Memory Lane

It's been fun so far, writing about the simple pleasures of my life - music, books, baseball, "up north", and the rest.  But there was another reason I started this blog.  That was to fulfill my obligation to document the family history.  True, a lot of my posts so far have included memories of a specific nature.  What I'm referring to now is a more orderly narration of life in the Burk family over the last 30 years plus.  And perhaps even a little further back into earlier Burk and LeRoy family history. 

In recent years Nancy has actually taken the lead on this quest with her own blog and her growing interest in digital photography.  But for many years, what I call the 35mm era, it was mainly my job to take pictures of family vacations, cottage visits, birthdays, and other special occasions.  As a result, I have a little over 7000 slides and several boxes of prints to review, remember, share and write about.  I am in possession of much of the photographic history of previous generations as well.  So this may take a while. But as I have often said, we have all the time there is.  I plan to take it in small chunks, mixing in the formal trip down Memory Lane with other posts on topics of interest on the order of what you have seen so far.  Wish me luck.

As an initial offering, I'd like to start at the beginning of the Burk/LeRoy branch of the family - the wedding of Charles Edward and Nancy Louise in June of 1980.  It was a grand affair, held with all the pomp and regalia that the judge's chambers of the Grosse Pointe Woods City Hall could offer.  Okay, so the pomp came later.  It was a small ceremony with only immediate family in attendance.  Small, but graceful, and memorable.  Here are a couple of shots of the moment of truth.  The handsome dude standing next to the other handsome dude is my best man, Bob, an old army buddy.  The matron of honor is Barbara, the Bride's sister-in-law.  The gent in the robes is the judge.  More about him later.  And the pensive observers in the first shot are Rae and Marge, the parents of the Bride.

This is a shot of the happy mothers greeting their new "children" immediately upon completion of the vows, with appropriate levels of enthusiasm.

And here is the first picture taken of the new couple.  Odd how the Bride looks timeless in her pretty dress, but the groom is, well, caught in the penumbra of the late 70s and early 80s, some would say to this day.  Nice hair.

And the wedding party later that day at the post-ceremony gathering at our first home on Huntington in Harper Woods.

 



A little later we held a dinner at a local restaurant attended by all the principals of the newly-formed Burk/LeRoy clan.  Here are a couple of shots of this august group, before dinner but after at least one glass of wine each.  This first one is of several from the Burk side, from left to right my baby sister Cindy, my parents Wendell and Dolores, my sister-in-law Sue and my brother Jeff.

Here we have my sister Wendy with Rae and Marge (who is gleefully contemplating having me as her son-in-law - for life).

Missing from the montage is Nancy's brother David who was behind the camera that day.  David will make his inaugural appearance in this blog a little further down the road.

Also you may have noticed that my best man had sort of a glow this day.  He claimed it was because of an especially sunny outing to Point Pelee the day before.  But I have another theory.  Just before the ceremony Bob gave me a bottle of Johnny Walker Red as a wedding present which I paid little attention to at the time as we were heading out the door.  The next day as I was putting the wedding presents away, I noticed that the Johnny Walker was only half full. Check it out.  He seems just a little too happy, don't you think?

And to wrap up this first step on the road to what is now 32 years plus, a final shot of me and my Bride, blissfully processing just what has happened on this day and feeling very good about the future. 

And now back to the judge. Apparently he was a chronic gambler whose addiction was slowly creeping into his personal and professional lives. About a year after our wedding the poor fellow committed suicide in his chambers. For years after that at family gatherings Rae would take me aside and mention that he was pretty sure there was a local ordinance that nullified all official acts performed by a city official who subsequently took his own life on city property. Being only freshly admitted to membership in the Pointes, I was initially concerned that there might be something to this. After all, to a Bay City boy Grosse Pointe can at times be a little weird (no socks, gated parks, special permits for operating a motor vehicle without an interior trim package, stuff like that). Over time, as I adjusted to Rae's dry sense of humor, my concern eventually faded. But I have to admit, I've never actually looked it up.

And for those of you who liked the Lunch Poetry post, here are a couple more invitations from the archives.

This one from April of 1997 is set to the tune of the song America.  I call it  My Taco, Tis of Thee.

We come each week, and see

Meals handled service free,

Our fears we bring.

Oh, God, the food we've tried,

Great globs of beans refried,

We co-ome de-ee-spite our pride,

We-ee need the fling.

 

And this selection from the same month is a rewrite of three popular nursery rhymes.  The first one features my partner in lunch-poetry management and delivery - Ms. Laura.  And in case you're a little rusty in this area, the second one is set to Rock-a-bye Baby.  I call the collection Father Goose.

 

Quite Contrary

Mistress Laura, see your aura,

How do you keep your glow?

With taco shells and "What the Hell"s

And lotsa friends in tow.

 

Rock-a-bye Paradigm

Rock the boat, maybe, you'll move to the top.

When the change grows, resistance will stop.

When the change takes, old thinkers will fall,

And down will come paradigms harmful to all.

Flocking Habits

Birds of a feather, flock together,

Especially men (what swine!)

But with steady voice, I make my choice.

You all and the Bell suit me fine.

 

Until next time.

     

Baseball

I have sort of a love/hate relationship with baseball, and its little cousin softball. The love part is the Tigers. The hate part is that baseball is the only sport that I've ever given the old college try and was just never any good at. It's even harder than golf.

