Top Hat

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On this week’s Keepin It Real, Cam Marston has just returned from a few days in Fort Lauderdale. It’s a different world down there, Cam says. One that he might have envied at one point in his life.

——

My wife and I returned from Ft Lauderdale Saturday. We were there for a corporate event where I was giving a speech. My client generously offered an extra couple of nights in the host hotel and our room was on the 26^thfloor overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. I watched the sun rise each morning as I sipped coffee and read. It began as a faint glow on the horizon to a disk coming out of the water. It was nice. My wife and I haven’t had a chance to do things like that recently. Now that the kids are older, we’re trying to take advantage of them. As we left to go on our trip, we told our kids to please not let us find the house in ashes when we returned. We felt that was reasonable. And it was in pretty good shape when we got home Saturday.

South Florida is quite different from South Alabama or, I suspect, most of Alabama. And I guess saying that is simply acknowledging the obvious. I counted five or six different Ferraris which I rarely see around here. I think they’re beautiful. There were lots of Bentleys. There was lots of jewelry on everyone. Lots of senior citizens on the boardwalk late in the afternoon walking together, riding bikes, sitting and visiting. Lot of accents. Lots of people speaking Spanish, and what I think was Russian. Guitar players up and down the boardwalk, busking and playing music they hoped would catch the senior’s attention.

My hope for my wife and my trip was to create not a bucket list for the two of us, but a reverse bucket list. Not a list the things we wanted or wanted to do. I wanted us to create list of the things we could do away with. What we could do to simplify. I’ve said it many times to my wife and kids – we could probably get rid of half of the things we’ve accumulated over the nearly twenty years in this house and never miss them. If you’ve lived in the same place for a while, you can probably relate. How and why did we get this stuff in the first place. And why do I have such a hard time getting rid of it.

I look at all those things those people in South Florida had, especially the beautiful cars, the jewelry, the magnificent beachfront homes and thought “Wow. That’s beautiful. I’m glad I don’t want it.” And that’s a 180 degree shift and about face from the way I once was – I wanted the stuff, the houses and the cars. Today what excites me is getting rid of the stuff I have. And m y wife is kinda there, too. It’s a part of our journey together of what we want for ourselves from here on out. And what we want will change. Likely many times.

Ironically, though, as I say this my wife and kids have asked for my Christmas list – more things I want which includes, partly to my shame, a top hat. Do I need a top hat? No. Do I want a top hat? Yes. In a few years will I wonder why I have it and why I struggle to give it away? Absolutely.

I think maybe I’ve identified the problem.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

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‘Tis The Season

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On this week’s Keepin It Real, Cam Marston wants you to know he’s NOT A CYNIC. But there are things this time of year that just kinda get to him…

—–

‘Tis the season for pensive and sappy messages. I’m so sorry but it’s true. They’re appearing in TV commercials, in client and vendor emails. Letters received in the mail about the joys of the season and now’s the time to be grateful and all that. I hate being a cynic, but it all appears to be virtue signaling to me. The people I know sending these messages are savage businesspeople and it’s like times running out and they’re throwing a Hail Mary pass to make Santa’s good list. Maybe these people really are kind and generous and are thankful for their bountiful blessings, and the season is a gift meant for a deeper understanding of the commonalities of mankind and that the cockles of their heart swell with the love of the joy of the togetherness of their fellow man and the brotherhood of the love of the oneness of all of us…and all that. I can’t help but roll my eyes. I seriously doubt many of these people have heart cockles. I question whether some of them even have hearts. But man, this time of year, people eat this stuff up.

My father and I watched a lady on the local news early Sunday morning deliver such a message. Her message was about enjoying the season by simplifying it to the essentials. It’s a similar message that we all hear over this time of year. I was unmoved. My dad, though, was over the moon about it. He thought it was great. He repeated the message aloud several times, full of energy. Dad, I wanted to say, you hear this same message over and over again every year. There’s nothing new here. Instead, I kept quiet. The message made him feel good and I guess that matters for something.

‘Tis season for extras, though. Whoever you are, you can justify something a little bit extra this time of year. “It only comes around once a year, so why not just a little more?” we say. A little more to eat. An extra slice of pie or two. Maybe a whole extra pie. Fill the wine glass a little fuller than normal. Each time. An extra gift for someone and maybe an extra one for you, too. Leave the office a little early. And then a little earlier. And then earlier. Every day of the year only comes around once a year, but these are…different. These days are a part of the Christmas season which, per the displays at Lowes, begins mid-October, making the Christmas season nearly a quarter of the year.

