash I had in my pocket,” he looks around on the ground continually searching each crevice of his suit, “You know if it’s not a delayed flight, it’s a delayed something. You all go ahead and I will catch up.”

            “Here,” the man pulled out a fifty dollar bill, “I’m sure it will show up. You can’t miss your flight.”

            “Thanks,” the young man said sheepishly, “You go on ahead with the guy’s. I’m gonna hit the head real quick.”

            “Ok, but be quick. You know how these airports are.”

The businessman catches up to the rest of the men walking out of the bar. The older woman clutches the suitcase by her side as she stares sheepishly at the ground, listening while the men pass by her. One man remarking to another, “I can’t believe that. I sure am glad that his flight was delayed. Knocked that guy out cold!  Can’t wait to tell that one to the guys back home.”

            The young man begins to walk backwards toward the bathroom; his eyes fixate on the men walking out the door.  When all of them were gone the young man stops and moves back to his stool at the bar setting down his empty briefcase to the side.

            “Charlie,” the young man said sullenly, “another of the same.”

            Charlie, the bartender, refilled his glass with the usual- bourbon, “Lively bunch you had that time” remarks Charlie.

            The young man looked at Charlie tiredly dropping down a twenty for a tip, “Everyone loves a good story for the road.”

Charlie picked up the tip, “Next group should be coming by pretty soon from New York.”

Our hero downed his shot and loosened his tie a bit more as he shook his empty glass, “Keep’em coming till then.”

             The older woman gazed at the young man’s face in the mirror that lay in front of him.  The smile that illuminated his face quickly fizzled.  The youthful exuberance slumped out of his shoulders and the years began to show upon his face. The flicker in his eyes faded replaced now by a brooding darkness. He sat there slowly rubbing his forehead as if exhausted. The older woman slowly moved towards the stool, placing the bag down she sat next to him.

            “How did you find me?” He asked, concentrating on peeling off the label of his beer.

            “Do you remember when you were little and you used to beg me to bring you here to the airport?  You could sit here all day and just watch the planes come and go. You would never say a word the whole time. You just sat there and watched. I always wondered what you were thinking. Where it was that your mind wandered off to?” 

            She studies his face, waiting for a moment to see if he will enlighten her.  He remains silent, concentrating on his task at hand. The woman watches him, noticing a white bandage peeking out from underneath the cuff of the white dress shirt he is wearing

            She sighs before continuing, “When did they let you out?”

            “Sunday night.”

            “Do you need me to check it? Make sure it’s clean?”

            “No,” he said annoyed, “What do you want?”

            “I feel like I’m sitting next to a stranger.  My son was all heart.  He had a brain, two feet and was going to set this world on fire with his passion. The person I’m next to is sitting in a bar watching life fly by on a Tuesday afternoon telling stories to strangers to be their hero.”

            “What do you want from me?”

            “I want to know what happened to my son, damn it!”

            “The answer is simple-he died. Life wrote him off.”

            “That’s funny cause it looks like you wrote life off.  It didn’t give you the perks and accolades you thought it owed you and you quit. All I see is a man who made a castle out of sand and is crying because it washed away”

            “I apologize that I can’t be like you. Like everyone else. Just another brick in the wall. I played the game. I played by life’s rules, did what it asked of me and you know what- it didn’t amount to shit. It’s over-I lost.”

            “And so you cut yourself to feel that rush? You die just to live. You tell stories to make up for what life did not hand you?  You will try anything to make up for that numbness that you cast out on the world. Anything but to try and live again.”

              He finally looked up at his mother, both staring into each other’s eyes.  Eventually, she broke the gaze.  Pulling out an envelope she places it on the counter. She slides it carefully in front of him.

            “What’s this?”

            “A get out of jail free card.”

            He opened up the envelope. Inside was a plane ticket.

            “I’ve been talking to your father,” she said, “He has a job for you out in California. The plane leaves in an hour. I packed up some things in this suitcase you will need.”

            He stared silently at the ticket.