I had some noteworthy successes with organized basketball, football and tennis in my school years, and have always been a slightly above average bowler. With the addition of my new big-honkin' driver my golf game is even coming around. But aside from being able to hold my own in a backyard game of catch, my baseball skills are abysmal. Ground balls scare the life out of me, any fly ball over 20 feet high will likely land at my feet, my throwing arm is wimpy, and for me the thought of standing in a batter's box waiting for someone to throw a small, dense object as hard as they can at a target a few feet from my head makes no sense at all.

Actually, I'm not even that good. My only real baseball experience was trying out for Little League, after which a well-meaning parent-coach suggested I try softball where the ball is twice as big and the pitcher has to throw underhand. Now true, top-of-the line fast pitch softball is as or even more difficult than almost any form of baseball other than college or pro. But that's not where I'm going. I'm talking slow pitch.

After failing to distinguish myself while playing on intramural slow pitch teams in college and in the Army, I was relegated in my adult life to the lowest form of the sport - blooperball - whose only similarity to baseball is that there are three bases and something that serves as home plate but looks much more like the flip side of a car mat. And I was even mediocre at that despite the fact that the ball is nearly the size of a cantaloupe. My lifetime batting average in the men's blooperball league I played in during my 20s was about .300 - impressive until you realize that most blooperball players hit about .800. Pathetic.

But enough of the dark side, which is immensely overshadowed by the upside - the Tigers. I have been a Tigers fan all my life. As a kid I remember listening from my bedroom window in Bay City as the play by play of Tigers games wafted through my window from the back porch next door, where the neighbors often listened to the radio broadcasts and played cards. Later when I received my first transistor radio, its most important job was bringing me AM 790, the local Tigers affiliate.

Now we have digital hi-def cable, XM radio, pod-casts, Game Day, Orb or Slingbox (Internet services that can send your home cable signal anywhere) and MLB.com. My offspring in Austin and Hoboken as well as my parents in Florida can and do follow the Tigers' every move with ease. But despite the geometric improvements in technology, the essential experience remains the same - waiting for and learning what happens on the next pitch.

The guessing game between the pitcher and the batter is the crux of baseball. This happens with each pitch (almost three hundred times in a typical game) and in my opinion offers more excitement and demands more of the serious fan than any other sport. When is the batter likely to swing based on his history? What pitches are working for the pitcher tonight and how is his control? What's the ball and strike count on the batter?  Where is the pitcher in his total pitch count? Will the runners be moving? Is the defense positioned correctly for the situation? All these questions are asked and answered for every pitch, decisions are made, and the pitcher goes into his wind-up or into the stretch if there are runners on base.  Will it be a 95 mile an hour fast ball on the outside corner (virtually unhittable), a nasty slider in the dirt that induces a swing that misses by a foot, or a 75 mile an hour hanging curve in the middle of the plate that ends up in the left-field bleachers.  For Tigers fans, picture Jose Valverde in the bottom of the ninth with a two-run lead, going into his goofy motion with runners at second and third and a 3-2 count on the batter (sound familar?)  I get goosebumps just thinking about it.

Then there is the righty-lefty thing. Conventional wisdom is that right-handed batters do better against left-handed pitchers, and vice versa, because they can see the in-coming pitch better and make better swings. And there is a vast body of statistical information (thank the advent of the personal computer) to support the theory. This leads to periodic fits of player substitutions and counter-substitutions in critical game situations that drive fans nuts. However, it also means that among major spectator sports, baseball is one of if not the most dependent on situational analysis and strategy, which for the knowledgeable fan can be mesmerizing.

But the beauty of the game is that it can also be enjoyed casually, just enjoying (or lamenting over) the results and ignoring all this thinking and plotting among the players. And the fact that there are so many games in a season (162) means that the value of each individual game is less than in any other team sport. Indeed, even a successful team can lose over 70 times in a season. So you can have a good time taking in a baseball game even if your team loses, knowing that they can make it up tomorrow. This may be a bit of sports heresy, but being able to enjoy the game regardless of outcome has a value. And it's easiest to do in baseball.

Of course all the warm and fuzzy stuff goes out the window if you make the playoffs. The post-season comes with all the angst of the Super Bowl or the Final Four, as the Tigers learned once again this week. The agony of blowing a two-run lead in the bottom of the ninth on Wednesday - and failing to put the Athletics away - was replaced with the ecstasy on Thursday night of Justin Verlander's masterful performance and the win that earned the Tigers a berth in the AL Championship Series. But no one who has followed the Tigers this year was at all surprised by these happenings, as this is how the entire 2012 season has gone.  Bums one day, heroes the next.

Despite the current ups and downs, my affection for the Tigers is secure as it is rooted in a lifetime of wonderful experiences. I remember my first trip to old Briggs Stadium (later known as Tiger Stadium) as part of a church youth group outing circa 1958. Later there were many Tigers trips with my school and work friends, often to take in double-headers (an extinct event these days - two games purposely scheduled and played back-to-back on the same day with about a 20 minute break in between, all offered for the price of one ticket).

After moving to the Detroit area in 1980 a trip to the ball park became a regular thing, many times with business associates from around the country who were in Detroit for training or meetings. Some of my fondest memories of Tiger Stadium were games with big-time baseball fans from New York, Cincinnati or Philadelphia, all huge baseball towns. Though our loyalties varied, a mutual appreciation of baseball added a rich texture to my personal as well as professional relationships with these individuals.

