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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The Roost is Full

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The roost is full at Cam’s house. And on this week’s Keepin’ It Real, Cam shares that it may never be this way ever again.

—–

My wife and I had thought our summer would be quiet and a bit boring. Two of our four children would be living away and the other two would be at home but either working during the day, away at camp for a few weeks, or playing sports. Plans changed, though, and they’re all back home for the summer. Our house is packed. The roost is full. Our four kids are between the ages of twenty-one and seventeen and they’re all living at home until the fall when my two college aged children return to campus. In the meantime, we’re all together. Just like old times except, today, they’re all in the bodies of adults.

Our Costco run Saturday morning was $700. We could easily return tomorrow for another run. The food goes fast. The refrigerator goes from full to empty in just days. And even after packing the fridge, we heard the all-too frequent complaint – “there’s nothing to eat around here.” My wife calmed herself and took my children on a food tour standing in front of the refrigerator with the door open, pointing out the $700 worth of food we had just put in there.  Pointing at items and explaining how simple it was to prepare and eat the food.

The trash cans are always loaded, too. Before the house was full, we’d take the trash to the outside cans a couple of times per week at most. Now it can be twice a day. The recycling is always overflowing, too, and needs to be taken outside every few days. We are running the dishwasher every night – it fills up every day whereas when previously it was run maybe once per week. The washer and dryer are in constant motion. And I spent ten hours cooking a nine-pound Boston Butt Saturday. Nine pounds of meat would usually last my house a week or so. It was nearly gone by the time dinner was over Saturday night.

Oddly, though, I see my children much less than I thought. Mainly because by the time I’m up and have left for the office, they’re still in bed. And when I get home later in the afternoon, they’re gone to work or with their friends. We hear them at night, though. They each come in and knock on our bedroom door to let us know they’re home.

It’s nice to have the roost full again. I wondered if it would ever happen. It’s easily conceivable that my college aged children could never have returned home ever again though my friends with older children say that is not likely to happen; like it or not, your kids are coming back, they say. But the thought of my kids not living at home anymore, I don’t know, kinda unsettles me. Makes me feel sad. Is that chapter of my life really over? I’m told I’ll miss the shoes all over the floor and the dishes in the sink someday. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. However, the Costco runs – I’ll definitely not miss those.

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

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Am I My Brother’s Dog’s Keeper?

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On this week’s Keepin It Real, Cam is having a harder and harder time walking his dog due to his neighbor’s dog that won’t go away.

—–

“Am I my brother’s keeper?” Cain asked this of God after his brother Abel went missing and God asked Cain, “Hey. Where’s Abel?” Cain claimed he didn’t know. Cain had killed Abel, by the way, and was trying to hide it.

How about this question – “Am I my brother’s dog’s keeper?”

I remember growing up in a neighborhood where everyone let their dogs run. There were few fenced in yards. No such things as invisible dog fences and fancy dog collars. The dog I got for Christmas as a teenager, a black lab we named Holly, mostly stayed in the yard, on the front porch, or by the back door. She had a small piece of left over carpet that she could sit and sleep on when she was allowed inside. It stayed next to the back door and Holly was not allowed to go anywhere else in the house. Outside she roamed a bit when she got older. She was one of many. There was Gumpy and Gidget and Daisy and Elizabeth and more all on our street. Holly was known by the neighbors and, well, tolerated, just like their dogs were by us and tolerated. Holly never caused problems – at least that’s the way I remember her.

The rules have changed. Today we fence dogs in. Or we put them behind invisible dog fences with collars that give dogs a series of warning beeps when they approach their boundaries. We don’t let them outside unsupervised. We only walk them on leashes, and we pick up their droppings with special poop bags and carry their poop in our pockets before we throw it away, which shocks me. We humans have created artificial intelligence, we regularly go to and from outer space, we have created the pyramids of Giza, a flawless sculpture of David, and radars that can see underground from outer space but we regularly carry dog poop in our pockets. We’re not as advanced as we think. But I digress.

