Hope is a journey, not a destination

Fifteen years ago, while sitting in a meeting with Saint Paul Mayor Randy Kelly my beeper went off.

It was about 11:00 a.m. on October 25, 2002.

It was Norm Coleman.

I excused myself from the meeting, picked up the lobby phone outside of Mayor Kelly’s Office and called Norm.

He answered.

“Paul’s dead.”  was the first thing out of his mouth.

The first thing out of my mouth was, “Paul, who?”

Before I even finished the question it immediately dawned on me that I knew the answer:  Paul Wellstone.

Norm quickly shared with me that he had received a call from someone in the news media that Wellstone’s plane had gone down and that it was clear there would be no survivors.

In the blink of an eye a United States Senator, his wife and daughter and five others perished that day at 10:22 a.m.

Like many Minnesotans I had the distinct honor and pleasure to know Paul Wellstone.

He was a human dynamo.

Whether it was protesting power lines going through the fields of farmers, standing up for the poor and oppressed or being the voice and conscious of the United States Senate, Paul Wellstone made a difference in the time he had on this planet.

I would be untruthful if I told you Paul and I were close.  Or, that I supported him politically throughout his career.

We weren’t close.  We were friendly.  We knew one another.  We worked with one another from time to time.  On many issues our political perspectives aligned, and we worked with many others to promote those initiatives.

In 2002 when Norm Coleman and Paul Wellstone were running against one another for the United States Senate it was clear this would be a close, contested and bitter race.

It was.

All the way to the fateful day that Paul’s plane went down a short distance from the airport.

That evening, had he survived, Paul and Norm were to debate.

In fact, Norm, like Paul, was making his way towards that debate.

Norm’s call that morning call was just one element of one of the most startling, remarkable, humbling, sad and controversial chapters in political history in the United States.

Someday I will share more about that day and the aftermath leading up to the actual election that ultimately pit Norm against Vice President Walter Mondale.

For now, however, I want to share just how much Paul’s loss to the United States is felt today.

Paul Wellstone was an ideological liberal.  Not a progressive.  Not a Humphrey DFLer, or a Mondale Democrat.

He was a liberal.  It flowed through his veins until it reached his heart and finally came forth from his words assembled by a mind that was sharp, quick and expansive.

He was fierce.  Long before Barack Obama spoke of the “fierce urgency of now” there was Paul Wellstone being urgent.

He was “now” back “then” when America was capable of finding ways for people of vastly different political beliefs to work together.

You might be a hard-right Republican but that didn’t mean Paul Wellstone couldn’t get you to find a way to reach common ground.

And, if you couldn’t, Paul didn’t walk away bitter or angry or accusatory, he simply walked away committed to seeing if there wasn’t still a way to work together – if not on that issue perhaps on another issue in the future.

Paul Wellstone didn’t demean his political opponents.  He didn’t belittle them with caustic words or personal attacks.

He wasn’t timid.  He wasn’t afraid to speak his mind.  Nor was he afraid to call people out if he believed they were not acting in good faith.

Paul didn’t start out his political career that way.  As a young man Paul was bombastic, hard edged and demanding.

Like many of us, as he got older he mellowed somewhat.  Not in his beliefs.  Or his passion.

But in his approach.

Paul could still give a stemwinder and pound on that podium and raise the roof like nobody’s business.

Yet, he did it with a sparkle in his eye and love in his heart.

There are other Paul Wellstone’s in the world.  Those who are liberal and those who are conservative.

Sadly, they are, more and more, being shouted down by those who find angry and vicious rhetoric to be more likely to get them to be seen in viral videos on the internet or the cable news channels.

I am not naïve.  I get it and I get how the world works today.

I don’t have to like it.  Nor do I have to embrace it.

Today, I intend to reflect on this sad day and think about all the good that Paul Wellstone did during his all-too-brief time on Earth.

I especially intend to reflect on one of those comments he often made that I still believe we should aspire to in this country:

“We all do better when we all do better.”

In 1977 I smoked my first cigarette in the entryway of the United States Post Office in Fairmount, North Dakota.

I was 14 years old.

Twenty-two years later I smoked my last cigarette.

I was 36 years old.

By the time I quit smoking I was up to four packs a day.

I finally quit because my body decided that it was either me or the cigarettes.

I have missed smoking every single day of my life since then.

When I say that I finally quit because my body decided it was either me or the cigarettes it is important to understand that explanation very clearly.

I didn’t want to quit.

I loved to smoke!

I loved the feel of a brand-new pack of cigarettes in my hand.  The process of tapping the top and the bottom on a table to firm each precious occupant of that package together was more habit than it was thought.

Opening that pack, with the cellophane wrapper coming off and the red strip that one tore to remove it is a sound I can still hear today.

Then, filter in my mouth, my nicotine stained fingers in front of me, the sound of a match and the burning of the end of that cigarette was my body’s signal that help was on its way.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Poison in.

Poison out.

Quitting smoking was the most important thing I ever did in my entire life to ensure that the rest of my life was my own.

My body knew that.

My brain did not.

My brain fought the effort.

It did every single time I tried to quit.

It reasoned and rationalized.

It promised me that if I could just cut down to a couple of cigarettes a day all would be good.

Or, maybe just a pack a day.

Maybe, just maybe, if I only smoked at certain times of the day and night I would be fine.