On one memorable occasion during the last season the Tigers played at Tiger Stadium, two of our party were the proud recipients of foul balls - from the same at bat. The first was hit directly into the glove of a devoted fan (Joe - you know who you are) who had announced not five minutes earlier that despite his many trips to Tiger Stadium he (then in his mid-40s) had never caught a foul ball. I swear - he barely moved his glove. And I can still see the ear-to-ear grin on his face. Truth is stranger than fiction.

A few pitches later another foul ball screamed over our heads (our seats were directly behind home plate in the upper deck), ricocheted off the seats and rolled down the cement steps where a friend from Brooklyn (another Joe) retrieved it and awarded it to my younger daughter, Cathy. Of course, as I was scoring the game, I noted both incidents in the margin and kept that score sheet on my office wall for many years. Can't tell you how many times I have told this story, complete with the score sheet as a visual aid. Upon our departure from our 24th floor office suite in the McNamara Building a few years ago I presented the score sheet to the first Joe as a keepsake. My guess is that Joe has since told this story himself a few more times.

Finally, no discussion of Burk family baseball history would be complete without at least a brief mention of the 1984 season. That was the year I attended the most games and from which I have many memories. A good friend of mine had a connection with a Tiger Stadium employee. Before the season started, I asked this friend of a friend to get the best seats he could for 11 different games, including opening day and the last game of the season. For some games I bought two tickets, but for most I asked for four. And as history has recorded, my advance purchase was a brilliant stroke of luck.

The Tigers led the league wire-to-wire in 1984, winning nine of their first 10 games, 18 of their first 20 and 35 of their first 40.  They went on to win 104 games and the World Series. The Burk family saw a lot of it in person. I remember one double-header with my parents (both avid baseball fans - my father always, my mother since Mark "The Bird" Fidrych hit the scene in 1976) where we sat about five rows back in the lower deck right behind home plate. As my mother was a huge Lance Parish fan (the Tigers catcher), this was a good time.  There was another game where we sat two rows back from the Tigers bull pen (along the third-base line in those days) and my son Ted ended up with a foul ball fielded by Randy O'Neal, a reliever who was warming up at the time. Of the 11 games I attended that year, the Tigers won eight. What a ride.

These days the tradition has continued for our whole family. Nancy and I have been to Comerica Park a few times this year to see the Tigers and once to Toledo to see the Mudhens, a Tigers farm team. I also made it to a Brewers game during my last business trip to Milwaukee (where I personally thanked the fans for sending Prince Fielder to the Tigers). In my own spaces I almost always have the game on the radio or TV, whether at home, at the cottage, on the beach or in the car - XM radio rocks.

My parents are also everyday baseball fans. My dad watches the Rays on local TV in Florida - he's become a Rays fan in recent years - and my mother catches the Tigers on a laptop web link a few feet away. Intense. And my kids in other parts of the country catch as many games as they can through the Internet or their cable packages. Whenever one of us is at a ball park we routinely text pictures of the field to each other, bragging about how much fun we're having (this has been known to happen simultaneously from multiple ball parks). The bottom line is that baseball, and especially the Tigers, remains a great source of Burk family fun.

Tonight as I complete this post, the Yankees have just defeated the Orioles. So it's off to New York for the Tigers and another series with the Yankees. We've beaten them the last two times we've met them in the playoffs, and we're looking for the hat trick.

So, GO TIGERS! And I'll see you at the ball park.

 

Reading

Given the voracious approach to reading that several of my closest friends take, I am barely qualified to comment on this subject. But since this is my blog, here goes.
 
One of my hobbies has always been reading. True, it has often taken third chair to two other media-based passions - movies and music. But it has always been lurking around, a full partner in the entertainment triumvirate and in some ways the senior partner. I was into reading before I even knew about movies and music, as any bright-eyed second grader should be (of course, that was the 50s. Now it's as any preschooler should be). I had the fortunate circumstance of growing up in an era and a neighborhood (the west side of Bay City, Michigan) where all the important places in my life were a few blocks apart. My trusty one-speed was all I needed to circumnavigate the universe. My elementary, middle and high schools were each about eight blocks from my house. My father's combination grocery/short-order grill business, where in my early teens I scrubbed floors and washed dishes, was only ten blocks from home.

Standing kitty-corner from my father's store was the public library, and it was a hallowed place. It had several creaky floors, endless rows of imposing shelves, heavy wooden reading tables and chairs, and just about all the books there were, or so I believed at the time. My elementary school was only three blocks from the library, so there were frequent visits during class hours to return and select new books. And there was a story hour on Saturdays during which one of the librarians would read books aloud to age-appropriate groupings. I remember those experiences vividly, and believe they were not only the roots of my love for books but also the seeds of my subsequent interest in movies - hearing stories through the words and interpretations of others.

Over the years I have observed that the habits of readers vary a great deal. There are readers who can't get through the day without communing with the written word at least for a few minutes but most often for much longer than that. They frequent libraries, they mine used book stores, they hold Amazon Gold cards, they hole up for hours at a time with first-day purchases from favorite authors. I'm not one of these people. While I still consider myself a serious reader, I take books (like I do most things in life) at a more leisurely pace. My intent is not necessarily to get through a large volume of material, although that is certainly an admirable pursuit for those who claim it. Rather, I like to read at an even pace, digesting the material thoroughly, and getting to know the characters in the story. Or if it's a non-fiction work (which is about 50% of my reading life) integrating the new material with what I already know about the subject and perhaps re-forming opinions. I often find myself rereading an earlier portion of a book to clarify a later part and make sure I didn't miss something. As such I'm what might be called a plodder in the reading world, completing a couple of books a month as opposed to several in my circle who no doubt put away a couple a week, if not more. Still, I love it so.