            “Son, I know you. I know what you envisioned and what you thought was going to come of your life.  You have to have big dreams in this world to steer you in a direction.  I know you can find what it is you’re searching for. You just have to leave this waiting place. Stop being apart of everyone else’s journey and go on your own to create a new chapter to tell.  So here it is laid out before you, however you want to look at it- a second chance, a big break, or just an escape.”

            She got up from her stool.  He put the ticket down and looked up at his mother.

            “So what will it be? Once again you are looking down the barrel of a gun, at Mr. All State, All Conference, All Everything called life and as a man you have to ask yourself- What direction are you going to head in?”

            He watched her all the way until the door closed behind her.  At that moment his mom exits a group of business men come hard charging into the bar ordering rounds of drinks, speaking loudly, ready to let loose. The perfect group to host in his office for an elaborate board meeting that will conclude with him being thoroughly drunk, but also lionized for his past glory.

            The pretty blonde moves over to the seat next to him. “Hey hotshot,” she giggles to herself, “How about you and I have a drink together?”

            The young man feigns a smile at her, fixing his eyes upon her beautiful smile he tries to concentrate his thoughts.  He glances back at the counter trying to avoid the penetrating stare the envelope set upon him. Turning his back to the counter he looks out the window onto the airstrip.  A plane came into view, bending around a turn coming upon the straightaway.  The plane stopped briefly before beginning a slow roll.  The plane sets in motion to accelerate at a quickening pace, roaring into the heavens and out of sight to an unknown destination.  The young man smiles, staring out into the great blue abyss of the sky thinking of the endless possibilities.

            The young woman touches his arm disrupting his daydream, “So what do you say? I’ll get us that drink?”

 “I’d appreciate that, thank you,” he said turning to the pretty blonde, “but I’ll have to take a rain check. I have a plane to catch.”

He puts the ticket in his pocket and picks up the suitcase ready to take flight on his journey.

Tis' The Season

It is Christmas Shopping Season (cue the fake cheering) and that means many of you will be going shopping for your kids' holiday gifts. Undoubtedly, you have an idea of what you will be purchasing for your child, but I am here to save you. That's right- I am here to save you (cue superman theme song) from your possible gift purchase. Having substituted a few times at elementary schools, having many nieces and nephews of my own, and generally understanding kids from my time coaching them, I understand that the wave of today for kids is technology. They want the iPads, they want the iPhones, and the iTouches. Basically, whatever the late great Steve Jobs concocted, the kids want. I am here to tell you to resist the requests of those sweet cherub faces and do not make this a very Apple Christmas.

Now let me start by saying this- I am not anti-technology or against Apple or any other tech product. I have my own iPhone that I am texting with right now, while I type away at my Apple MacBook computer that has three different tabs open to check sports, news, and entertainment. My brain is about to shutdown from sensory overload, but that is the world we live in--we are able to stay connected, to a fault, and have our every need or whim met in a nanosecond. I guess the question you are asking yourself is this- Why are you seemingly railing against products, that you use regularly, as a terrible Christmas present? Glad you asked that and the answer is simple- I grew up without them.

The streets today are like ghost towns for kids. I drive up and down neighborhood streets and I rarely see kids playing in the front yards or at the parks. If I do see kids, it's usually with an iphone in one hand as they ignore their friend who is playing a game on their iPad. There is no bike riding, football throwing, or games of tag anymore. Those times have been replaced by kids sitting in their rooms listening to music, watching a youtube video, and chatting with their friends online in coded language. Kids don't even speak to one another anymore unless it's at school and even then they talk about the links they sent to one another the previous night. The social activities of playing and hanging out at a friend's house has now been replaced by a click of a button.

I can't believe I am saying this but- When I was growing up you had to drag us in from outside for dinner. We actually would ask for more time to play with one another and the parent would begrudgingly give the allotted time of five more minutes. The summers were the best because we could play until the sun went down and those hours felt like forever, like the sun might never set on our time outside to play or ride bikes, or play baseball. All of that has now been replaced by the sweeping evolution of technology that places everything at our fingertips. Kids look around at the adults, at their friends, at everyone else that is buried in their computer or holding a phone to text, and that is all they know. I feel as if they are being robbed of a childhood spent inside staring at a screen because that was what they were given for Christmas- The newest version of a babysitter.