Some, like my wife and kids, have no problems with this. What does it matter, they say, if we like the decorations and they make us happy? My position is that the shorter it is, the more intense and special it is. If your default mode is that it’s nearly always Christmas, what’s so special about it? At least that’s what I say to myself, sitting all alone, while what remains of the cockles of my heart burn to cinders.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.

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Cats

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On the way home from Oxford Saturday, Cam and his family stopped at a service station which led to him thinking about what NOT to put on his Christmas list.

—–

For years I had my children convinced I was allergic to cats. I told them the reason we couldn’t have a cat as a pet was that my head would explode in a fiery ball. They wanted a cat. They asked regularly and finally accepted that I was allergic.

I’m not allergic to cats. I’m not sure how they found out, but the cat-pet requests are back. Frankly, I want nothing more to do with anything that requires fuel or any sort of sustenance from me to operate, be that cars, boats, cats, birds whatever. My wife and I have four kids, too many cars, one dog, and share responsibility for a boat. And I’m weary of giving birth to, parenting, raising, collecting or owning creatures or things that need me.

Buckatuna, Mississippi is a nice stopping point between Oxford, Mississippi and Mobile. We stopped there coming home this past Sunday. We had five people in the car, and it was time for a fluid adjustment in some way for all of us. The ladies in the car needed a bathroom, and I needed something cold to drink to keep me awake for the final stretch of road and the boys just needed to walk around.

There at the door of the service station sat a cat. We noticed another and then another. My wife and kids went toward them using their kitten voices. There were a lot of them. Another car stopped and the driver got out, watching my wife and kids. “I want all of them,” my wife said.  She is now the pro-pet cat camp. “All you gotta do is catch one,” the driver said, “But, be careful what you wish for. My daughter,” he told us, “came home with one and said ‘I rescued a cat!’ Well, I said, that’s your cat. You have to figure out how to feed it. Then she came home two months later with another. Two months after that, we suddenly had nine cats and my daughter was struggling to feed them all. Then one day I came home and there was a dead snake on my porch with its head gone. I found out that cats help clean up vermin in the yard. Rats, mice, and even snakes. They bite snake’s heads of and bring the body home as a gift. So now,” he said, “I’m feeding those cats.”

“So,” he said again, “be careful what you wish for.”

The holidays are on the horizon. Kids making lists for themselves. You, perhaps, making lists for your kids. I’ve begun the tradition of making lists, making copies, and leaving them in places around the house where I know they will be found. Toilet seats. Front seats of cars. I’ve even put them in cereal boxes. No one can claim they don’t know what to get me. Cats are not on the list. Neither are dogs or anything alive or inanimate needing food or fuel. As a child we had a pet rabbit that ate through the power cord of the deep freeze. It wasn’t until all the food was spoiled that we realized it.

Anyway, just like cats and that rabbit now’s the time of year to be careful what you wish for.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just Keepin’ It Real.

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Infantilized

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On this week’s Keeping It Real, Cam Marston reacts to a book review about society and how we’re raising kids. It’s not the kids fault, Cam says, it’s definitely the parents.

—–

The Economist magazine reviewed a book called Infantilised: How Our Culture Killed Adulthood. The author, Keith Hayward, argues that western society is keeping kids less mature than previous generations. He tells of a young lady who insisted on spelling the word hamster with a P. When corrected repeatedly, she called her mom and put her on speakerphone to tell her boss not to be so mean.

That’s laughable, but I’ve heard similar things. I work with employers to help them manage, motivate, and recruit employees. I hear stories like this, though the ones usually shared with me are the extremes. Is it true we are keeping kids less mature? I think maybe we are.

Life stages are transition periods leading to a new phase of life. These transitions can happen quickly, like becoming a parent, or they can be a more drawn-out process, like moving into retirement. On the other side of the life stage – once it’s complete-, the person is usually changed. Their view of the world and their values have evolved through the life-stage.

I track several life stages using Census data. It clearly shows that today’s younger generations are going through the same life stages as previous generations but at much older ages. Average ages for first marriages have increased nearly year over year since 1970. Young adults living with parents has increased sharply since 2007. Average age of mother at first birth continues to climb.

One explanation, per the book’s reviewer, is that youth today continue their schooling longer. Therefore, they are dependent on parents, resist getting married and resist having children until older. Maybe. It does make sense. But my research shows that since the Renaissance, in times of affluence, parents work to keep their children younger longer. Parents facilitate, as one writer calls it, Peter-Pandemonium. And I can tell you where you can go witness first-hand it if you wish – high school sports.