Time and time again my brain convinced me that I would be sad, angry and depressed if I quit smoking.

I needed to smoke, my brain told me, because it kept me sharp and it calmed me down.

If I quit smoking I would be alone.

My body fought back.

It put me in the emergency room so many times I lost count.

My brain couldn’t override the signals that my body kept sending it.

Instead of being able to rationalize and reason that I wasn’t having a heart attack, my brain succumbed to the mimicking of symptoms from my body and I would find myself in an emergency room with another doctor telling me I wasn’t dying – yet – but if I didn’t quit smoking I would.

My brain was so dead set against quitting smoking that minutes after an angiogram ordered by my doctor to see if I had the early stages of heart disease proved negative I lit up a cigarette outside of the heart surgeon’s office.

Finally, my body won.

My brain lost.

I am now 54 years old and haven’t had a cigarette for 18 years.

On September 5^th, 2017 my body told me that alcohol was doing something to me that I could no longer ignore.

Bloated, tired, aching and finding myself enjoying all of the same patterns and routines that came with smoking I decided to try something.

I decided to not drink.

Since then, except for a couple of drinks I had at an event 30 nights after September 5^th I have not had a beer or a cocktail.

I can feel the same battle between my body and my brain.

I can also remember the first time I took my first drink.

It was 1977.

It was in the basement of a friend’s home in Fairmount, North Dakota.

I remember pouring Whisky into a glass and sipping it.

The biting liquid going down my throat, burning at first, and then, settling into my stomach, the warmth that came with it and the floating sensation that nearly immediately lifted me up.

I looked at my friend.

I smiled and remember, to this day, what I said:

“Damn, I think I like it!”

I was 14 years old.

Forty-years later I still like it.

Too much, I am afraid.

It’s not that I haven’t known for a long time that I drink too much.

My body has known for a long, long time.

So, too, has my brain.

It is the brain that tells me why I can’t quit.  Why I shouldn’t quit.

My brain is my enemy when it comes to my body.

It always has been.

It still is.

I’m fighting this beast right now.

To be honest, I haven’t decided whether I will have another drink in my lifetime.

I like how I feel after having gone so long without one.

I also like how I feel when I have a drink.

I have struggled with the idea and notion that I have a drinking problem.  It wears me out to contemplate it.

Because it makes me feel weak.  It makes me feel like a victim to myself.

As though the reason I drink belongs to something other than myself.

It doesn’t.

I own it.

I also own the choice as to whether or not I will ever drink again.

Right now, as I write this, I am thinking about the post-race celebration we will have after our annual Fall50 Relay Race in Door County Wisconsin.

Tonight, after our team completes its 50-mile journey we will gather in a hot tub and pass around cups of champagne to celebrate and recount the day’s fun and adventure.

Should I have a drink?  Should I not have a drink?

I don’t need anybody’s permission either way.

That’s my choice.

Untold justification and rationalization is already under way and has been since 4:30 this morning.

But, I am no longer tired and weary from that battle between my body and my brain.

I feel, and I believe this is my body talking and not my brain, that some corner has been turned in this effort.

There is a very, very long tunnel ahead of me.

I can’t tell you that I have seen the light.

But, in my hand, where there was once a cigarette, holds hope.

Hope that I control the light for the walk into the tunnel.

I hold the power to turn it on.

I hope.

Brett Alan Hundley Jr. was born on June 15^th, 1993.

He played college football at UCLA and was the Bruins starting quarterback from 2012 to 2014. He is the school’s career leader in both total offense and touchdown passes. He was drafted by the Packers in the fifth round of the 2015 NFL Draft.

Brett Alan Hundley Jr. is also the new starting quarterback of the Green Bay Packers.

In two words:  Sweet Jesus.

The injury to 34-year-old quarterback Aaron Rodgers – a player who mere adjectives no longer adequately define his skill or role as the leader of the Green Bay Packers – is a devastating blow to the Super Bowl hopes of the storied franchise.

The pundits declared the season over for the Packers the moment Rodgers was carted off the field.

They declared the imminent end to humanity the second news came that Rodgers had a broken collarbone.

And, Mike McCarthy suddenly realized that big bulky sweatshirts with the massive letter “G” emblazoned upon them were not slimming in any way, shape or form.

I admit.  I am a Packers fan by marriage.  My bride, however, has Packer’s blood flowing through her veins.

As she will make clear to anyone she has seen the good times – and the many bad times – as a Packers’ fan during her lifetime.

She will, good naturedly, watch their games on television even when they are horrible – often uttering “Oh, Packers!” when they do something horribly wrong.

Of course, the house explodes with a quick succession of claps when they excel, coupled with a few “Go Packers!” exclamations!

I, on the other hand, am a fickle Packers fan.

When they are doing great, I am all on board and the first guy in front of the television.

When they aren’t I go look for other things to do.  Like clean the garage.  Or blow leaves off the patio.

Then, far from the television I furtively check www.NFL.Com on my phone to see what the score is.

I hold my breath until the screen pops up showing the score and then look quickly at how much time is left.

This has become my preferred way of watching the Green Bay Packers even since I purchased my first iPhone.

It’s not very brave.  I know that.  I share my shame with you with hesitation.

I carry this burden with me every Sunday, Monday and Thursday that the Packers play on national television.