My earliest memories of being caught up in the world of words was a series of stories about a character named Freddy the Pig by Walter R. Brooks that I started reading in third grade. They were really adventure stories set in a barnyard where, of course, the animals could all talk to each other.  But atypically for children's stories of the time, these animals could also talk to humans when they chose to (Wikipedia has a nice summary of the series, which is available again after decades of being out of print). Here's a typical rendering of Freddie.

Brooks and his stories based on the plausible impossible had quite an impression on me as I still favor the world of fantasy and science fiction in both books and movies. I'm a Trekker (as opposed to a Trekkie) sporting a number of Star Trek novels on my shelf along with a little Isaac Asimov, Michael Crichton, Frank Herbert, just about everything Stephen King ever wrote, and of course the holy grails of fantasy past and present - Tolkien's Lord of the Rings (including the Hobbit and the Silmarillion) and J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series. Can't help it. They are fun.

Of course, I have developed a lot of other interests over the years, especially in the non-fiction category. For the past several years I have read a number of presidential biographies, with a focus on the early years of the republic. I've also dug into the post-revolution war years (Civil, WW1 and WW2) as I find it fascinating to study how leaders in crisis managed their affairs and what they really thought (or at least what their biographers think they thought). One fact that has leapt off the pages of the history I've read has been how little has changed since the First Continental Congress. The divisive nature of our society and the politics that give it voice seem to be as old as the nation itself. Oddly, I take some comfort in that.  We're still young as countries go, but we seem to have a measure of resilience.  It sort of puts the political immobility of recent years in perspective as an era that will pass, as others have.

But back to reading. One of my favorite times in reading was the period I lovingly remember as the Ladies' Book Club at work. I'm not sure how I came to think of it by that name as there were other men involved. Perhaps the first time I attended I was the only one. The important thing is that I enjoyed the book club a great deal as it pushed me out of my niches. As a result I was reading all manner of fiction and non-fiction, even poetry, that I would have never selected on my own. And it was great.

The very first book I read for the club is still one of my favorites - The Song of the Dodo by David Quammen. It's a treatise on how the world of nature really works. It is based on a study of the accelerated evolution that has taken place in a number of isolated environments around the world. It's a tough read, as the author alternates narration of his field experiences with not-so-plain-English explanations of the underlying science, but well worth the effort. I've ploughed through it twice so far and will undoubtedly do so again. I've never quite looked at Planet Earth the same way since reading Quammen.

Unfortunately, repeated reorganizations at work and finally the move to a virtual office environment five years ago shredded what was left of the Ladies' Book Club. I miss it. I miss the books and the discussions.

But I've forged ahead on my own, mostly back in my niches. Recent reads I enjoyed and would recommend are Stephen King's 11/22/63, a clever story about time travel wrapped around the JFK assassination, and As time Goes By by Michael Walsh, a telling of what happens to Rick, Sam, Ilsa and others after the famous airport scene in Casablanca, crafted from the unused material developed for the seven different screenplays that were written for the movie. The book provides the backstories of the main characters and resolves the fates of all with a number of twists. Another recommendation for sports fans is Three and Out by John Bacon, the inside story of what really happened during the years Rich Rod was the Michigan football coach. The book is an interesting dissection of the politics of big time college sports. But enough of recommendations. I know serious readers already have a long queue of books they are just waiting to get to. But if any of you have a title or two to recommend, or have any interest in resurrecting some form of the old book club, please let me know. I seem to have more time for reading these days :-).

And an update on my earlier post The Purge. A few photos to demo how it really works. Here are a couple of shots during the phase known as "improvement mess". Note the deep involvement of the client.

And the new pantry, fully purged and ready for service. Note the room for growth.

 

I still work for food.

What I Miss/Don't Miss About Work - So Far

It may be a little early to visit this issue fully, but I thought I would share my initial thoughts after nearly three months of retirement, on the eve of the new fiscal year. Not enough time has passed yet to grasp the big picture, but it's been long enough to sense that something profound has happened.

First, the easy part - what I don't miss. Number one on the list is the need for urgency. The challenge at work was always how well I could do something in the allotted time. As those who know me well would attest, my first reaction to that challenge was to do whatever I could to get more time - plan ahead, start early, put time back in my calendar by pushing out non-critical items, and when needed put in extra hours. For the most part, these tactics worked well for the task at hand. But even the most proficient planning practices do not create more time. They only direct time to certain priorities, at the expense of other activities. So the cost for appeasing my reluctance to be rushed was to not get to other things that were fun and often more personally rewarding. In retirement, this problem has virtually disappeared. So far I have found that the need for urgency seldom arises. Of course, it never goes away completely. There are always family, health and safety issues that come up. But the percentage of time I have to putter my way through my various avocations at a preferred pace is enormous in comparison to pre-retirement. And it feels great.

Number two on the don't-miss list are the endless rules and regulations that govern behavior at work. Some of you may be wrinkling your brows at this admission as, it's true, I used structure in my working life like a tomahawk. Protocols, work flow diagrams, timelines - the dreaded Project Management Guidelines - I wielded like Obiwan's light saber. But in my defense, it was all driven by what I felt was the need to "get it right" and "get it right the first time" whenever possible. It was my way of reconciling the need for urgency noted above with the constraints of the work place, which in the Federal bureaucracy (and especially research) could be overwhelming. I would likely do it all over again the same way if life were rewound. But now, it's different. The only rules I am bound by are nature's, my conscience, and of course those negotiated with my Bride (actually, these should have been listed first :-) And this, too, feels great.