I want to apologize to the boy scouts right now. Growing up I thought that being a boy scout was very dorky and I made fun of you guys a lot. Now I envy the kids that are learning how to do the various activities of hiking, camping, and building a fire. The key to being a boy scout is becoming self-reliant. Teaching independence to a kid- Wow, what a noble idea. They also work together as a group, not to share a computer screen or a double prong so multiple people can listen to music, but in outdoor activities where they gain friendships, exercise, and learn how to do a variety of basic skills in case, you know, the iPad dies and you may have to do something yourself. If there ever is an apocalypse and technology is destroyed, we all will be looking to the boy scouts to lead us into the future to survive. Who else will know how to make a fire without youtube providing a video? Just the Boy Scouts.

We are becoming a society that is becoming more and more dependent on technology to guide us and help us in just about every avenue of our lives. We no longer work by trial and error or just a sheer will to do it ourselves because our culture has become one that relies on technology to do the heavy and quick lifting. And who sees that more than anybody else? The new generation of kids that are asking for the newest gadgets this Christmas so they too can be fully connected like the culture they live in. No longer do they know how to write letters (unless it's an email), or find books at the library (it's all online), or figure out directions, (they have google maps!), because it is all just given to them.

This Christmas give your child the gift of independence and buy him a bike, a scooter, or a skateboard. Oh, they have that. Well, how about buying them a model airplane, a train station, or buying material to build a ramp for an electronic car. How about you give them the gift of going camping or on a road trip to ski or have family time in a new and fun location? And I know this last one is crazy, but how about giving them a book? Let them read and work with their own imagination or ideas as they explore a whole new world that is not digital or exists in some mythical cloud in the sky (the concept of which I have yet to grasp).

The tech world is growing fast and it is causing all of us to participate in a race in which the speed is too fast paced for us. We are continually playing catch up in our worlds to stay afloat of new Facebook statuses, new device updates, what can be watched on Netflix, and what is "trending." So how about we slow down our world and go at our own pace. A pace where our kids see that they don't always have to be digitally connected or scared to go outside and play and maybe miss an online chat or a youtube clip with their friends. Kids will always be able to watch or catch up on their iPad, iPhone, tablet, or whatever gadget they choose to use, but their childhood days are as long as those summer nights, when the sun seems hesitant to give way to the moon. Yet it does and those days that felt like they would never end eventually fade away forever. So this Christmas give your kid the best gift imaginable. Their Childhood.

Stop Celebrating!!!!

Stop Having Fun!!! Don't Get Excited!!! Knock Off All That Celebrating!!! No, Really- Stop Celebrating!!!!

That is what many high school educators and board members are telling high school athletes all over the nation. This rule outlawing displays of excitement or rejoicing in triumph has reared its ugly head in Boston when High School QB Matt Owens, raised his arm in a moment of triumph, was flagged for unsportsmanlike conduct. Really? How is being excited about the biggest play in your life- a breakaway, game clinching touchdown run in the state championship game- an act of unsportsmanlike conduct? I would have flagged the kid for not being excited! I would have flagged him for not being overjoyed about the most thrilling play of his life that led to a state championship.

The school appealed to the high school athletic association, who created the rule, to seek out justice in this horrendous call. Surely, the association must understand that in a brief moment of joy that a kid is bound to get excited. The adults that created this rule, of no taunting, must know that this jubilant celebration was just a kid that was caught up in a moment that he had probably dreamed of, but never thought would ever happen. Owen's was rapped in the elation of winning a championship for his teammates, who also double as his best friends, and raised his arm while running to their ultimate goal- A State Title. The overseer's of the rule book should understand Owen's was not taunting, but was being an excited teenager. As an adult they must be able to, at some point, remember back to a time growing up as a high schooler a feeling of achievement that made them break out in celebration? A tremendous athletic performance of their own? Making honor roll? Having the the girl you always liked saying "yes" when you asked her to a dance?  Factoring all of this in the association had to have overturned this call, right?  Nope. The call was upheld. Owens and his team had lost the state championship game because he celebrated an amazing moment.

