secondstorywindow

Some of you have heard this story before, I know.  But, as a fellow blogger friend of mine would say, "it bears repeating."

Every year on Earth Day, and I did so yesterday,  I think back to a promise I made as a senior in High School. My English teacher, Mrs. Linda Spencer, gave us a writing assignment to "journal" what we would do for Earth Day.

Now, I’m ashamed to admit this, but when I was in high school I occasionally littered. I might toss an empty McDonald’s cup out the window or drop a candy wrapper on the ground when nobody was looking. It wasn’t a big deal at the time, although I knew it was wrong. As I thought about what I might do to help make the world a better place, I pledged in my journal that I would never, ever litter again.

On this day every year, I think back to that promise and can say with complete honesty that I have not littered once in the now twenty-two  years and I’ve cleaned up far more litter than I ever left behind. My kept promise has not in any way reduced greenhouse gasses or slowed global warming. But it has kept the world in which I live a bit cleaner. Most importantly, it is a promise I’ve kept for twenty-two years.

Two years ago, on the twentieth anniversary of that writing assignment, I thought about that promise as I always do.  I was driving to work when my cell phone vibrated to alert me to a new Facebook friend request.  I could not believe my eyes when I saw the name Linda Spencer, my English teacher.  An ironic twist of fate? Or was she checking up on me to make sure I had kept that promise?

When I got to my office, I posted this story on Facebook.   I received  a very touching response from Mrs. Spencer.

Yesterday, I thought not just about my promise not to litter, but the importance of a promise.  Now I can't honestly say I've kept every promise I have ever made.  But I like to think that I've kept the important ones.  Don't take that as a claim of perfection because I'm far from it.  There are promises I've made to myself that I've failed to keep.  Like the one that when I turned forty I was going to focus on getting myself back into good physical shape and to take more time to read and relax.  Today, six months later (to the day) I realize that I've not kept that promise to myself.

So while this post is about Earth Day and a promise I kept for twenty-two years now, it's also a commitment to fulfill that promise to myself.

Listen Now:

 Enhanced Podcast [2:29m]: Download | Embeddable Player | Hits (4)

In my list of forty stories I Love to Tell, there are two different types of stories.  Those I am definitely, without a doubt going to tell and those I may tell, depending on circumstance.  This story falls into the latter.  Many stories I tell because of a connection to a current event, which is often what prompts me to tell one of these stories in the first place.  While I was in high school, I had the opportunity to go to California to see the landing of the Space Shuttle Discovery.  Today as Discovery is headed to the Smithsonian for its final resting place, I recall not just the chance to see it land, but too, my fascination with space.

Even as a kid, I studied the planets, learned about their composition and their moons.  I'm fairly certain that in the fourth grade I shared that Pluto had moved closer to the sun than Neptune during show-and-tell.  It was a big hit.   Each year in science class when we discussed Astronomy, I'd always be the kid who raised his hand and explained this abnormal, ecliptic path around the sun and that when listing the planets in order, the correct answer, for the next twenty years or so, was Pluto then Neptune.

The landing of the Space Shuttle Discovery took place at Edwards Air Force Base near Los Angeles.  I remember waking up at about 2:30 in the morning and then watching with several hundred thousand of my closest friends in a cold desert in March. What I do remember about the landing was how quickly it happened.  We heard the sonic boom, I saw it quickly glide across the sky and then it was out of our site and on the ground.

When I returned home, the local newspaper called and wanted to interview me for what would be my very first news interview.  When asked to explain what it was like, I innocently replied, “It was a big boom-boom and there it was.”  I have since done dozens of newspaper, radio and television interviews and I always keep that quote in the back of my mind for fear of repeating it.  I like to think of it as my personal version of “boom goes the dynamite.”  (Google it)

Today, I have a few space apps on my iPad in which I often explore our solar system and the nearby galaxies.  I am as much now, if not more, fascinated by the planets.  When visiting Cape Kennedy about ten years ago, I saw Atlantis on the launch pad and Columbia was in its bay, being prepared for the flight that would end tragically.  Recently a friend posted a photograph of Discovery from Cape Kennedy and of course, I replied, “I saw that land 23 years ago.”