A third item I don't miss, at least in recent years, are the poor support services. I don't miss repeated efforts to get the same things fixed, without success. I don't miss lingering help desk tickets, the elevated listings of items not fixed by the help desks, or the meetings to create the elevated listings. And I really don't miss the time lost by me and my coworkers to perform all of these follow ups. Well, you get the picture. My apologies to those of you still fighting the support wars for even bringing this up. But I remain available if anyone needs help drafting a "nasty gram" to deal with an especially grievous breakdown in customer service. It's a skill set I'd like to preserve.

But enough of the dark side. What do I miss about work? Number one on the list - no big surprise here - the people. I miss visiting with my work friends, keeping up with their lives and just knowing that they are well. I still think about them (you) and wonder how people are doing. I get some updates from former colleagues that are still in my social circle (golf, music parties, lunches). And I do get occasional blog post comments, which are always welcome. But I would like to have more. I have email addresses for most of my old friends that I don't see any more and plan to work this issue a little harder from my end.

Number two on the do-miss list (and this was a surprise to me) is just being helpful. Not that I don't have plenty of home-based trade in this area, but that's different. I spent 40 years in the IRS, 33 as a manager. I learned to navigate the environment. I don't miss the administrative tasks. But resolving disagreements, sorting out the logic of a research challenge, managing client relationships - those were fun and rewarding. I actually do miss being in the mix, at least every once in a while.

And a third item to note - I miss downtown. Yes, the commute can be a pain, and parking is always a hassle. But just walking the streets, feeling the activity, noticing what might be changing - I sort of miss that. I have been frequenting downtown Detroit in one capacity or another since 1972. My final few years of working from home were a helpful transition, but even through that time I knew when I would next be cruising down Lake Shore and Jefferson, past the Ren Cen and "The Fist", and up Woodward to my office. I'm keeping my hand in by meeting friends downtown for lunch every so often. And I am enjoying those outings a great deal.

These are my sentiments so far. I'll take another reading of what I do and don't miss about work in a few months and see what else shows up. For now, even considering the things I do miss, I remain convinced that my decision to retire when I did was the right one.

And a couple of updates on previous posts.

The Purge - still going well. All the rooms of both the Grosse Pointe house and the cottage have been reformatted or defragged as appropriate, as have a fair number of the closets and other storage bins. Most noteworthy among these so far was the cleanout of the under stair storage off the basement rec room. Over the years a growing inventory of old electronics were strewn among several boxes of school-era memorabilia, bags of old photos from previous generations of Burks and LeRoys, an old library of reel-to-reel tapes, and at least a two-year supply of Wiser's Deluxe (actually found a case of this family staple that I didn't know I had). The photos, memorabilia and whisky are all now in their respective bins and ready for further processing. The reel-to-reel tapes are on the bubble. The bulk of the electronics walked "the concrete mile" to the curb (although as expected almost all were "picked" prior to the arrival of the trash collectors).  Next up - the pantry.

Lunch Poetry - today's offering. This little ditty was inspired by the melt down that was slowly taking place in the old District Office in 1997, especially in the Collection Division. It is set to the lyrics and music of Simon & Garfunkel's At the Zoo. Two notes. The term FOPI (pronounced fo'-pee) in Line 7 refers to a comparative statistical index on enforcement activity that was imposed by the IRS National Office in the mid-90s. The FOPI turned out to be pretty destructive to public relations and was a major contributor to the demise of the old district structure in 2000. The term QU in Line 14 refers to the Quality Underground, a small group of loyalists who met periodically after hours at the Lindell AC to have a few beers, commiserate and recharge. As it was a secret society, I can say no more on the advice of counsel :-) Enjoy.

At the Zoo

 

You should believe it.

I think it's true.

 

Our leaders search for honesty,

And act like they're sincere,

And the analysts are kindly

But they're bummed.

 

The FOPI's made us skeptical

Of changes in our data.

And the personnel selections

Make us numb.

 

Branch chiefs are reactionaries.

Managers need missionaries.

Support staffs plot in secrecy, and

The QU turns on frequently.

 

At the zoo.

It could be true.

 

 

Lunch Poetry

During one glorious phase of my work life, I was lucky to be a part of a special lunch group. It all started with a few trips down Michigan Avenue to the Taco Bell. The Bell, as we lovingly referred to it, is no longer there, replaced years ago first by a vacant lot and subsequently by a parking structure. Over time the group of Bell regulars grew to a dozen or so, meeting each Wednesday, with perhaps another dozen attending infrequently as guests of the regulars. It was a time of stress for many of our group as the proud edifice that had been the Collection Division was slowly and then more rapidly falling down around us. The lunch group served as an island of sanity and comfort, restoring our energy and lightening the mood for the balance of the work week.