Imagine this for a second- You are a student that had a huge test, the biggest test of your life; a test that you would only get one shot at taking. You are determined to ace that test. You stay up late and study for weeks; hour upon hour of constant studying to ensure that you are prepared to be successful. You even pass up hanging out with your friends just to make sure you get a great grade on this test. Then you take the test and when you get your test back you see for the first time a grade of a hundred percent. Yesss!!! Best score in the class. You stand up and you shout in excitement. All of your hard work, dedication, and sacrifice had paid off as evidence of your perfect score. The teacher comes over to you, rips the test out of your hand, and tears it up. The teacher is incensed at your excitement in front of the class and promptly gives you an F. The teacher says that your celebration hurt the feelings of the other kids in the class that had not faired as well on the test. What?!?!?!? Essentially that is what happened in this championship game where an A effort was turned into an F for fraudulent call.

Luckily, no flags will be thrown for celebrating a good grade because the classroom is a place where you can excel and your exploits and effort can be lauded by not only yourself, but the faculty as well.  Why can't the same idea of celebrating a great play on the field be conveyed in the same context as getting a great grade in the classroom. Isn't the field of play just an extension of the classroom for the student-athlete? Where you work hard to provide and gain successful results. That is what we are conditioned to do, right?

However, in our society of extreme sensitivity and trumped up overreactions we coddle the feelings of parents and kids in an effort to not make them feel like the targeted kid in a game of dodgeball. We can't celebrate victory, triumph, or success because it may make Johnny BallGame not feel so good about himself. Hey, the thing of it is that we don't always win. There will always be kids who are better than other kids at sports. Call it Darwinism, call it genetics, call it luck,  but its a fact that some people are better at sports, or school, or playing an instrument, or what have you than other kids. And its not just in adolescence, but in adult life, too, where someone naturally will be better at a given activity or subject. Point being, we need to teach our kids how to watch someone else celebrate their achievements without envy or jealousy or hatred because our child was not as good in that particular moment. Kids can't always win trophies and ribbons because in giving everyone a prize we rob them of a basic truth of life- You don't always win. Yet, we have rule books and guidelines that rob young adults of success, while sparring the feelings and rewarding those who are not as good.

Kids are robbed by adults that are not only allowed to "create the rules", but also are allowed to "interpret the rules"in a manner they see fit- for that given moment. Instead of admitting the rule(s) are flawed adults just hide behind the sorry adage of , "Well, the rules are the rules." Well, the rules are not always right or "interpreted" correctly. What we need are adults admitting fault and being held accountable for mistakes because it is not always correct that adults know best. Sometimes even adults should refer to a rule book on how to be exemplary role models to kids, especially when you make a mistake. Adults admitting fault- Now that would be something to celebrate.

A Tale of Two Grandfathers'

Recently, my fiance, Mary, and I had conversations with my two grandfathers'. My Papa Fred aka Otis's Grandpa, known by this name because of the dog he had, and my Grandpa Maurie aka Sammy's Grandpa, once again named after the dog he once owned, sat down with us to recount their lives. It was amazing how these two men, separated by nearly twenty years in age, different cultural backgrounds- My grandpa Maurie is a 2nd generation American from Germany who grew up in Iowa during the Great Depression, while my Papa Fred is 1st Generation American from Mexico who grew up poor right here in the Silicon Valley in the late 30's- can have such strikingly similar personalities and beliefs.

The defining portrait of these two men comes from their poor upbringings. It was in not having anything growing up that motivated and spurred these men to become successful. They were limited in money, but made up for it with determination and a resilient attitude that harkens back to their ancestors that paved the way for them to be successful in this country. As my Papa Fred said, "The goal of each new generation is to be more successful than the previous one." My grandfather's no doubt did that and in the process were able to successfully share their prosperity and their story with their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

And without further adieu here is the story of two grandfather's, in their own words, who embarked upon a journey that led them from famine to feast. Enjoy.