I’ve seen parents demand more playing time for their children on the field or the court regardless of performance data. Parents lose it over a slight they feel their child received, regardless of team rules. Demanding the child not get what they’ve earned, but what the parents feel the child wants. The lengths they’ll go through, the bridges they’ll burn, the scene they’ll make is shocking. Oddly, the child seems to care the least, but the parents – wow.

There’s a story told by author Michael Lewis that sums this up. It’s about his high school baseball coach who was tough on kids. The alums, now adults, wanted to buy a plaque to honor this coach who, the alums agreed, shaped them into the men they are today through discipline and tough love. At the time the alums were raising money for the plaque, this very same coach was being attacked by current parents as being too mean and too hard. The current parents demanded his resignation. The same coach. The same coaching. Diametric opposite opinions of the effects of his methods.

To oversimplify it, Infantilised argues that kids today are soft. Maybe. But I promise you, they’re not nearly as soft as the parents. Just ask a high school coach.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.

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Lucy At The Vet

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On this week’s Keepin It Real, Cam’s family dog heard what he said to the vet. And she has something to say about it.

—–

When I walked through the back door our dog, Lucy, looked at me as if to say “you and I have some unfinished business.”

Lucy had been feeling bad. She was lethargic and had thrown up in four or five places in the house. On the rugs, of course. I got to my hands and knees to try to clean them up. It was nasty. She definitely wasn’t herself and my wife, who Lucy seems to regard as The Kind One, took her to the vet. My wife texted that afternoon saying, “Please go pick up Lucy before the vet closes today.” Nothing more.

At the vet I told the lady that I’m here to pick up Lucy and I’m in a hurry to get downtown for a meeting tonight. In my experience veterinarians, as a rule, seldom operate with any sense of urgency. They’re in the warm, fluffy, cuddly business which does not lend itself to hurrying. To her credit she jumped into action and said, “that will be $800.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Say that again.”

“Eight-hundred dollars.” My expression must have concerned her.

“I’ll print the receipt,” she said, “so you can see what was done.”

The receipt was written in medical code. None of it made any sense to me. As if these Latin looking medical terms and abbreviations explained anything. What I did comprehend, though, was the long column of dollar figures running down the right side of the page.

Then I said what makes vet offices hate people like me. “You know I can get a new dog that’s not broken for this amount.” A moment of silence then, “Yes. I know.” She didn’t roll her eyes but she may as well have.

“For this amount I need to speak to my wife to make sure she’s aware of this and then speak to the vet to get an explanation of what was wrong and what we need to do. My wife is busy now and I don’t have time for the explanation today, I need to get downtown. Can you keep Lucy for the night and let my wife come get her and talk to the vet tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she said, dropping her eyes. She never looked at me again. I could tell she loathed me. Shouldn’t I want to bring my dog home to comfort her? How could I leave her in a crate at the vet? Eight hundred dollars vs the comfort of having Lucy home? And the opportunity to care for her? I’m a cruel and heartless human being. I’m the bane of mankind.

And that’s exactly what Lucy was thinking when I came home the next afternoon. She was still lethargic but there was anger in her eyes. “I heard your voice when you came to get me yesterday,” her look told me. “I thought I was coming home. You left me. The Kind One came and got me like I knew she would. I’ve been thinking about you. Remember those vomit spots you cleaned up the other day. They were nothing. I was just warming up.” And she was.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

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Questions

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On this week’s Keepin It Real, Cam Marston says he has a question for you. And he’s curious if you have a question for him.

—–

A story that lives in legend in my family is the day my mother interrupted a story about a boastful largemouth bass fisherman and my mother, in full innocence, asked “Who had the large mouth? The fish or the fisherman?” She had never heard of a largemouth bass. But, considering the context of the story, it was a legitimate question. The group fell silent and stared. Someone then explained to her about the species of fish.

While the story gets repeated because of the question, my memory of the story is her reaction after getting the explanation. She began laughing at herself. At how silly her question must have sounded. At how perfectly naïve she was. I love the memory. Laughing at herself, fully confident in herself and her innocence. No need to be embarrassed. Self-composed, self-confident, and self-aware.

I have inherited the questioning part of my mother. I ask a lot of questions. And I can’t exactly explain why I want to know these things other than just to know them. Do the answers make my life better? I don’t know. It certainly makes me happier to learn these things. Do I make my environment better by asking so many questions? I don’t know. Do I make the people who I ask questions of better? Yes, until a certain point.