I keep a photograph of that Space Shuttle landing on a shelf as a reminder of limitless possibilities, which is what outer space represents to me.  So today, as Discovery is lifted away to Virginia, I think back to when Pluto was still a planet, when I was pictured on the front page with a bad high school mustache and of course, the lives lost in the two tragic shuttle disasters.

Listen Now:

 Enhanced Podcast [2:52m]: Download | Embeddable Player | Hits (5)

There is something about the sport of baseball that, for me anyway, creates a direct connection to those who played the game for more than a century. Perhaps it's because the basic rules of the game have not changed but twice in almost a hundred years. The bases have not been moved closer to increase offensive production and there hasn't been a clock added to the game to "speed things up." Outside the lowering of the mound in the late 1960's and the designated hitter in the early 1970's the rules of baseball have remained fundamentally unchanged for almost a hundred years. Of course, there has been a period of what can be termed nothing less than cheating during the steroid era, but that is another story completely.

I begin Story Number Thirteen with my great-grandfather who grew up in Humboldt, KS, in a farmhouse next to one of the greatest pitchers in the history of baseball, Walter Johnson. Legend has it, and the story I tell, is that when Walter and his family moved to California when he was a teenager, my great-great grandparents gave them a bed to take with them. While I have no independent verification, I have heard that bed is now in the museum in Coffeyville, KS.

Of course, those from Independence know that the first night baseball game was played in Riverside Stadium and the great Mickey Mantle played the 1949 and 1950 seasons in Independence. I always feel pride when I talk about my hometown and the history that is connected to baseball and I've always felt something ghostly as I've stood in front of the grandstands on the field of Riverside Stadium.

Growing up, there was no baseball player that I admired more than George Brett. One of my first memories of watching the game of baseball was a game in the late 1970’s. I don’t know who the Royals were playing, so for the sake of the story and since it’s my story, let’s just say they were playing the Yankees. (Truthfully I think that it was the 1976 playoffs, but I’m not for certain). Brett came to bat and I remember clenching my fists and quietly saying, okay praying, “please let George Brett hit a home run, please let George Brett hit a home run.”

The stance. His head seemingly hiding behind his right shoulder and a wad of tobacco in his cheek, rocking back on his left foot until his right toe barely touched the ground. As the ball left the pitcher's hand, he leaned back, swinging the bat around as his right arm carried the bat around until the Royals logo on the powder blue jersey was clearly visible, except for the dirt covering it, inevitably from a diving play at third base, earlier in the game. The crack of the bat. The moan of the crowd as the ball sailed into the right field bleachers. Just as I had willed it.

I'd lay in bed at nights listening to the Royals radio broadcasts as a kid, often falling to sleep to the sounds of Denny Matthews and Fred White and in the summers, I'd reenact the games from the night before in my backyard.

As a Royals fan, I followed George Brett until the end of his career. That’s where this story finishes. When I was in college, my roommate’s mother worked for the Kansas City Royals. She had gotten word that Brett was going to announce his retirement the next day. She could get us tickets before it was announced and we’d be able to get great seats, which we did, just a few rows behind his wife.

I still have my game ticket from that day and as he kissed home plate following his lap around the stadium I saw an appreciation he had, not just for the game of baseball, but to the community of Kansas City.

Baseball is not what it once was. Money, steroids, and I think a lack of appreciation to the strategy of the game have caused it to lose its popularity. But when growing up, there was nothing bigger than the Kansas City Royals.

Listen Now:

 Enhanced Podcast [3:40m]: Download | Embeddable Player | Hits (5)

As a child of the 1980's, I spent many hours trying to solve the Rubik's cube.  I confess, that I once even pealed the stickers off, took it to my parents and told them I had solved one side. My father explained that if the stickers were removed, it would be impossible to solve.  After I understood why, I began to understand how the Rubik's Cube worked.

My grandmother purchased a book that explained step by step, how to solve the cube.  For several weekends when I was in the fourth grade, we'd get together on Saturday mornings, and work through the book.  Quickly, I began to memorize the sequence of steps and it wasn't long before I could solve it on my own.  Of course, I had to show off my new talent to my classmates, and I remember one day during recess, I solved the Rubik's Cube in 53 seconds.  That is not a typo.  Nor is it any kind of record.  For comparison, the world record is under seven seconds.