Ironically, though, Brett Alan Hundley Jr. may well be my opportunity to change my perspective on the Green Bay Packers.

This 24-year old young man has a huge task ahead of him.

He is being given the reins of one of America’s oldest and proudest NFL franchises and is expected to promptly:  Fail.

Green Bay Packers fans – the analysts – Tony Romo – all of them aren’t hoping he fails (Well, except for Tony Romo) they are just expecting him to fail.

My guess I that Aaron Rodgers has mixed emotions.

Brett Favre?  He is a mixed emotion.

Here’s where I stand on this whole Brett Alan Hundley Jr. situation.

First, I just misspelled his middle name for the 12^th time.

Instead of “Alan” I have now written “Lana” repeatedly.  It is clear we need to shorten his name.

There’s already been a “Brett” so we can’t just call him that.

And, Rodgers has been known as “A-Aaron” for some time now.

So, from now on Brett Lana Hundley Jr. will be known as “Hundley”

Second, Hundley won’t fail.

Not by a long shot.

In fact, I suspect that Hundley will rise to become the Packer’s next great franchise quarterback.

Why do I believe that?  Is it my years of extensive NFL scouting expertise?  My knowledge of player skills, strengths and weaknesses?

No.  None of that.

I believe it because the Packers are an institution that has developed greatness as a culture within its franchise.

Brett Favre.  Aaron Rodgers.  Each of these quarterbacks didn’t join the Packers as the legends we know them to be today.

They grew into their legend.

That legend was developed, nurtured, trained and through the coaches behind them, and the players around them, they became who we know them to be today.

I don’t think Hundley will succeed because he woke up one morning and read a meme that said, “Today you will succeed!”

I think he will succeed because the teammates around him will not permit him to fail.

They will step up.  Do their part.  Raise the level of their game.

The Green Bay Packers are not Aaron Rodgers and The Green Bay Packers nor were they ever Brett Favre and The Green Bay Packers.

They are the Green Bay Packers.

A team.

People should remember that.

All the great leaders in the world didn’t become great because of one person.

Patton, Gates, Lincoln, Thatcher, Meir, Merkel, King, Powell – and many others – they did not meet their acclaim because of their individual brilliance.

Without a team behind them, beside them and in front of them they are merely footnotes in history – if even that.

It was everyone around them that made them great.

So, Green Bay Packers football team, listen up.

You want to go to the Super Bowl?  You want to make this season the one you thought it would and could be?

The only thing standing between you and that NFL glory isn’t how good your quarterback will or won’t be.

You want to be great?

Make Hundley great.

Be great as a team.

Go, Pack, go!

(And, I will see how you do from the safety and security of my iPhone)

On more than one occasion in my life I have had the unexpected kindness and generosity of a stranger come to me at a time when I most needed it.

Strangers who came forward to lend a helping hand along the road, offer some warm and comforting words during a time of personal crisis and stepped forward to lift up and care for members of my family.

In the job I have held at Spare Key, www.sparekey.org, for soon to be six years, I have seen the unexpected generosity and kindness of strangers thousands of times over.

I see it in the donations that are made to support families with a sick and injured child in the hospital.

A donation that provides the opportunity for Spare Key to serve a family by providing a housing grant on behalf of a family so they can focus on their child’s care and recovery.

Or, to give them the grace of time in the last days of a child’s life here on Earth.

I saw it again this past week when a husband and wife came into our Spare Key Office and let us know that they had nominated us to be considered by American Family Insurance to be one of 90 non-profits throughout the United States to receive a $3,000 donation.

From 17,000 nominations Spare Key was chosen to receive a $3,000 donation.

What is more remarkable about this surprise gift to Spare Key was the story of the family who took the time to make it a reality.

This was a family who Spare Key was able to support in 2007 at a time in their life when hope seemed lost and the light had turned to dark.

But, from the night of their life they rose to see a new day and their children gain the strength they needed to become healthy, happy 10-year old’s today.

To learn more about their journey please feel free to go to our Facebook page:

Mark graciously submitted Spare Key and on Wednesday Mark & Wendy stopped by the office to share the good news, that we have been selected from over 17,000 nominations for a $3,000 donation!

Thank you so much, Mark & Wendy for thinking of Spare Key! We are honored you submitted our charity and we’re grateful to have helped your family back in 2007.

In honor of this generous donation, we’d like to share their story…

“Our triplet boys entered the world at 27 weeks when Jake refused to go along with the Dr’s plan to delay labor. Our super preemies weighed in at 1 lb 15 oz, 2lbs 3 oz and 2lbs 7oz. Jake became our angel protecting his brothers Marley and Anthony from the deadly infection he briefly battled. Marley and Anthony spent their first 10 weeks at Children’s hospital learning to eat breathe on their own along with growing. We were warned about so many possible struggles like re-hospitalizations and special needs but Marley and Anthony had a mind of their own and never looked back and are now are thriving 10 years olds. Spare Key’s grant helped take some of the worries away and allowed us to spend more time with our sons.” – Mary & Wendy Schermerhorn

https://www.facebook.com/sparekey/posts/10155813323164516

I am surprised, and encouraged, every single day in the job that I do at Spare Key.

Not just for what people do to support our mission, but what others do to support the mission of other organizations and people.