I was asked to go to the back of the line at a tour of the Biltmore House in Asheville when the tour guide said we were in room number two of the twenty plus we were scheduled to see that day and were already an hour behind schedule. My questions were to blame. Today I’m participating in an academy hosted by the FBI and one of my fellow participants said we need to stop asking questions so the agent can get on with their slides. The comments weren’t targeted at me exactly, but I was asking a lot of questions.

I find incurious people boring. I’ve learned it’s the single characteristic that makes me interested or not interested in a person is are they curious about things. Plenty of people are not. Plenty of them. What they see and what they get and what they observe and what they hear is fine. No questions asked. They find me annoying that I want to know more.

However, at the same time I can’t imagine going through life not wanting to know. And, unfortunately, the more I feel I know, the more questions I ask. Further, I’ve never been reprimanded for asking a bad question. For too many questions, yes. For a bad question, no. People seem to like being asked.

I recently finished a great biography of Leonardo da Vinci. He was famous amongst his contemporaries for his insatiable curiously and many of his questions lead to breakthroughs in his artwork and his inventions. One note he made to himself was to learn about the tongue of woodpeckers. Such a seemingly random thought. But a question to which he wanted answer.

I think I would have liked him. I’d love to have sat with him. And asked some questions.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

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Gettin’ Lucky

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Cam’s back from his one month sabbatical and creating commentaries again. This one he simply calls Gettin’ Lucky.

—–

Dr Suchan Shenoy is one of the regulars at Restaurant Five in Tuscaloosa on Saturday mornings. I join the regulars when I’m in town visiting my son who is a sophomore at the University. Dr Shenoy is an OBGYN at the DCH Hospital there. He and I sat together and we made some small talk. I don’t know any of the regulars well, but I enjoy their company when I’m in town.

Dr Shenoy could relate to my situation. I was a new guy sitting amongst a group of old friends in their familiar place, not knowing exactly what to say or do. I don’t have any background with them and the conversation can run pretty slow and thin.

Dr Shenoy mentioned that when he’s at a party or an event and the content runs thin, he brings up some things he sees around the hospital. Odd baby names. Things new parents have done. Stuff like that. Lots of people can enjoy those stories. Lots of people find them interesting.

He mentioned that the maternity ward at the hospital had an unexpected surge of newborns in late July and early August. It was strange, he said, since it wasn’t a national trend or he would have heard about it. It appeared very local. DCH Hospital’s normal rate was one or two babies a week and suddenly the numbers had doubled for a few weeks. Almost out of the blue, there were babies everywhere. Very local. Very isolated.

We talked about how the hospital had managed the surge well. They were all hands-on deck for a little while. The surge in babies was, frankly, good for business and they knew it wouldn’t last but, for a few weeks, everyone was in motion caring for the babies, the mothers, and dealing with the families. It was odd he said, and he couldn’t figure out what had caused it.

Not content to let it go, Dr Shenoy reverted to an old equation he had learned in medical school that helped Drs back in the day estimate due dates. It’s called the Naegele Rule Calculator and it’s not much used anymore since the today’s computers are much easier to use and more accurate. However, using the Naegele Rule you can reverse the math and estimate a conception date. And the math zeroed in on November 25^th. Late November last year.

Thanksgiving? Not likely. They would have noticed a surge in previous years if it were Thanksgiving and it wouldn’t have been isolated to the area. Then it occurred to him.

In the late afternoon of Saturday, November 25^th last year, with 43 seconds left in the game, Alabama’s Jalen Milroe threw a bomb to the back left corner of the end-zone where it was caught by Isaiah Bond leading to Alabama’s extraordinary come from behind win. The surge in babies Dr Shenoy was seeing were conceived that night.

As Alabama fans taunted Auburn with “who’s your daddy” well, it became clear to Dr Shenoy that lots of daddies were made that night. Apparently, lots of people, including the Crimson Tide football team, got lucky.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

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Beware The Reformed

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This week on Keepin’ It Real, Cam gets a flashback memory to one of the low points of his early adulthood and why he should hold on to that memory to keep himself in check.

—–

I listen to my commentaries from time to time and I can sound quite self-righteous. A bit “holier than thou.” And I don’t much care for it.

Perhaps you’re familiar with the expression “beware the reformed.” It means those that have returned from the brink of some excess tend to be evangelizers of their new ways. They’re the alcoholics, for example, who insufferably rail about the dangers of alcohol and preach abstinence. Former smokers who warn off smoking. Sinners, who have committed what they feel are above average sins in both volume and degree that now implore us to quickly turn to JeeeZuss.