I never forgot how to solve the Rubik's Cube.  In fact, I've taught my brother, college roommates and others (and possibly you) how to solve it over the years.  I'll often walk through a store and find one on a shelf that has been "messed up."  A few times, I've picked it up, solved in, once even to a small crowd that gathered around and applauded when I finished it.

While on a bus at Disney World a few years ago, a teenaged kid pulled a Rubik's Cube out of his pocket.  We began talking about the solution he used to solve it and the one I used.  Our conversation lasted about forty-five minutes and it was probably the nerdiest conversation I have ever had. But it was fun to learn a different way to solve the cube than the one I have always used.

After the success of the Rubik's Cube came other puzzles, including a 4x4x4 cube.  I had one and was working to solve it on my own, without the solution book.  One day in the fifth grade, as the day was beginning to wind down, I remember having one of those aha moments where I thought I had figured out a way to solve it.  I could not wait until after school to try it out and see if it worked.  A classmate snatched the cube from me, and tossed it to my sister. The next thing I know, my 4x4x4 cube was broken into dozens of pieces.  For twenty-five years, I wondered if the solution I had come up with in the fifth grade would really work.  Finally about three years ago, I found one on eBay.  When it arrived, I immediately tested that idea and it didn't take long for me to realize that the idea I had in the fifth grade wouldn't work.  But the solution I later found was very similar to the solution the kid on the bus had used.

The Rubik's Cube is enjoyable to me, not because it's something unique that most people cannot do, but because of the great memories of sitting with my grandmother as a eleven year old boy.  That, along with clearing the banana level on Ms. PacMan, makes me feel like a little boy again.

Listen Now:

 Enhanced Podcast [3:02m]: Download | Embeddable Player | Hits (7)

One of those goals I had set for myself after graduating from college was running a marathon by the age of thirty.  As I like to say, “I lucked out and found one just two days before I turned thirty.”

I had done the training over the summer and had run a few half-marathons as preparation for the full 26.2 miles.  On October 21, 2001, I completed my first marathon, but it wasn’t easy.  It started well.  The weather was clear and I felt great, albeit a bit nervous.  My great-uncle and great-aunt had come to the race and were cheering for me at about a mile into the race.  I ran over to them and thanked them for coming out to see me.  Through the first 13 miles, I felt awesome.  I was hitting the aide stations, taking fluids in stride, feeling that I would easily breeze through with a sub-four hour marathon.

At mile sixteen, I slowed through the aide station, picked up a cup of water and and a handful of trail mix and walked just long enough to finish the water and then I started running again.  But something had quickly changed.  Suddenly, both quadricep muscles had tightened up (and I mean tighten up to the point that I could hardly lift them) and then my calf muscles.  My pace, which had been exactly where I had hoped it to be, was suddenly now a walk.  I tried running again, which I did for a half mile or so, but then I was in too much pain and had to stop and walk.

The route, which had to be redesigned due to the September 11 attacks (it originally went through the Air Force Base in Wichita, KS) passed the finish line at about mile 18.  I contemplated stopping, knowing that the next eight miles were going to be tough, but I carried on down a bike trail on the four mile out and back.  As the miles passed, my running became more of a walk and my walk, more of a crawl.  By mile twenty two, I was taking painful baby steps even sitting down on the side of the trail, on my way to a twenty four minute mile.  A race volunteer asked if I was going to be able to finish.  I told her yes, but she was going to have to help me to my feet.

At mile twenty four, I dug deep,  forcing myself to run one hundred feet at a time and then resting.  At mile twenty six, the course entered a minor league baseball stadium in right field, circled around to the third base foul line and then finished at second base.   I knew there were people in the stadium there to see me finish.  Regardless of what might have been a disaster of a race, I was not going to let my friends see me finish this way.

When I entered the stadium, the announcer called my name and the crowd cheered (as they did for every runner, which is totally cool by the way).  I tried the best I could to stretch out my legs and finish strong and by the time I made the turn at third base, I was running as fast as I could through the finish.

I finished that Marathon that day and the next few days were painful.  I’m proud of myself not for just doing the marathon, but for fighting through extreme fatigue and pain.  It would have been so easy that day to have taken the ride to the finish line, but I didn’t and that’s why this story makes the list at number eleven.