We have been privileged to work closely with the Minnesota Law Enforcement Memorial Association (LEMA), www.mnlema.org, an organization that is committed to serving the members of law enforcement and their families at a time when an officer dies in the Line of Duty.

Most recently their powerful mission came forward to support the family of Wayzata Police Officer William Mathews after he was struck and killed by a car in the Line of Duty.

Words, prayers, thoughts and offerings of support poured into LEMA from across the state, and the nation.

Donations from those who wanted to help in some way came forward in both monetary form, in-kind and time to help defray the costs of services intended to honor and respect the life’s work and memory of Officer Mathews.

Throughout this great country of ours when tragedy strikes, those created by man and by nature, the people from every corner of every neighborhood of every city of every state of the United States come forward to say, “How can I help?”

It is not, of course, just the tragedy that occurs in this country that stirs the hearts of Americans.

Nations near and far have seen the generosity that is fundamentally so American, and so typical, that I fear we often lose sight of the unique nature of the human spirt that has been instilled in the hearts of my fellow citizens.

There is no government that demands our generous spirit.  No institution that forces us to look upon one another, those next to us and those thousands of miles away, and ask, “How can I help?”

It’s not just individuals, either.

It’s the companies that exist in this country that make an impact, as well.

On October 7^th Spare Key held its first-ever gala in Fargo, North Dakota.

In doing so we took an enormous risk to create and produce an event that required the support of hundreds to be successful.

Big companies, small ones and those in between raised their hands and said, “We will!” when we asked if they could help us build an event to help expand our capacity to serve more families in the region.

Associations, with thousands of members, stepped forward and didn’t just help raise money, or donate the money but also helped do the work that was necessary to make it all work.

Here, at home where I live, there is no shortage to the exceptional generosity of Minnesota companies that have made a difference for Spare Key and, by doing so, in the lives of over 3,200 families we have been able to support.

ASI Signage, TitleSmart, US Bank, Bell Mortgage and KleinBank are just a few of the Minnesota companies that have raised their hands time and time again when Spare Key needed their support and assistance.

Most recently a name that is familiar in Minnesota, SuperAmerica, www.superamerica  came forward to support Spare Key in another way – with the financial resources necessary for us to create our 2018 Spare Key Superhero Calendar.

This calendar was also made possible because of donations from Anchor Paper, www.anchorpaper.com Impressions Incorporated, www.i-i.com and a photographer named Alyssa Boldischar, www.alyssaboldischar.com

The front cover of the calendar of this post shows one of the most remarkable pictures I have ever seen of a child that is not my own!

That joy, and the generosity Spare Key could provide to her family, simply does not happen without the thousands of people who opened their hearts, and their pocketbooks, to support Spare Key.

I invite you to learn more about this powerful calendar here:  https://www.sparekey.org/store/calendar

Those who humor me by reading this blog know that sometimes I simply sit down and write.

Sometimes it is a stream of consciousness because I have something on my mind and just write.

Other times I have spent hours and hours reflecting on what I want to write before I sit down and do it.

This post is a combination of both of those approaches.

There is, of course, the hours and hours of reflection I do throughout the course of any given day about how fortunate I am to lead an organization that has a kind and generous Board of Directors, Advisory Council and thousands of donors and volunteers.

And, a staff that works long hours, weekends and evenings to raise awareness and funds to accomplish the work we want to achieve to support families in need of a gift of time.

Then, of course, there is the reminder that I needed this past week on a day when frustration was more prevalent in my mind than the generosity and kindness that moved me to once again remind myself about why I do what I do when I could be doing just about anything else in my life.

My job is to help people Bounce and not Break.

Standing behind me, beside me and many times in front of me are thousands of others who silently, through their words, and through their deeds make it clear to me:  We got this.

 

 

 

Let me start with this statement:  You can only vote for Pat Harris ONCE if you vote for Pat Harris to be your FIRST choice for Mayor on November 7^th.

Yes, it is true that in my most recent blog post about the St. Paul Mayor’s race voting abomination called “Ranked Choice Voting” or RCV, for short, I did write that you could vote for Pat 10 times.

You cannot.

In fact, even if you could vote more than once in RCV you can only vote six times for Mayor.

Not 10 times – even though there are 10 separate candidates.

In Minneapolis, there are over 20 candidates.

But, you can only vote three times for Mayor in Minneapolis.

Saint Paul is not, mercifully, Minneapolis.  Which is completely beside the point and I apologize for making you read the last couple of sentences as though they were pertinent to this blog post.

They are not.

So, let me repeat:  You can only vote for Pat Harris ONCE if you vote for Pat Harris to be your FIRST choice for Mayor on November 7^th.

It is true that if you choose to vote for another candidate to be your first choice for Mayor, you can definitely make Pat your second choice for Mayor.

But, if your first and only choice for Mayor is Pat Harris.

Then, just vote once for Pat Harris.  And, only Pat Harris.

For those of you requiring Monty Python to explain this, let me take the liberty of paraphrasing from the movie The Holy Grail

“First shalt thou take out the Holy Ballot Pen. Then shalt thou count to one, no more, no less. One shall be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be one. Four shalt thou not count, neither count thou zero  excepting that thou then proceed to one. Five is right out. Once the number one, being the first number, be reached, then lobbest thou thy Holy Ballot Pen of Saint Paul towards thy ballot, who, being Pat Harris in your sight, shall accept it.