There were of course many other lunch traditions of which I was a part during my work life. In my early training days there were regular trips to the Adams Family Restaurant (an Albanian establishment) for the weird chili. This was followed by almost daily trips in the early 80s to the Arcade Bar for a sandwich and a beer with the Collection Division staff, led by John Masson and Bill Bigby, rest their souls. There was the Cadena's era which saw many IRSers munching the best taco chips I have ever had to this day in a little hole-in-the-wall joint that was really a roofed-over alley between two other buildings. There were the Friday outings in the late 80s/early 90s to the Congress Cafe with my Bride and her circle for a fish-mac special. During the early 90s the entire Quality Office (both of us) made many a memorable journey to the Schnelli Deli where we enjoyed soup, a half sandwich, a side salad and a drink for under $4 (often followed by a stop at Otis' Bakery for a cookie on the way back to the office). And there were many other eateries - Lindell's, Leandi's, the Coneys, the Press Pantry, to name a few - that each had their place and time. Fond memories all. (It should be noted here that none of the restaurants named thus far still exist except for the Coneys. Wow.) But my fondest memories are of the Taco Bell era.

The trips to Taco Bell were originated by my good friend Jim Wyatt in the mid-90s. That was the beginning of my Research days. Each Wednesday Jim would put out an email or make a few calls and get the group together. In the beginning it was pretty informal, but as time passed the weekly "lunch and moan" became an integral part of the group's work week. Then a strange thing happened. Jim left. In an odd career move, he left the comfort of life in the Federal government for the greener pastures of the private sector, ostensibly to make his fortune. Rumor had it that the move was prompted by a fear of threatened layoffs. But it's hard to believe that James would have been taken out by that old dodge. More likely it was unmitigated ambition :-)

As you might expect, Jim's departure from the scene left quite a void in the Taco Bell lunch world. Who would take the reins? In a fit of desperation, I leapt into the breach. But I knew I had to take my game up a notch as it would be hard to replace Jim's affable style with my buttoned-down, plannerized approach to life (this of course was long before I became my current fluffy retired self). How would I get the group to show up? My answer was lunch poetry. Bait them with a little humor to take the edge off the day and get them out of the office. You have to remember that most of the members of the Taco Bell lunch group were in high-pressure, stressful jobs and often took no lunch at all so they could catch up on their in-boxes and emails.

Originally delivered through email then through "special courier" - there was a little hullabaloo about using official Government equipment for personal messages - was an individual invitation to attend each Wednesday's event. To entice invitees to make the effort the invitation was framed in the form of humorous verse. These were usually parodies of popular music or appropriate rewrites of well-known passages from pop culture. There was also a series of limericks about a working girl named Estelle who frequented the Bell to parade her wares. Some of the more elaborate offerings were actually delivered through live readings by the special courier (you know who you are), sort of lunch poetry as performance art. It was all great fun and, much to my relief, seemed to work. The Bell lunch tradition endured for several more years. And when the Bell was summarily closed without notice (we showed up one day and the doors were locked), the group sought out alternative venues, eventually launching the "pile into the van and go to Mexican Town" period, which had its own charm and will be the subject of a later post. But the lunch poetry continued until the demise of the old district office and the rise of the distributed organization early in the new century.

I am in the process of scouring my old files and day planner pages (I still have back to 1990) to reconstruct as much of the old verse as I can for the purpose of putting together a little memory book for those who were involved, and will share additional items from that material through this blog from time to time. For this post, I have included a few of the earlier invitations for your reading pleasure, and for some perhaps a trip down memory lane.

This was the first of the courier-delivered invitations, establishing the new protocols and assuring the group that the long arm of computer security would be overcome. It's entitled Insufficient Postage.

Email is for "business only".

Private thoughts send me not.

To keep us all from getting lonely,

Little notes are what we've got.

So little notes we'll learn to use,

Brief and to the point.

Takes more than this to thwart the muse

That haunts the taco joint.

This invitation was a re-write of the famous airport scene from Casablanca, penned in Bogart-eesh.

Over the lasht weeksh, we've shaid a great many thingsh. You shaid I wuzsh to do the reminding for all of ush. Well, I've done a lot of it shince then and it all addsh up to one thing. You're getting into that line at the Bell where you belong.

Now you've got to lishen to me. Do you have any idea what you'd have to look forward to if you shtayed here? Nine chanshes out of ten we'd all end up in a shtaff meeting.

I'm shaying thish because itsh true. Inshide of ush we all know we belong there. It'sh part of our work, the thing that keepsh ush going. If the group leavsh and you're not with ush, you'll regret it. Maybe not now, or today, but shoon, and for the resht of the week.

I'm no good at being noble, but it doeshn't take much to shee that the problemsh of we the little people are all that count in thish crazy world. Shumday you'll undershtand that.

Here'sh looking at you, kidsh.

Here are a couple of the early Estelle limericks, just to whet your appetites. The idea of the limericks came from Linda Mathews, a charter member of the lunch group to whom I am greatly indebted. This first one introduced the "Queen of the Bell".

An unseemly lass named Estelle,

Use to troll for men at the Bell.

She'd grab the behind

Of each guy she could find,

Until one of them for Estelle fell.

This follow-up provided a little more insight into Estelle's world, entitled Estelle (of the Bell) Returns.

Of late, poor Estelle's had it rough,

Learning attitude's just not enough.

Seems the last man she lured

Of lusting was cured

When Estelle he beheld in the buff.

There'll be of more Estelle in future posts, but let me close this inaugural commentary on lunch poetry with these two items, both favorites of mine. The first is a rewrite of the Star Trek mission. Just imagine the voice of William Shatner as the starship Enterprise (that would be NCC-1701) wooshes down Michigan avenue.

Lunch, it's vital, fun and weird.

These are the forages for taco chips of any size,

Our continuing mission to explore strange new foods,

To sneak out to life in crude civilization,

And boldly go where no one should go, ever.

Except today.

And The Pledge, a somewhat disrespectful but heartfelt parody of our national mantra.