Listen Now:

 Enhanced Podcast [3:03m]: Download | Embeddable Player | Hits (8)

I first heard of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society in 1996.  I received a brochure in the mail about the Team in Training program and the idea of training for and running  a marathon was something that immediately appealed to me.  But more importantly, it was the idea of helping to find a cure for Leukemia I wanted to support.

I really didn’t know much about leukemia at all until one day I learned that a friend of mine named Derek, that I had gone to college with, had died from leukemia.

When the brochure arrived, I decided I would do something about it.  I signed up for the New York marathon and began training.  That summer I traveled to London and spent many afternoons in the cool England summer logging miles without  the heat issues that plague us here in Kansas.  When I returned I was ready.  Unfortunately, I injured myself and couldn’t run for a few months.  I opted out of the race, but vowed to run a marathon again one day.  In 2001, I did.

A few months later, I rode a 100-mile bicycle ride for the Team in Training program.  When I returned, I was asked to serve on the board of directors of the Kansas Chapter of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.  I was deeply honored to be asked and graciously accepted the opportunity.  It was an organization that meant a great deal to me and one I knew was making a difference and would one day provide a cure for a disease that had taken the life of a friend of mine.

During our second Kansas Mission of Mercy dental project, I began talking to a volunteer hygienist and she asked if we were planning to hold an event in southeast Kansas.  I told her that we were and she was excited since she had grown up in that area.  I told her I was from Independence and she said that her cousin, who I knew, lived there.  As we continued to talk, I noticed her face and how her cheeks and her eyes were exactly like those of my friend's.

“You are Derek’s sister?”  I asked.

“Yes, you knew Derek?”

I told her that I did and then explained to her how I had learned of his death, a year or so later.  I felt comfortable with our conversation to ask her what had happened.  She explained in detail how he discovered he had leukemia and all the emotional ups and downs as he battled cancer.  She wiped the tears from her eyes as she finished the story.

After she finished, I looked at her and told her that I had gotten involved in the fight to find a cure for leukemia, had run a marathon and cycled a hundred miles to raise money and was serving on the board of directors. I paused a moment, took a deep breath and said “and it’s all because of your brother.”

I’ve had the chance to stand up and speak to different groups about leukemia and I’ve told that story many times and it always, even as I write this, brings me to tears.  I recently spoke to his sister and told her just how meaningful and powerful that conversation was to me and how I continue to tell it.

She thanked me for all that I have done and that it meant so much to her and her family.  We all have our reasons for supporting different causes.  That’s why I support the fight against blood cancers.

I tell this story, not just because of that incredible and emotional meeting, but because you never know that when you are asked to do something to make a difference that one day, years later, that decision you made to get involved, will have touched the life of someone you meet.

Listen Now:

 Enhanced Podcast [3:25m]: Download | Embeddable Player | Hits (7)

When I added this story to my draft list of Forty Stories I Love to Tell, I had intended it to be a humorous story. But as I began writing, I realized that while the ending is funny, the underlying problem probably isn’t.

When I first told a friend of mine in law school that Gwen and I were dating, she replied that “she was so cute, like a little sweet pea.” I decided that I’d start referring to Gwen as “sweet pea”, as a term of endearment. I’d regularly email her during the day, often beginning the letter by writing, “hey sweet pea,” believing I was winning her heart with my affection.

There is more to this story and I think in the end you will laugh; but before I tell that, I have a confession to make.  I am a horrible speller.  There are words I simply cannot spell and I’ll even admit, I will occasionally misspell a word so badly that spell check will not even offer a suggestion. Simple words like balloon, surprise, and both embarrassing and occasionally are words I commonly misspell. In college English, it took me three attempts to pass a test on frequently misspelled words. In each sentence that I write, spell check will undoubtedly notify me once or twice that the word I have typed is not spelled correctly. More often than not, it’s a double letter or I’ve used an “a” instead of an “e”. I’ll often just attempt to type a word, hoping that I can get close enough for  spell check to recognize the word. Sometimes though, on bad days, a word that is relatively simple will not look like a word at all, but rather a bunch of letters stuck together. I am aware that some of these are symptomatic of dyslexia and if I were not forty years old and have discovered ways to overcome this problem, I might perhaps try and seek out answers.