While I often believe I am more clever than I really am (just ask my children) I should have put a finer point on my satire from yesterday’s post https://mischellaneous.com/2017/10/12/if-pat-harris-is-your-candidate-for-mayor-vote-for-him-once-ten-times-in-a-row/

I did not.

In not doing so I may have led those who support Pat Harris to believe that instead of voting for other candidates, other than Pat, they could actually cast their vote 10 separate times for Pat.

You cannot.  In not doing so I may have led those who support Pat Harris to believe that instead of voting for candidates other than Pat they could actually cast their vote 10 separate times for Pat.

You cannot.

If you believed you could and now you believe you cannot and that bums you out and makes you want to punch me in the face.

I am sorry.

I am sorry you may be bummed out.

I am not sorry you can’t punch me in the face.

Part of my point in my previous blog post, besides outlining my support for Pat Harris, was to effectively use satire to underscore my opposition to RCV.

The fact that this Mayoral election has done virtually nothing to engage the broader electorate of St. Paul is – another – indictment on the fallacy of RCV to increase democratic participation.

The Saint Paul Pioneer Press does a good job today outlining the very concerns about lack of interest in this year’s election and that one of the reasons may well be the problems caused by RCV:

http://www.twincities.com/2017/10/12/editorial-all-these-mayoral-candidates-all-this-quiet/

I don’t have a second choice for Mayor of St. Paul.  Because, I believe there is only one clear choice for Mayor of St. Paul.

That’s Pat Harris.

And, I will cast only one vote for Mayor.

For Pat Harris.

If you believe that you have a choice before Pat, but Pat would make a great second, third, fourth, fifth or sixth choice, by all means cast that vote for your first choice – and then make Pat Harris whatever choice you believe he merits for your other votes.

If that made your head spin and I have confused you further then here’s a simple solution.

Cast one vote.

And, only one vote.

Cast that vote for Pat Harris.

And, punch Ranked Choice Voting in the face.

Not me.

According to Forrester Research I am a Baby Boomer.

To be honest that makes me feel older than telling people I am 54 years old.

Baby Boomers, based upon Forrester’s definition, were born between 1946 and 1963.

So, while I am on the outer fringes of that age range there is no question that I am, indeed, a Baby Boomer.

Ugh!

Don’t get me wrong.  I am quite okay with being 54 years old.

I own the years I have had behind me and I am eager for the years ahead of me.

It’s a real question for me, though, what obligation do I have to bridge what I see as a tremendous gap between my generation and that of my children’s generation.

Both of my children are being lumped into the category of Generation Z.

In between our generations falls Generation X and Millennials.

Honestly, I quit trying to figure out what it means to be from either of those generations after about three hours of online research.

Here’s what I do care about, though.

What does it mean for my children to be members of Generation Z.

Here’s what I know about the members of Generation Z that live in my house.

Technology is personal:

Both of my children were born at a time when social media and technology were well into their ubiquity in American life.  It was clear that my era of a typewriter and paper were long gone by the time my kids showed up on the scene.

The cartoon show, The Jetsons, is far more a reality for my Generation Z children than it was for me when I was a child sitting in front of the t.v. watching the show.

Today, much of what that show, and others like it, touted as “the future” is not just my kid’s reality today but “the future” for my kids really are things like flying and driverless cars, single person aircraft and AI as a looming moral and ethical dilemma in their lives.

Technology is their connection to every aspect of their lives. Not in the same way Facebook and Texting became during the generation that preceded them but in a way that it is a tool for the world they are creating, not the world they are living in.

Diversity is a given:

During the debate over gay marriage in America my kids shrugged their shoulders and asked, “Why does anybody care who anybody loves?”

I imagine years from now, when both of them are my current age, they will shake their head in wonder why any American should have been given a better shake – or worse shake – in life because of who they loved, the color of their skin, their gender or any other trait given to them upon their creation inside the womb of their mother.

If ever there is a reason to believe that children are not born to hate anyone because of who they are as a creation of God my hope is that my children are examples of that truth.

My kids are annoyed by people (mostly me) but it has nothing to do with that person’s existence as a human being.

Government is broken:

My kids are increasingly convinced that government, in particular, as an institution is broken in America.

My son thinks other institutions are broken, as well, especially school but he is a teenage boy so I discount some of that as being a teenage boy.

Clearly, however, both my son and daughter look at government as not being an institution capable of solving the challenges of today or the future – big or small.

Nor do they believe it is equipped to manage the opportunities that ought to be embraced for their generation and futures generations after them.

Neither of them are fans of Donald Trump but neither of them are fans of anybody in particular in government today.

They see what doesn’t get done at a local, state and national level and shake their heads.

America is great but not perfect:

Tied into their belief that government is broken is their strong feeling that the United States is a nation worth believing in, fighting for and defending.

But, they also see America as an imperfect reflection of its grandiose ideas and purpose.

They see racism, sexism, classism and anger and hatred and hurt and pain and suffering and they know America can be better.  That it has been better.

Their perspective on their country is not one in which its best days are behind it but ahead of it as soon as they get their hands on it.

Giving back is real not virtual:

My kids don’t see their contribution to bettering society through the lens of a crowdfunding page, or a post on Facebook or a Tweet.

They see it through the hard work of rolling up their sleeves and pitching in with real people to make life better for real people.