I pledge indulgence,

Not to brag,

But to unite us

In states of euphoria.

Until in public,

We cannot stand.

Satiation,

Oh my God, unforgiveable.

For sanity,

And just us.

That's all.

As noted above, there's more, much more, to share with you all from the archives of lunch poetry. But at the moment I'm hungry and am heading to....well....lunch. Bon appetit to all.


LDLR

LDLR - Labor Day Listening Room. 

In a previous post I described the basics of the Music Night organization, known officially as The Music Night Federation - MNF.  We even have t-shirts.  That post described the over 20 years of get-togethers to share music around particular themes and well, eat and drink.  There is another facet of the MNF known as a "listening room".  This usually involves a smaller group (4-6) assembling to share music more casually and yes, eat and drink.  Listening rooms occur on an ad hoc basis most often on Friday nights, do not involve a theme, and have very little structure.  They evolved years ago to address the needs of the more geeky members of the MNF who need a fix to hold them over between the formally scheduled Music Night parties.

With the acquisition of our family cottage in Greenbush, the listening room concept was taken to a new level with the inception of the LDLR.  This involves several families converging on Wiser Times for a long weekend (before all that renewal stuff - see previous post) to celebrate the end of summer with a mix of music, beach activities and yes, eating and drinking.  We held the 2012 version of the LDLR this past Labor Day, and it was a blast.

Things got rolling Friday afternoon with the arrival of two families, the Wyatts and the Reinharts (the latter with their rolling vacation home in tow) and our elder daughter Christy.  Once everyone was settled and the post-dinner cleanup was complete, the music got underway.  In previous LDLRs, the music didn't commence until noon on Saturday, to allow all participants to arrive.  But we were quickly informed that our thinking was so 20th century.  In the opinion of the representatives from the next generation, time was a-wastin'.  So the kids led us in a preliminary two-hour set Friday night.

An explanatory note is warranted here.  The way the LDLR works is that all attendees draw cards to establish the order of play.  Then in turn, each person is responsible for an hour of music of his or her choosing - no restrictions.  The music sets this year ran from 10:00 am until 10:00 pm Saturday through Monday, an extended schedule from the past.  And there are speakers in the living and family rooms, on the deck, in the gazebo, and for good measure there is a portable speaker to cover the beach or the barbecue area as needed.  The LDLR is not for the musically faint of heart.  You really have to want to be there.

The music resumed at 10:00 am on Saturday as scheduled.  Two more participants arrived in the early afternoon, Linda Crandall and her son Tommy, to bring our total to 11 counting three Burks.  The weather was fabulous with sunny skies, warm temperatures and a very swimmable Lake Huron (by most accounts only two ducks on the official four point duck system).  The day included studious creation of playlists by those whose turns were coming up, beach games, water sports and some rock hunting (as well as a lot of football and baseball watching in the background - volume on mute, of course).  We capped things off with a delicious barbecue chicken dinner with all the trimmings around the big table.

 

 

The music continued on into the evening, while a couple of our in-house photographers captured these shots of the beach just after moonrise.  

 

 

Saturday night wound down with a high-stakes game of Mexican Train (all 13 rounds) which sapped the remaining energy from anyone who had any left.

On Sunday, the festivities picked up right where they left off and hit their peak of 14 players with the arrival of the Dyles and their "adopted" son Reza, visiting from Germany.  I also accompanied three quarters of the Reinhart clan for our annual nine holes of golf after which the kids, Justin and Miranda, tried their hand at "white water" lake kayaking, as shown below.

 

 

Not to be outdone, Jim Wyatt and I did our best to defend the honor of the senior generation by flashing our canoeing technique.  But we had to make a beeline for shore when the capacity of the canoe was overcome by the foot-and-a-half rollers multipled by the on-board tonnage.  We took on a little water, but we made it although we were stroking so hard our life vests came unzipped (that's our story and we're sticking to it :-)
 

 

 

Sunday evening flowed into Monday with the music, food, drink and fun continuing.  By late Tuesday morning, the music was over, the food and drink had been consumed and the players had headed back to the big city.  Wiser Times had morphed back into its old serene self.  

 

But it was fun while it lasted.  Thanks to all who attended and made the weekend a huge success.  I'm already looking forward to next year.

Labor Day Renewal

Periodic renewal has been an important part of my life, and I think it is in the life of most. The chance to knock the dust off the recent past or perhaps reboot more serious matters helps us move forward, create desired change, and adapt to our ever-evolving life situations. That might seem a strange notion for a person like me who enjoys living in the past as much as he can. But upon closer examination, it shouldn't be surprising at all. The trick to keeping the best parts of the past alive is to understand what makes them important and find ways to integrate them with what is interesting and relevant about the present. To me, Labor Day has always presented a natural opportunity for this type of renewal.

The popular notion is that January 1st is the traditional time for renewal. But I submit that even with its focus on New Year's resolutions (including the usual avalanche of fitness schemes), more change actually takes place with the passing of Labor Day. This is certainly true for anyone even remotely involved with formal schooling, but there are other forces at play here as well.