I cannot write something without reviewing it time and time again, and even after I post something I have written, I will experience ortographobia, the fear of spelling mistakes. Every now and then, I’ll misspell a word, not catch it right away, and then will scramble to correct it before too many people see my mistake. On numerous occasions during a meeting, I’ve been asked to take notes or make corrections to documents which are projected onto a screen. I can’t explain how difficult that was, knowing that I might have to type a word that I cannot spell.  While I have been fairly successful in hiding this problem, it is extremely stressful. I enjoy writing, but there are challenges to doing so, notably the fear that a spelling mistake might be read by potentially thousands of people.

So that brings me back to sweet pea. After several weeks of sending Gwen email messages, she finally broke it to me. “I really like that you send me emails, but I’d appreciate it if you would not call me “sweat” pea. Yes, I had been misspelling sweet as sweat. While using a word I had intended as a term of endearment, I had been telling her that she smells.

Listen Now:

 Enhanced Podcast [3:07m]: Download | Embeddable Player | Hits (6)

When I was fifteen years old, like many of you, I took my driver’s test.  There aren’t many things that are worse to a fifteen year old than failing a driver’s test, so yes, I was very nervous.

The morning I took the driver’s test, my father took me out for one final practice session before I’d drive with the examiner in the afternoon.  As we came to an intersection, dad would tell me to make a right turn.  I put my turn signal on and made a left handed turn.  We’d come to an intersection and he’d say turn left, I turned right.  I was certain to fail if I couldn’t tell left from right, even it out of nervousness.

We next drove to City Hall, the home of the Independence Police Department.  Dad saw an open space on the side of the street.

“I want you to parallel park,” he said.

“Right here, in front of the police station?”  I replied.

Sure enough.  That’s what he wanted me to do. Cruel.  I could just see myself backing into the car behind me or knocking out my headlights after hitting the car in front.  After shifting from drive to reverse a half dozen or so times, I awkwardly put the car into park.  It wasn’t pretty.  I had hit the curb a few times and the front end was probably pointed a good six inches into the street.

I pulled the car out and we circled the block.  Well, not exactly,  I turned left instead of right. Once back to the police station, I parallel parked once again, this time a bit better.

From there, we went to the driver’s license exam station.  I completed the paperwork and the examiner and I went to the car.  I buckled my seatbelt and before he gave me the first instructions, I asked that he point the direction he wanted me to turn.  He laughed and strangely, I felt at ease.  I drove off slowly and cautiously, performing every instruction he gave.  We drove back to the license office, I parked the car and took a deep breath.

“Congratulations, you passed,” he said.

Later that afternoon, dad and I took my 1968 Austin Healey Sprite convertible for a spin.  It had rained and water had leaked into the car, behind the radio.  Not more than a half mile away, the radio began to billow smoke.  I quickly pulled to the side of the road and pulled up the emergency brake just as a giant fire ball engulfed the floor.  I jumped from the car to safety as the fire disappeared as quickly as it began.

Now, I will tell you, that the part of this story about the fireball is in dispute. It seems my father espouses the notion that if he didn’t see it, it didn’t happen.   He seems to remember the amount of smoke being significantly less than the billowing I recall and if you ask him, there was no fireball.  The story he loves to tell is that I panicked, jumped out of a moving car as the radio shorted out.

To this day, I remember that ball of flame in the floor board.  Perhaps the smoke didn’t bellow as I remember and there is a chance the flame was a quick spark as the radio shorted out.  Nevertheless, dad and I have shared countless laughs about this story, each telling it our own way.

Listen Now:

 Enhanced Podcast [3:09m]: Download | Embeddable Player | Hits (11)

A Lesson Learned from a Baseball

Like many twelve-year-old boys, I dreamed of being a big league baseball player. And like most fourteen year old boys, my dreams of being a big leaguer were long since forgotten. But for one summer, my third year of Little League, baseball was as big as it got.