While both of my kids will laugh out loud at the biting rhetoric of Oliver and Stewart and any number of other pundits they also know that words have their limits when it comes to changing the world and that clicking “post” or “tweet” is a statement of purpose not an execution of it.

A good book is made of paper not glass and plastic:

Books are meant to be held.  Pages turned. Paper smelled.  Binders cracked.

Leadership is needed:

Finally, what I see most in my kids is their belief that America needs more leaders.

In their mind consensus and collaboration is not leadership.

Leadership is finding ways to build consensus and collaboration.

My Daughter is emerging more and more each day as someone who has found her voice in a world in which all too often too many Daughters have been told to wait their turn.

She won’t wait for anyone to give her permission to be a leader.

Nor does her brother.

Which is, when all is said and done, what I think America needs more of each and every day.

Leaders.

People who take risks.  Who have an opinion.  Citizens who understand their role isn’t to stay inside four walls and shout into a social media platform and then turn away from the screen satisfied that they have done their part to save the world.

I have told anyone who will listen (probably a lot who would rather not) to my belief that America’s Greatest Generation isn’t exclusive to any single generation.

This isn’t to take away anything from what we have often come to know as The Greatest Generation in America.

It is to honor that Generation by recognizing that America’s best days – and its best generation – isn’t behind us.

It’s ahead of us.

And, for that we should all be confident in the knowledge that Generation Z will, itself, someday, create the Greatest Generation.

 

 

 

 

In the race for St. Paul Mayor one has to begin to narrow the scope of the reasons why they cast their vote for one candidate over the other.

Well, prior to the abomination that we call “Ranked Choice Voting”, that is.

Ranked Choice Voting (RCV) in Russia and China would be the perfect vehicle to usurping one of the basic pillars of democracy:  One person, one vote.

Instead of one person, one vote it is a multiple-choice vote where math becomes more important than the power of one person’s single vote to impact the composition of their government.

This year’s election for Mayor is not the first year that RCV has been used to water down the power of one individual’s vote.

Yet, it could be, and should be, the last year we should permit our system of democracy to be undermined by the whims and fancy of those who think changing how the system and process of an election is the secret sauce to improving our democracy.

On the contrary.

RCV does nothing but take the power of one’s vote away from them and gives it to a handful of people who understand how to exploit and manipulate RCV for their own ends.

All this being said it does me no good to complain about the system that is currently in place.  It is what it is.

So, instead of complaining, I am going to offer a suggestion to my friends who have made a decision to support Pat Harris for Mayor.

Vote early. 

And, vote once.

Just for Pat Harris.

If you believe strongly in Pat.  If you believe he is the candidate best prepared to lead the City.

The only candidate who has a comprehensive plan to not just improve relationships between the city’s police department and its community, but a plan to aggressively fight crime and get illegal guns off our street.

The one candidate who has publicly disavowed the city’s 24% property tax increase and the knowledge, experience and credibility to manage our city’s budget responsibly.

The only candidate whose life experience, commitment to his community and understanding of leadership.

If you believe all of this about Pat Harris then I suggest you do one thing and only thing on Election Day.

Vote once.

But vote often.

And each time vote just for Pat Harris.

Every single time you vote on Election Day using Ranked Choice Voting.

This form of bullet voting is important if you want to ensure that your single vote has the power it deserves in this pernicious voting system invented by narrow special interest groups to serve their interests – not the interests of democracy.

I want you to think about something.

There are 10 candidates running for St. Paul Mayor.

This means when you go into the ballot box you theoretically have to rank 10 candidates in order of who you think will be the best candidate to be our next Mayor.

Be honest.

Do you know enough about all 10 candidates to actually rank them intelligently?

If you do then I have two things to say.

You’re either a liar.

Or, you have way, way too much time on your hands.

But, again, this post isn’t about the awful and destructive RCV system on our democracy.

It’s about the tremendous opportunity we have to elect, among those 10 candidates, one candidate who is actually capable of leading our City.

Pat Harris.

So, once again, here’s how you make sure that Pat Harris, if he is your choice for Mayor, has the best chance to be Mayor.

Vote once for Pat Harris. 

10 times.

1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9 and 10.

It’s pretty simple.

Saint Paul is a first-class city.  We deserve a first-class Mayor.

A first-class city with a first-class Mayor doesn’t elect its Mayor by second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth and tenth place votes.

It elects that Mayor with one vote.

Your vote.

Even if it takes you ten times to do it.

Tom Petty was not my favorite musical artist of all time.

His music entertained me.  I enjoyed the songs that made it to the radio in my youth.  In my middle-age I am now more likely to hear Tom Petty on a radio station formatted for “classical” music than I am stations targeting younger, hipper audiences.

This Monday stories began to circulate that Petty had suffered a massive cardiac arrest.  Based upon any number of reports on the internet I began seeing mentions of his predicament, followed by a growing sense of alarm that his condition was untenable for life.

At some point in the afternoon at least one news outlet reported that Petty had, in fact, died.

When, in fact, he had not.

From the first initial reports of his death my Facebook feed was filled with people declaring their shock and grief over his death.  Other posts spoke of the impact his music had made on people’s lives, a concert they had attended or some other aspect of how his life had impacted their life.

And then, as quick as you can say “Tom Petty” we learned that he wasn’t dead.  Or was he.  Maybe he was.  Maybe he wasn’t.