So, back to the question, am I my brother’s dog’s keeper?

My neighbor’s dog wanders the neighborhood. The owner says the same thing – Oh. I’m sorry. She got out again. And again. And again. And again. The windowsills in the front of my house are destroyed. My dog goes nuts when she sees the other dog in our yard. And when the other dog comes up to our window our dog barks violently and claws at the window which has destroyed our sills. Their dog gets into our curbside recycling, spreading it all over the yard. Their dog follows us when we go on walks and we have to abandon our walks for fear of their dog getting into traffic.

The dog, of course, is just being a dog. It’s doing what dogs do. We’ve returned the dog to the owner many times but, I don’t know, the owner doesn’t seem to care about the hassles the dog causes.

So, am I my brother’s dog’s keeper? And if yes, for how much longer? And can I put the dog’s owners in a poop bag and throw them away?

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

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Bored

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On this week’s Keepin’ It Real, Cam is board so he’s thinking about paddling across the Pacific. Or planting a few ferns.

—–

I’m bored. And that’s a problem. Somethings been nagging at me for a few weeks and I now know what it is – I’m bored. There’s little adventure in my world right now. Very little discovery. And when boredom sets in get panicky and a bit rash. Too often, I over compensate.

This morning I spent way too much time on the Molokai to Oahu web page. It’s a 32 mile stand up paddleboard race from the Hawaiian island of Molokai to the island of Oahu and it takes most paddleboard participants about seven hours to complete. The participants in the videos were all much much younger than me and loaded with muscles. I saw no participants that were  middle aged plus men with beer bellies. Some participants spoke of the unbelievable color of the water in the center of the Ka’iwi channel which is crossed between Molokai and Oahu. I’m guessing that’s because the water in the channel is 2300 feet deep.

I think I want to do it. It’s a sure way to cure my boredom. The problem is that I don’t own a standup paddleboard and the few times I tried one I spent more time climbing back on than I did stand up paddling. I also have thalassophobia which is a deep fear of deep bodies of water. Whenever I’m in the ocean where I can’t see the bottom, I envision a giant toothy creature surging from the depths with its mouth open, headed my way. Man loses his edge when swimming in the ocean – it becomes an equal playing field between man and beast. However, training to paddle from one Hawaiian island to another would certainly resolve my boredom however crazy it sounds.

A more realistic and, frankly, a sad alternative to my boredom is yardwork. I hate it that I even mention that. What else says overweight, middle aged, thinning brown haired white guy than deciding working in the yard is a cure for boredom. My wife, my son, and I planted forty autumn ferns a few weekends ago in areas where no grass has grown for the past fifteen years. I didn’t much like planting them. My mood is generally sour when working in the yard, but I’ve slowly walked by and admired our planted ferns a dozen times or more sense then. I don’t like doing yard work. I like having done yard work. Another forty ferns would solve my boredom problem but that’s so dang sad.

So, I’m bored. And the ideas I’ve come up with for solving my boredom problem are either fanciful or pitiful. When I told my wife that I had figured out the cause of my melancholy and that it was boredom, she gave me an uneasy look. I’ve been here before and I usually do something stupid in times like this. And she’s right. And I’m sure I will.

Will it be to paddleboard across the ocean? Or gobs of ferns? Good lord. What’s wrong with me?

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

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Flourish

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On this week’s Keepin It Real, Cam says we know we’re all busy, very busy, but are we doing what it takes to flourish?

—–

What does it take for a human to flourish? Such a simple question to understand but to answer, not so easy.

Listening to a podcast last weekend, this question arose between the host and his guest. The guest pointed out that, in his opinion, everything being promoted as valuable in our Western society today is detrimental to human flourishing. What is being promoted, he said, actually leads to loneliness. And he might be right.

So, what is being promoted out there? One immediately must turn to technology and, specifically, social media. Our consumption of social media is largely done alone. We may share things we like, but we consume 99% of our social media alone.