The weather is a big one. It is easy to sense the change in the air as we take the quick slide from Labor Day to the autumnal equinox and the decrease in sunlight and temperature that it brings. (I'm obviously talking as a Michigander here. This slide may be less dramatic in other parts of the country, but my guess is it still exists.) This necessitates a renewal of wardrobe. Tee shirts and shorts are abandoned in favor of long sleeve sweatshirts and jeans. Deck shoes and sandals are replaced by sneakers and hi-top walkers, and in the Pointes sock drawers are cracked for the first time in months. Jackets and coats are hauled out from summer storage and associated with appropriate and matching hats, gloves and scarves, to make sure any needed replacements can be procured before the clothing stores shift to spring wear (which is usually about the first of November). This in turn results in serviceable items that are no longer fashionable being bagged and carted off to secondhand stores, to pass on the chain of renewal to other segments of the economy.

Sports also change around Labor Day. There is the seismic shift from baseball to football with games of our favorite teams becoming less frequent but more important, accompanied by renewed hopes for bowl appearances and victories over traditional rivals. (This has special meaning for those of you who, like me, live in a Green and Blue household.) College football has always been a big favorite at our house and sets the agenda for many fall Saturdays. In Detroit our professional football season usually only lasts about a month, until the first puck is dropped in the NHL. But this year our normally hapless Lions appear to have a decent team and are actually threatening to extend the season at least to Thanksgiving. And of course, Labor Day traditionally marks the time our Tigers begin to fade into the sunset, finding ever more creative ways to escape the playoffs and avoid scheduling conflicts with the Red Wings. (I admit to the faithful that last year was an exception, but this year our local boys of summer seem to have returned to form, despite our hopes to the contrary.) From a neighborhood standpoint, Labor Day brings a steady diet of high school and travel league soccer games, as the Grosse Pointe North soccer field lies just the other side of our back yard fence. It's always been a great treat that we could pull up an Adirondack in our back yard or slip through our gate to the bleachers to watch and enjoy the local kids giving their all.

But back to school for a moment, the big enchilada in the Labor Day change fest. New classes, new schedules, new teachers, trips for new school supplies, sometimes new schools or new post-class child care arrangements, back-to-school nights, college-prep fairs, the terror of parent-teacher conferences, the grind of after-school sports and music activities - you get the point. And during the college years it was moving kids back to new dorms or apartments, often toting more total tonnage than I carted into my first house. I remember one relocation to a dorm at Michigan that required five power strips to service the various media hubs.

When I was a kid, there was also the ritual of new school clothes, a concept that it seems has been totally lost in today's world. I remember with fondness the process of looking through the Sears catalog and picking (with parental concurrence) new pants, shirts, shoes and accessories that were suitable for wearing to school. These items were also to be taken off upon return from school each day in favor of play clothes, which often consisted of items from the previous year's wardrobe that were a little tired or did not quite fit anymore. During my middle and high school days jeans, tee shirts, sneakers and any shirt that did not tuck into your trousers were expressly banned from school. In today's world, things seem to be a bit less regulated, although there still must be some rules. I remember one back-to-school night when a teacher challenged the attending parents with the statement, "You don't think your kids arrive at school in the same clothes they left home in, do you?" Food for thought for those of you still engaged in the high school wars.

Though I have not had a kid in high school since 2003, our post-Labor Day weekday routine is still dependent on certain school events.  The most critical of these is the mid-afternoon exodus of teen drivers from the main entrance of Grosse Pointe North, which lies between our driveway and about any place we might like to go.  Picture the start of the Indy 500 only with people just tall enough to see over the steering wheel driving open-air Jeep Wranglers.  I know at least a couple of you dear readers are or soon will be spawning teen drivers of your own, and I wish you success.  My best advice for supervising this training is to lie down on the back seat of the vehicle with your eyes on the ceiling.  Have the driver-in-training tell you when the trip is over.  Then crawl out of the nearest door and kiss the ground.  This approach effectively removes the parent from the training experience (which the driver will like) and reduces the parent's need for high blood pressure medication (which your doctor will like).

During my working years (man, I like the sound of that), Labor Day also signaled change at the office. September was filled with exaggerated accounts of accomplishments from the fiscal year that was ending, to be surpassed only by the grandiose plans for achievement in the new fiscal year. There were appraisals to write and budgets to close out.  In flush years there was last minute training to schedule and attend.  In lean years, there was well-planned training to unjustify and cancel.  And there was a host of other tracking and reporting systems to tie up and put to bed by 9/30 (each to be re-birthed in updated and shinier form for the new fiscal year on 10/1). Even after 40 years of government service, so far I'm having no withdrawal pains from not being allowed to participate in this year's administrative stampede.

Of course, this Labor Day has special meaning for me as I recover from the continuous celebration that was July and August and begin to assess just what changes retirement will bring to my daily life. Recent experiences with the Passport Office and the Social Security Administration have more than confirmed that I am now on the other side of the bulletproof glass. Although both my exchanges with Uncle Sam worked out fine, I was clearly just another assignment in someone's automated inventory system.  Overcoming years of leadership and problem-solving experience, I quickly learned that my best strategy was to take a number, wait patiently in line and speak only when spoken to. Assuming my SSA interview responses check out, I should be getting my Medicare card before I need to order new tires for my Hoveround.

But the biggest change for me this Labor Day is how I will spend the inordinate amount of time I now have at my disposal. I have often in the past remarked pompously to others stressing over busy schedules, "You have all the time there is. What counts is how you choose to use it." Well, that advice has come back to haunt me. It seems that now I truly do have all the time there is (excepting the occasional chore - see previous post on this issue.)  Here's hoping I make good use of my new-found fortune, and that this year's Labor Day renewal turns out to be all I'm hoping it can be.

I'm sure many of you have Labor Day renewal sentiments and stories that we would love to hear. Please feel free to share. And Happy Labor Day renewal to all!