                                                   Life In The Great Depression

                                                                                        By

                                                             Mark Cuen

           My Grandfather was 13 years old when the Great Depression hit his small town of Pomeroy, Iowa.  My Great-Grandfather at the time was lucky enough to have a job as both the County Supervisor and have work on his farm.  Unfortunately, Great-Grandfather’s position and generosity caused his downfall as he co-signed on many of the townspeople’s homes and other ventures and lost all of the families money.  In October 1929 my grandfather was ordered to go to the bank only to find out that the bank was closed and that the president of the bank, a family friend, had taken whatever money he could grab and fled to Canada.

      My father, being county supervisor, headed up the WPA or the Work Progress Association that would pick up the men and travel around digging ditches.  Many of the men would plead and beg to get on for work with the WPA, many of whom were very close friends with my father.  However, he would have to turn them away because they simply had to many people for the job.  Dad could not stand the sight of men in this condition and would pay money out of his own pocket to help out some of these struggling friends of his.  Some of the men would simply work for drinks if no money would be exchanged. Anything to numb the pain.

 Also, on a trip to the dentist my brothers and I took eggs from the farm as payment for their dentist trip. Trading goods was the practiced method during this time when most people had not a cent to their name. 

            Luckily, for me, I had a few things that worked in my favor during this time. Though my dad had a steady job the money he made would be handed over to the bank for all of the notes he co-signed. Going in the family’s favor was that my sister, Veronica, had a good job in Fort Dodge at a company called Gates Dry Goods as the bookkeeper.  The money that Veronica made she sent to us to help pay off the debt and keep the family somewhat above water.   Furthermore, the farmland of my family that produced oat, corn, and barley along with my mother's garden helped produce enough food for the family to eat.  During those days I would wake up early in the morning, when it was still pitch black outside and help get the day ready to farm. I would then go to school for half the day leaving school early to get back and help with the crops on the farm of his brother’s land. I even helped butcher a pig and put the excess in lard; We did not have a freezer, and that pig would last all winter long. 

           My sister Veronica changed my life. There was a time when I was in high school and I did not know if I would go to college. I always wanted to go, but with the times I wasn't sure I would ever leave Pomeroy. I was resigned to the fact that I would have to stay in town forever, working menial jobs at a furniture store or a factory. I wanted to leave- badly. I knew there was more for me than Pomeroy. It was the generosity of my sister Veronica who paved the way for me to go to college at St. Ambrose. It cost her $1500 dollars for the entirety of my schooling at St. Ambrose. That was a lot of money back then. Without Veronica to help I never would have had any opportunity. I certainly wouldn't be here right now. Veronica sending me to college was the moment that changed my life forever.          

            It is hard for me to recount these days when I would see my friend’s mothers begging for money out in the street. Or when I would have to cut out the back of my shoe because my feet were getting too big.  During the rainy days I would wear bags over my shoes so not get my feet wet.  Though the times were rough I feel fortunate for everything I had because even though it was difficult I had much more than many of the other children in town.  I'll tell you this- Even though times were bad and as funny as it sounds I still kinda long for those days.

First Generation American,

Sheet Metal Worker Father, Grandfather, and Great-grandfather

By

Mary Anderson

            I don’t have nothing to hide. My parents came to Fremont, which was at that time Russel City. They migrated north for money and work. My father, Froylan Duarte Cuen, was born July 20, 1905 in Nacozari, Sonora, Mexico. My mother, Anita Carillo Mata was born July 31, 1916 in Zacapu, Michoacan, Mexico. My grandfather on my mother’s side worked for the railroad in Mexico. My father was older when he moved here. My Uncle came to California with his wife and they wrote to my dad and the rest of the family and told them to come out to California because there was work here. And they ended up in Corcoran, down past Fresno in southern California. My father and mother met at a church here in San Jose. My mother was from Hayward.