The accumulation and broadcasting of wealth is certainly being promoted. On social media. In the types of cars next to us on the road right now. Through our posts about the clothes, the toys, the trips we take. It all serves to boost and promote our ego and egos, unchecked, always elevate and separate. Always. Egos say, “I’m better, I’m different.” I’m above you. I’m away from you. More loneliness. I could go on.

So, if we want to flourish, what exactly should we want? If we want our children to flourish, what should we want for them? Unfortunately, most of us don’t know. We’re conditioned to say friends, health, meaningful and purposeful activities each day. It all sounds good. So look at you. Look at me. What are we doing to achieve this? What of our behaviors illustrate that we’re flourishing? For the vast majority of us, there’s not a lot to point to.

And we have the ability to heavily influence our kids. We want our kids to flourish so, we give them cell phones. We solve their problems. We let them stay home from school. Kids today spend less time interacting with each other. Increases in anxiety and loneliness. We want them to flourish but we don’t equip them or teach them how. And adults aren’t much different. We’re busy, though. So very busy. Flourishing? No. Busy. Yes. Very busy.

A small business colleague asked a simple but heretical question last night: “What’s wrong with not wanting more? What’s wrong with not wanting private equity to swoop in and buy me out because I like what I do, and I don’t want to stop? What’s wrong with not wanting a boat, a plane, a second house or whatever? What’s wrong with liking where I am? And why do I feel wrong for asking this?”

There’s nothing wrong with it. But it’s counter to our culture of more and more and busier and busier.

Everything needed for each of us to flourish is within our reach. Education. Art. Friends. Hobbies. Community.

Do you and I have what it takes to leave the mess we’ve created so that we can flourish?  

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

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Breach

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On this week’s Keepin It Real, Cam Marston had a client breach a contract and he’s trying to use lessons from Marcus Aurelius to keep himself from absolutely losing it.

—–

I’m reading Marcus Aurelius’ book called Meditations written in about the year 175. They’re notes to himself about the thoughts he’s having and how he’s working to keep his head on straight. He’s writing to work things out. No audience in mind, just for him.

Throughout his writings several themes arise. First, he’s aware of the presence of death. The topic of dying is never far. Second, he has to keep reminding himself that he can’t control the behaviors of those around him, only himself. He controls his outlook on things and his attitude. He writes this over and over again. And third, his desire to do good. Always wanting to do good. For himself, for Rome, for the gods, for his troops. He’s consumed by doing good. Struggling to temper his reactions whenever bad things come his way. He’s focused on controlling his behavior. It’s been a good read.

Aurelius had a number of people conspire against him while he was away on campaign. His plan was to return to Rome and forgive them. He died in route. It’s a very kind action in an era I often associate with ruthless and barbaric behavior.

I’ve recently had a client break a contract. Their behavior appeared willful and intentional but in hindsight, I’m hoping it wasn’t. It is a very large multi-national company. Every person I’ve met there seemed honest and genuine and sincere until this one thing has happened. A few weeks ago, I wanted to go to my small business colleagues and yell at the top of my lungs “Be careful. They’re not who they say they are. Don’t let the charm fool you. Be very, very careful.”

Now, not so much. My anger has diminished. I need to remedy the contract. I need to correct what’s happened. But goodness knows mounting a legal dispute would drain my small business. I’d go broke trying. Them? Hardly a blip on their radar.

So, how to proceed? What would my man, Marcus Aurelius, do? I think he’d remind himself that he can’t control the behavior of other people and his desire to do good and be kind should outweigh any anger, hostility and disappointment he feels. He needs to find the remedy without letting anger take hold. He may forgive them but he’d, rightly, never forget that it happened. And for me, right now, for what appeared like pre-meditated theft, forgiveness is a tall order.