There was probably a great deal of resemblance between my team and the Bad News Bears, except we were sponsored by the VFW and not Chico’s Bail Bonds. A lazy ground ball to the third baseman might lead to a three base error and a run, a fly ball to the center fielder was as good as a home run and sometimes we cheered if a player made contact, even if it was a dribbler off the nose. Okay, perhaps it wasn’t that bad, but we weren’t exactly winning many games.

Now, before I tell any more of this story, I need to assure you that this is not a story about my skills as a baseball player. As a pitcher, I had two pitches, a slow ball and a slower ball. But what I lacked in speed, I made up for with accuracy. My catcher and I had a system worked out. He would position his glove in different locations in and around the plate. I’d mix up the speed of the pitch and hit his glove perfectly every time and we were winning. Our coach said that if we defeated one of the better teams in the league, he’d take us for ice cream. We went out and as a team, we won the game. And we kept winning, right up until we played the legendary ARCO team (legendary in the early 80’s Independence, KS Little League circuit anyway).

For the past few years, ARCO had been loaded and they had won the league championship several times. If we won this game, our coach said, he’d take us all to Big Hill Lake. Again, our system was flawless. Move the glove around the plate, mix up the speed and throw strikes. Each pitch, it was the same routine. Arms up, step back, motion forward and throw. Strike. Strike. Strike. When contact was made, it was an easy out.

I don’t remember the score, but I remember we were in the lead, in the final inning of the game. I was on the mound, in pinstripes, with two outs. Arms up, step back, motion forward and throw. Strike one. Same motion, strike two. The catcher put his glove low and on the outside corner of the plate. I wrapped my first two fingers over the seams, lifted my Mike Schmidt Rawlings baseball glove in front of my chest. I stepped back with my left foot as I lifted my hands into the air and then kicked up my left leg as I motioned my arm forward, releasing the baseball.

If I were to guess, I’d have said it was a ninety mile-per-hour fastball and it was dancing around through the air, just as if it had been thrown by a Major League pitcher. I remember this as if it were a movie. The ball moving in slow motion, the crowd silent, the glove popping. Then what seemed like an eternity until the umpire made his call. Ssssssttttrrrriiiikkkkeee tthhhhrrreeeeeeee!

We might as well have just one the World Series. Our catcher ran to the mound and jumped into my arms. The rest of our team streamed from the dugout and we celebrated as we had just handed ARCO what I remember as their first and only loss of the season.

As with many of my stories, there is a lesson that I learned and it the reason why I selected the story to include in this series. There is of course the tale of the underdog and the notion that it was a story of success as the coach was able to position the players in just the right way to win. All of that is true. But it’s what happened right after the celebration, as we walked to the dugout, that provides the lesson in this story.

As we walked off the field, the umpire, still holding the baseball, yelled at our catcher and tossed him the game ball. My heart sank. If anyone deserved the game ball, it was me, right? The catcher just told me where to throw the ball. I was the one who hit the glove every pitch. Why didn’t I get the ball? This bothered me for quite some time.

I even told this story to a personal coach at a leadership retreat six years ago when he asked me to name one of my most disappointing moments in life. I don’t remember his words exactly, but he questioned why it mattered who got the game ball if we won the game. I understood his point. We talked about some of my projects and he asked about KMOM. I said I took the pictures. He asked what that meant. I said it was a way of capturing the stories behind the patients and our volunteers. He asked if that was important. We agreed that it was. He challenged me to the be the best story-teller I could be and once I did that, I’d reap the reward and the value of my work, regardless of who got the game ball in the end.

What gave rise that day was a recognition that stories, whether told in words, photos or video, are important and regardless of what my training and background says, if I can be the storyteller and if I can tell the story with passion and energy, that may be my greatest contribution. It was soon after that I began learning new ways to be a better story-teller. Today, story telling has opened up new and exciting opportunities and it’s something in which I find tremendous satisfaction.

It’s fitting that earlier today, I posted our 2012 Kansas Mission of Mercy video. Prior to this conversation I never would have known that I had the ability to tell a story like this nor would I have had the courage to do so. So as I lean back and toss a baseball into the air as I always do when I finish a major project, I think back to that story and how not getting that game ball may have been one of the most important lessons in my life.

KMOM Kansas City

Listen Now:

 Enhanced Podcast [5:12m]: Download | Embeddable Player | Hits (6)