            I was born in San Jose in 1937. During the second World War, we actually moved to Point Richmond. My father ran a brickyard out there where they make bricks. My Uncles all lived with us and commuted to Richmond because they worked there in the shipyard. So, in 1942 the war ended and we came back to San Jose. We used to live here on the east side of town and when we came back in 1946 we bought a house on 13th street, which was strictly Italian people. So we lived there and I went to Grant School and then from there went to Peter Burnett High School and from there I decided to go to a technical school and I took Aeronautics. When I was 16 or 17 years old I used to fly out of Hillview Airport with just a stick and a couple of pedals; no steering wheel. I always enjoyed flying even when I was little. So I went to the technical school and I learned aircraft, craft, and engine. We didn’t have jets and then just when I was getting into my senior year, the jets came and so everything else beyond that was changing and here I was coming out with an engine and a craft license.

             I worked nights and I went to school days. I worked from 12 midnight until 7 o’clock in the morning and then I went to school from 9 o’clock to three o’clock. Then I went home and went to bed. I was working because the family had no money. We always had money to eat though, and we had a lot of people that my dad took care of.  

            After I graduated, I went to work. I worked in electronics for a while and from there I went into metal working. I worked with iron and steel and tanks. To be exact, I worked on the tanks that they use for the nuclear centers. I worked there for about 13 years up there is south San Francisco. There was no freeways when I went from here to there every day. There was the El Camino and then they had what they called the Bay Shore Highway. Stoplights all the way out.  It was bumper to bumper back then also. It took us over an hour to make it there and I did it every day for 13 years. I used to buy a car for about 100 dollars and then run it until it died of natural causes and then I’d buy another one and do the same thing.

             I came back to San Jose and was hired on at this one company and had to join a sheet metal union, which cost us at that time 500 bucks. That was 40 years ago. I started paying dues from then on. I never really wanted to be in management but somehow or another it ended up that I was in management. I worked for Langedorf Bakereies, building equipment for them. I worked at Magnusson building machinery for them and I worked at Master Metals. A lot of your electronic companies, I was there. And a lot of your engineering companies, I was also there. I worked at Moffit Field and Lockheed.  At Lockheed they had guards. We worked where they were building bricks for the shuttle and they didn’t want you to see so they had this gigantic curtain all around the area where these people were working. Thirty feet high. But we were working 40 or 50 feet in the air, so we were way above the curtain and we could see what was going on. The original NASA shuttle had the bricks out there so that when it hit the atmosphere, it wouldn’t burn up. My last job was the sharks arena. I was a superintendent and I ran a shop for all the duct work that was made to be out into the arena. So that was my last job and I retired when I was 56. And I’ve been retired ever since.

            I met my wife in high school. She was going to Notre Dame and I was going to San Jose Technical High. She was with me for all those different jobs. Somebody had to spend all that money because I didn’t have time. She knows I tell the truth. We married in 1956. My son Fred Jesse was born in 1957, he was named after his two grandfathers, he wasn’t named after me. Jesse for Jesus, you know, Jesus? For me, the kids have always been number one. I’ve always, you know..if it had been up to me there would have been a lot of them running around. But my wife, she was from a small family. But her sister had like 7 or 8 kids and her brother had 6 or 7 kids and we ended up with 2. But that meant that we didn’t have to share cupcakes (when the kids had birthdays). My daughter, Teresa was born 4 years after Fred, in 1961. This city was a very safe city, nothing happened here. I think that this was the best place to raise children. I still think it’s the best. Because you have everything here. You can go to the ocean, you can go the mountains, you can go to the snow. I mean, you have everything and the temperature normally stays the same here all the time. I mean you get a few hot days of a hundred, but you can count them on one hand. The weather has a lot to do with your ability to work and it’s nicer to work in a nice temperature. You can work outside. I work outside, like I said. I worked all over the area. And then you watch this place grow from all these different orchards to hardtop now. Progress has been here and that is the reason why we are so fortunate.