My self-righteous tone and the warning to “beware the reformed” hit me between the eyes this week. A friend sent a photo of himself at a service station in Babb, Montana. It triggered a memory.

Babb is a very small town on the western edge of the Blackfoot Indian reservation and the eastern edge of Glacier National Park. In college I worked two summers in Glacier National Park and there was a bar in Babb called the Babb Bar. It is there that my name, so I’m told, was on a list posted on the wall. I never saw that list.  It was a list of those the Babb Bar had banned for life.

It was the end of my second summer at Glacier. I was convinced I had become a cuckold by my then girlfriend. A confrontation with whom I imagined was her beau was brewing. Before I could control myself to have a calm conversations, I resorted to shouting and accusations. And, as was my case at that time, to prepare for the showdown I knew would occur that night, I guzzled a few too many long island iced teas. (And to my kids who might someday hear this – this is long, long before I even knew your mother existed.)

At the Babb bar that night, the alleged beau stepped out of the men’s room. I was on my way in. I exploded as soon I saw him. A shouting match, then my pitiful attempt to throw a punch. It was an airball. I missed him completely. However, the momentum of my punch, influenced by the many long island iced teas, carried me into him, then onto him, and we fell in a pile and began a shouting wrestling match on the nasty Babb Bar bathroom floor. We were both thrown out. As the instigator, my name was added to the Banned for Life list the next day.

My self-righteous tones in these commentaries need to be contrasted with the way I used to be. “Beware the reformed, Cam,” I tell myself, “Because you’ve become one of ’em. Tone it down. You’re becoming an ass.”

Marcus Aurelius had a servant walk behind him during his triumphal processions. The servant was to repeatedly whisper “You will die someday.” It was meant to keep Aurelius humble. If the Babb Bar still exits and if you’re ever there and that list still exits, send me a photo. I’d like to print it and put it next to the chair where I write these commentaries each week. And work to rid myself of these self-righteous tones.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.

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Really?

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On this week’s Keepin’ it Real, Cam Marston wonders if we prefer entertainment to anything of substance. And frets over the consequences.

—–

I hope everyone had a nice July Fourth holiday.

On July 4^th, 1776, the Declaration of Independence was officially adopted and signed. It has proven to be one of the most influential documents in world history, generating demands for independence and self-rule across the world.

Eleven years later, in 1787, the US Constitution was created and was then ratified about a year later. The energy and enthusiasm and aspirations of these two documents propelled a new nation forward. They’re full of hope and ambition and the authors of the documents counted on the honor and integrity of this new nation’s leaders to fulfill what those documents stood for. The leaders, the documents, and the mood of our country at the time was hope fueled by the divine.

Let’s contrast that to what we witnessed two Thursday nights ago in the Biden Trump debate. Let’s consider for a moment what’s happened to us. From uplifting prose to child-like name calling. From sage and cogent observations about human nature to incoherent ramblings. From relying on the honor and integrity of leaders to spewing gobs of lies. From working through honest and principled disagreements to an unwillingness to even shake hands.

No one I know likes the candidate they’ll eventually vote for. No one I know thinks their candidate, regardless of their party, is capable or qualified. Everyone I know is voting for their guy to prevent the other guy from destroying the nation. What have we done to deserve this? It’s a serious question. What the hell have we done to deserve this?

I’ve heard many people say, “Is this the best we have to pick from?” but after the debate last week, that question became “This is the best we have to pick from!”. And, I’ll say it again, everyone I know, regardless of who they will eventually vote for, is saying that about their candidate. No one likes their options.

At dinner last Saturday night, a friend mused that he thinks our nation today likes entertainment more than anything that remotely feels like substance. When it comes to politics, we don’t want anyone to tell us the truth. We want to be entertained. So, we keep electing politicians that tell us what we want to hear, that entertain us.

Perhaps the debate last week will initiate a turning point. Perhaps now we’ll begin talking about substantive topics. When was the last time a politician even offered an opinion on our nation’s debt or deficit? When was the last time a politician addressed our nation’s addiction to entitlement spending? A trusted economist I interviewed on my radio show last week predicted that around the year 2030, our nation will fall into an economic depression that overshadows the Great Depression of the 1930s and it will largely driven by deficit spending, national debt, and runaway entitlement spending issues we’ve known about but refuse to acknowledge.

And if he’s right, and as these dark clouds gather, we sit and watch two of the nearly least capable people our nation has ever put forward feebly argue over why they should represent us as president. It’s gut-wrenching. And it’s not entertaining. Not at all.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.

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