It’s amazing how unchanged our thoughts and emotions are in 2000 years. How the disciplines and thoughts and writings that a Roman emperor used to keep himself from losing it applies to me right now. I’d like to think that we’re kinder and more civil and sophisticated today. However, it’s simply not true. The virtues that Aurelius championed are as hard to bring forth in me today as they were to him 2000 years ago.

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

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Staring At the Clock

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On this week’s Keepin’ It Real, what was Cam doing today at 4:59am? Well, he wasn’t getting out of bed. That we know for sure.

—–

Most mornings I’m staring at the clock about 4:30 am waiting to get up. I won’t allow myself to get out of bed before 5am. Getting your day started at 5am means you’re aggressive. You’re eager to get going. Getting out of bed before 5am means you have a problem. They’re slight gradations. Minutes matter and 4:59am is a good bit different from 5am. I stare at the clock until it turns 5 when I feel like it’s ok to jump up and get the coffee started.

Most of my friends are much the same. I sat at my kitchen table last Saturday night with two friends as we waited for the beef ribs to get to 203 degrees, which, according to one of my kitchen guests, is the magic temperature for beef ribs. Each of us talking about how early we get up and what we do in those early morning hours. It’s worth noting that none of us do anything much interesting at all at this time of day. We make busy. We putter around. Each thinking that our behavior at that hour must be fascinating to others and we can’t wait to tell them about it. It’s not. As different as we think we are, we’re all remarkably the same at that time of day.

Years back I saw that when I accomplished something at that time of day it set a precedent for getting stuff done throughout the day. If I could check something off my list first thing in the morning – even something small – then I was likely to accomplish more during the day. This is to avoid staring into my phone as my first action of the day which leads to a poor beginning to the day. So at night, I cue up my early morning project. It’s simple stuff – I fold laundry, empty the dishwasher, take trash to the street, change a lightbulb. Something small done with one eye on the coffee maker. Because when the coffee maker beeps that the coffee is ready, the projects stop, the coffee goes into my cup, and it’s go-time for the day. But, in that short amount of time the coffee is brewing, I’ve made progress on having a good day.

It’s unfair that the first fifteen minutes of each day has such great influence over the following sixteen hours. I’m more like a child protecting its pacifier than any sort of adult doing adult things. But I’ve learned, so goes my morning, so goes my day. A more mentally disciplined person would never allow that to happen – they can set a positive trajectory by shaping their thoughts anytime of the day. I, however, am vulnerable to those first fifteen minutes. It’s shocking and, frankly it disappoints me about myself.

Amazing how beholden we are to our routines, isn’t it? Amazing how we count on them like we do. I can choose to get out of my routine and enjoy it. But knock me out of my routine unwillingly and I struggle to keep my day from deteriorating. So I protect it. And any parent knows what I know about myself – you don’t mess with the pacifier.

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

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Don’t Get Sick

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On this week’s Keepin’ It Real, Cam has seen much more of the healthcare world these days than he would like. His advice: Stay well.

—–

I’ve been given an up a close look at our health care system over the past several months. It’s been, well, disappointing. And this comes after hearing a remarkable speaker discuss the importance of customer service on company culture.

I made a reference several months ago to the pain I’ve had. It’s finally been diagnosed as polymyalgia rhumatica, or PMR. It showed up around February first and has been a part of every day since. It’s a sickness that can’t be confirmed through tests. Once they rule out everything else, it’s one of the ones that’s left.

I’ve dealt with some pain in my life. Cluster headaches. A blood clot in my lung. However, nothing day in and day out has been like this PMR pain. On a scale from one to ten it’s regularly an 8 in the morning dipping to a four or five in the afternoon and back to an 8 the next morning. I need help getting my shirt on and off. I can barely brush my teeth. Right now, I’m on a steroid that masks the pain and I pray that the pain ends before the prescription runs out.

Now, the heath care system. I’ve seen five different doctors to try to diagnose this. I’m guessing I’ve spent less than an hour total with all of them. Averaging, maybe, ten minutes each. They burst through the door, they ask a handful of questions, they order tests. It’s quick. I’ve spent lots of time with nurses and assistants and in waiting rooms. But the doctors are hard to come by.