I don’t write this post today because Tom Petty’s music or his life somehow changed mine in a meaningful way.  At least not in any particular way that I am aware of over the past 54 years.

I write this because his life.

And, death.

Then, his not death.

Followed by his actual death.

All of this macabre drip of a man’s final moments of life became a sideshow for the media that couldn’t, didn’t and wouldn’t get it right.

I admittedly commented, wryly, that the situation was comically tragic as if a Monty Python film in which the character proclaims, “I’m not dead, yet!”

Only to be followed by the retort, “You soon will be!”

Tom Petty’s daughter, understandably angry and horrified by the news reports that declared her father dead despite the fact he was clearly not, expressed her anger as any daughter would:

According to a story on CNN his daughter, in response to a report in Rolling Stone Magazine posted:

“My dad is not dead yet but your f***ing magazine is.”

I assume my adult readers, and some of my teenage readers who would never swear around their parents, understand that the asterisks are supposed to make the actual word she used read more politely.

She went even further in her outrage by posting, again, according to CNN:

“How dare you report that my father has died just to get press because your articles and photos are so dated…This is my father not a celebrity. An artist and human being.”

A minor point of clarification is needed here.  Tom Petty was, in fact, a father, an artist and a human being.

He was, also, a celebrity.

Which, of course, in life that celebrity, along with his art, made him famous, wealthy and a successful musician who made music that millions across the world have come to enjoy.  And, for some, impact their lives in a profound and meaningful way.

That status, as a celebrity, also took from him, at the end of his life, his dignity as an artist and a human being as the news media fought for the right to be the first to report his death.

Even though he was not, yet, dead.

CBS, the former news station of the famed journalist, Edward R. Murrow, which was one of the first to report Petty’s death, did not possess the dignity itself to acknowledge its horrific error of judgement – and accuracy.

Instead, they, seeking to deflect blame for their failure of journalism had this statement after it became clear that they were factually wrong about their report.

“CBS News reported information obtained officially from the LAPD about Tom Petty. The LAPD later said it was not in a position to confirm information about the singer.”

Long before the days of instant communication on the internet the news media operated in a manner in which accuracy was not an inconvenience to their craft, but was at the center of it.

Television and movies have shown us the stories of legendary reporters wanting to go to print, or run a story on the television or radio news, only to be told by their editor to make absolutely certain their facts were straight.

That it wasn’t important to only to be first.

It was perhaps even more important to be right.

We live in a day and age where we have been told by the same media that there is other media which is distributing “fake news.”

The “mainstream” media assures us that they are not fake, it is the folks who are “not mainstream” media that are fake.

Ironically, it was the “mainstream” CBS that first posted fake news about Tom Petty’s death.

The “not mainstream” media of TMZ posted the accurate information about Petty’s health crisis – and only after it was clear he had passed did they acknowledge his death.

A twitter post by someone carried with it a powerful and troubling denunciation of how the press handled the story surrounding the singer.

“It’s very difficult to tell if Tom Petty is dead or not, but it’s pretty obvious journalism is.”

I have impressed upon my children time and time again to never accept at face value what any news story reports about anything happening in the world around them.

It is important, I intone to them, that they look at multiple sources and try to figure out if they can validate a story before they can feel confident that what it is they read, saw or heard is true and accurate.

Long before I had to implore my teenage children to “measure twice, cut once” when it comes to their consumption of information things were less difficult when it came to “the news.”

In the “old” days the debate in America wasn’t about whether the media was accurate as much as it was about whether the media was too liberal or too conservative.

I long for those days.

Today –perhaps, sadly, in the world we live in the future–the it’s no longer whether they are accurate, liberal or conservative, it’s whether they are fake news or real news.

Rest in Peace, Tom Petty.

No matter how fake the news was about your death your life, your world and your music was very real.

 

The sight of the baby boy the moment he was placed in my arms changed my life forever.

From the safety and security inside his Mom to the big, unruly, complex and remarkable world outside of it he was born.

Owen Francis.

He holds the names of his grandfathers.

One he never met.

The other who has never failed to fulfil his duties to his grandson.

Today, this baby boy becomes even more a man as he turns 17 years old.

Owen is everything a parent could ever hope for in a son.

He has been every second of every minute of every hour of every day that he has been in this world.

I often write about Owen, as I do his sister, Maisie.

Owen is, for anybody who reads anything I write, my Hero.

He has emerged from the travels through the years as a formidable force of nature. 

He has a deep voice that speaks, not loudly, but with command and conviction.

Standing six feet two, with piercing blue eyes and a ready smile Owen is a young man who aspires to, and achieves, what his parents had always hoped he would become:

A good person.

The world needs more good people.  It needs young men who aren’t afraid to believe in something. 

Young men who understand their obligation to themselves, those around them and the larger community in which they have been privileged in America to live.

Owen has a profound appreciation for the live he has in this country.

It reflects his passion for history and the world around him. 

Through his participation in JROTC and the Sea Cadets Owen has learned how to take his instinct to be a leader and develop the skills necessary to be a leader. 

He honors those who came before him in both of these programs by understanding the privilege, the honor and responsibility he holds to move with purpose and strive for excellence.

He stands in awe of men and women who have risen above adversity to achieve great things and who have given of themselves to serve others in their lives.