One hospital wouldn’t let me speak to a doctor who I heard might can help. “Unless you’re a patient,” they said, “you can’t speak to him.” “Well, I might become a patient if he thinks he can help. I’ve seen others of his specialty, but I hear he knows more. “Sorry,” they said. So, I wrote him a letter to get him to call me. I got a voice mail from the office supervisor – “you can’t talk to him. Please call me back,” she said. And I tried, got an exhaustive phone tree, zero’d out and asked, “Can I leave a message for the supervisor?” “Sorry,” they said. “Her phone isn’t hooked up to the system.” Over and over. Round and round. There were some phone trees that never allowed me to speak with anyone. If I weren’t in pain already my experience with today’s health care system was getting me there.

Another – “before I can treat you further, I have to do some tests,” the doctor said. “Make an appointment on the way out.” “We don’t make appointments,” the front desk said. Annoyed. Staring at her phone. “Someone will call you.” A day later, “Our next available appointment is in July.” “So, I have to live in level 8 pain from early April to July?” “Sorry. That’s all I got. You want the appointment or not?”

The culture of healthcare today is painful. Don’t get sick, folks. Don’t get sick. If your sickness doesn’t kill you, finding the treatment just might.

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

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He’s Not Roscoe

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Each spring Cam sits in his morning reading chair and see’s a friend just outside the window. But Cam won’t give him a name. He absolutely won’t.

—–

My lizard friend is back again. He shows up on the air conditioner every spring just outside the window. He stays there quite a while each morning, arriving about half an hour after sunrise. I sit each morning in my reading chair and keep an eye out for him. And suddenly, he’s there.

I grew up calling these things chameleons. Wikipedia, however, just told me he is a green anole and he is often mistakenly called a chameleon, likely started by pet shop owners who were selling them as something much more exotic than they are. Wikipedia also says his species is “secure”, meaning they are abundant.

My lizard friend is a male. He keeps pushing out his dewlap, his little red throat thingy that they show during mating season, hoping, I suppose to attract some babe lizard due to his remarkably colorful and large dewlap. He sits alone on the air conditioner flexing his dewlap in the hopes that some chick lizard will spot him and be taken with his masculinity and crawl on over for a big moment of lizard passion. At least that’s what I assume he’s doing. In this regard, my lizard friend isn’t too much different than many of the guys I see at the gym.

As a child we’d catch them and scare the girls. My braver friends would catch two and when the lizard tried to bite them, they’d let the lizard bite their earlobe and let it hang. The kids would walk inside with lizards hanging from each ear, find their mothers and say, “Mom. Look at me.” The mothers would see two lizards hanging from their son’s ears and freak out.  “Get those lizards off your ears and get them out of my house!” We loved it. Scaring mothers with bugs and lizards was a big fun part of my childhood.

There’s a part of me that wants to name him, and the name Roscoe keeps coming to mind. However, once you give a name an animal it becomes much closer to being a pet. A friend owns a beef cattle farm and he’s talked to me about how he avoids naming any of his cattle. One may have a big mark on him that makes my friend want to call that cow Spot or Freckles or something, but he resists the urge. My friend knows that one day that cow will be in the cooler for sale, and having to say goodbye Spot or Freckles is, well… He knows not to name them.

Same is true for the lizard outside who might be Roscoe. He has lots of predators looking for him. Birds. Snakes. Larger lizards. I won’t name him because I may be watching him display one morning at the same time a blue jay or mockingbird sees him and suddenly Roscoe’s gone. So I won’t name him, the anonymous lizard who might otherwise be Roscoe. He’s trying so hard out there. Every morning, he and I say hello through the window and he gets to work while I read. He’s a good lizard, Roscoe is, but I won’t name him. I won’t.

I’m Cam Marston. Just trying to Keep It Real.

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