But, Owen doesn’t just stand.  He acts. 

In his words, and in his deeds, Owen sets forth in the world his promise to not be a bystander, but an active participant, a citizen of his community, his country and his world.

Owen is also wicked smart, and wicked funny.

Woe to those who are up against Owen in a struggle for knowledge.

He will climb, scrape and scramble his way to it, to learn it, process it and be prepared, whether you’re ready or not, to divulge it!

One of Owen’s earliest favorite teachers once said that Owen was a “sponge and a fountain” to describe his propensity for accumulating vast amounts of knowledge and his equal propensity for disseminating it to everyone around him.

Owen is quick with a quip and a wry commentary on the world condition.

With a twinkle in his eye he will make you laugh.  Not just at his joke but at the joy in which he just shared it with you.

One of the most wonderful sounds in our home is that which occurs when Owen begins his carefully chosen assault on my wife’s funny bone. 

She succumbs to his clever wit and biting commentary with a laugh that is as beautiful to hear as her smile is to see.

Every parent wants their child to be happy and grow with confidence and self-esteem.

We, of course, are no different.

Owen is a solid and sturdy young man.  But, like every young man growing to become the adult he needs to be to walk into the world ahead of him he has his struggles and challenges and obstacles.

Owen doesn’t falter.

He doesn’t blink.

There is no quit.

At 17 Owen is not yet done growing up.  Inside of that frame of a man is still a lot of boy.

I am grateful for that.

A boy who likes to play, who has days fraught with confusion, complication and complexity.

A boy who will, from time to time, let his Dad hug him, and if I am quick, give him a kiss.

A boy who has an unending reservoir of love for those around him.

A boy who I love so much that it requires me to turn away at times to hide my tears from him.

The world is waiting for a Hero.

He lives in my home. 

His name is Owen Francis Mische. 

Happy Birthday, Owen!

 

She snuck into our lives on this day fifteen years ago.

Her arrival was announced by the doctor with these words:

“You have a big, fat….baby girl.”

Last night, upon the story of her formal introduction to the world she was bemused by the description of herself, and not altogether pleased the doctor had judged her physical condition as less than petite.

Margaret Elizabeth, Maisie as she is called, is fifteen years old today.

She is as magnificent, charming and beguiling on this day as she was the moment I first met her gaze.

Maisie is captivating in the way that you walk away from any conversation or interaction with her and you linger a little bit more to reflect on your encounter.

She combines commonsense with courage.  A passion for learning with a dedication to detail.  Maisie is a friend who will be honest with you and loyal to a fault.

Her life aura is an unquenchable enthusiasm for being, simply put, who she is:

Maisie.

I think of my daughter as she sleeps away the early dawn of this Saturday morning.

She has been, from her earliest days, an amalgamation of those women who have been closest to her, and had the greatest impact on her being.

There is her Grandma from Green Bay, Margaret. 

Passionate about what she believes.  Outspoken about those beliefs.  She lacks fear in being wrong.

There is her Grandma from Next Door, Elizabeth.

She is bright eyed and brown-eyed.  She has a laugh that makes you laugh. She is clever and sometimes sneaky.

Maisie’s Aunt Katie is her Muse.

Artistic, creative and sharp.  Her love of performance, and her faux insistence on being shy, is a natural extension of everything she has learned from the Aunt she loves with all her heart.

Kathleen.

The cousin of her Mom, Kathleen is the independent force that lives in Maisie every day.  Confident without being cocky.  Studious, honest and reliable.  Rock solid.

And, of course, there is her Mom.

Wrapped up inside of the person that is Maisie is every genetic trait of her Mom.  Beauty and grace.  Kindness and grace.  Faith and honor.  Respect and resilience.  Stubbornness and generosity.

Maisie has been graced with strong women throughout her life.

It has been at the core of her very being.

She has been given the gift of other strong women who have impacted her life in remarkable ways.

Her 5^th grade teacher, Ginny Sullivan, instilled in Maisie a deep sense of spirituality.  A faith in a God that isn’t an abstract aspect of her life.  But, surges through her being as sure as the blood does through her veins.

Not a second of a moment of an hour of any day have I ever thought Maisie anything but a powerful symbol of the true glory of a loving God.

On a planet of 7.5 billion people there is not a single Maisie amongst us other than the one which I am honored to have live in my home.

At fifteen I admit I miss so many things about Maisie as a baby, a toddler and a small child.

I miss the moments of dancing with her until she would fall asleep.

I miss the snuggly naps.

I miss the baby giggles and the shoulder rides and the simple ability to pick her up and squeeze her tight into my arms.

Turning fifteen though doesn’t take away anything from the awesome power that Maisie has on my life every single day.

The eyes are as bright as the day in which I first saw them.

The smile as warm as the one that first stole my heart.

When told I had just been given the awesome gift of a Daughter in my life I was dumbstruck for several minutes.

I knew I was having a baby and there was a 50/50 chance it was going to be a girl.

The thought, I admit, simply had never crossed my mind.

I simply thought about having a baby.  A healthy, big, fat – baby.

Fifteen years later I cannot imagine a breath I take without that baby in my life.

It has been a privilege and an honor to be the Dad of a Daughter.

It has been a gift from a generous God that my Daughter is Maisie.

Happy Birthday, Maisie!