Parent’s Weekend

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On today’s Keepin’ It Real, Cam shares something he saw last weekend that made him feel a little bit better about things.

—–

I’m in Starbucks. It’s Saturday. It’s Noon. I’m in Tuscaloosa at the corner of Bryant Drive and 8^th Avenue. Sororities across the street disgorging young ladies for their morning cups of honey-dew latté with extra chai, extra vanilla essence and a dash of bumble bee eyelashes or something like that. Yoga pants as far as the eye can see. One girl wearing a T-shirt reading Don’t Date Frat Boys. Parents here for fraternity and sorority parent’s weekend. Dads wearing dad jeans and comfy shoes. Moms perfectly coifed wearing fancy sneakers.

My son’s fraternity threw a party here in Tuscaloosa last night. The party planners likely said, “Get a band old people will like.” The music was, indeed, for old people. Older than any of the parents there. As soon as I heard the first song, the count began – how many songs before Mustang Sally. It was seven. There’s not a band that plays under a tent on a lawn at a quote-unquote “old person party” that doesn’t play Mustang Sally within the first ten songs. They don’t exist. It’s as if everyone, including the band, just wants to get it out of the way. The same with Brick House and “let me hear you scream!”

The lead singer came on in the second set. Her energy moved a lot of old people to the dance floor. It became an old person’s careful shuffle, protecting aching knees, hips, and backs. Lots of moms and dads who never had dance moves or who had lost their dance moves decades ago packed the dance floor, shaking arrhythmically like dancing on a shaking fault line. Brightly colored wigs appeared. Confetti cannons. Parents shuffling together, ignoring their aches and pains. Advil will take care of tomorrow. I left for the bathroom and returned to find my wife in the front row. She waved me up. I pretended not to see, standing with my son who was rightly proud that his fraternity was entertaining so many people, so many old people, so well. It was a great time.

Look at who I now am, my son seemed to be saying, standing next to me. Look at these new friends. This new environment. These new people who know me and like me and search me out in the crowd to say hello. I shook dozens of hands. Tried to remember names. Tried to remember parent’s names. I’m a guest in his world. A new world that he’s forged for himself. Full of new people from far off places who were unknown to him just a short seven months ago. They now laugh together like old friends do. They share funny looks and make references to inside jokes.

As a parent you wonder how your children will turn out. What will influence who they are and who they’ll become. You try to raise them right, the way you think is best, but parenting is just a portion of it. There are so many factors. And you wonder. And you worry.

And then you see your child thriving in a good environment full of good people. An environment that he’s created for himself. And you smile a bit. And you worry a little less.

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

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Forgiveness

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On this week’s Keepin’ It Real, Cam shares a story he’s kept quiet for fourteen years. It’s time to get it off his chest.

—–

I’ve just boarded my flight. I’m headed home. Sitting here, a memory has resurfaced.

Many years ago, deplaning in Chicago, I took a call from a young man. He’d studied my work and asked me to mentor him. He wanted to travel and give speeches. He wanted me to refer him when I was too busy, and he’d pay me a commission. He loved my topic and said he could represent me well. I was deeply flattered. He charmed me.

A few months later, we sat at my dining room table for most of a day. I taught him my content. I shared my tips, my tricks, my tools of the trade. I had clients ready for him. I was busy. I needed help. He was eager to start. I was proud to help this ambitious young man launch.

My wife and I dropped him at the airport for his flight back home. He disappeared into the airport, and I asked my wife, “What did you think?” She paused. “I think he probably beats his wife,” she said.

“No. You got him all wrong,” I said. “Besides, he’s not married.”

“He’s the kind that would,” she said. “Be careful.” Something alarmed her.

Two years later, at the window of my Greenbrier hotel room, his business manager called. Their partnership had just ended over a money dispute. I learned that as he was sitting at my dining room table, he’d take breaks and call in disbelief that I was giving him all my content. He was sending lists of my customers, and the next day he began calling them saying “I can give you Cam Marston’s presentation much cheaper. I have all his materials.” He took many clients, never told me, never shared the commissions. It had been a part of his plan since my phone rang that day in Chicago. The business manager now wanted a pound of flesh after being cheated by him, too.

Today, he’s well known in the industry. He’s busy. I’m told he delivers a good presentation. And he should since it’s my content. If this story ended in justice, I’d tell you his absence of ethics caught up to him. But I don’t know that. I don’t know what’s happened to him. For years I’ve avoided hearing his name, and even today his name tastes like bile in my mouth.

I need to forgive him. It would release me from this anger I’ve held for so long. So, with great difficulty, here, now, today, I forgive you. You will probably never hear this, but I forgive you. I still ache to pound your face. If we ever meet again, you should be afraid. You made me feel used and stupid and embarrassed and cheated and you cost me some of my livelihood. You conned me out of my trust. I won’t ever forget it but, as of right now, I forgive you.

This commentary is not inspirational. This is not pretty. Forgiveness won’t help him but…I sure hope it helps me.

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

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Squeezed

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Cam’s phone has been ringing. It’s a lot of his small business friends and they’re experiencing similar things. They’re feeling pressure. They’re feeling squeezed.

—–

When an orange is squeezed, orange juice comes out. We know this. We know that sun and good soil and water and maybe some fertilizer help that orange develop that juice. We know the ingredients, we somewhat control the ingredients, and we know the goodness that comes from a squeezed orange. What happens, though, when you and I are squeezed? What happens when life puts pressure on you and me? What ingredients are we drawing on when we’re squeezed? And what results?

I read this question in Rick Ruben’s new book about creativity. He pulled it from an old school motivational speaker named Wayne Dyer. The metaphor’s been around the block a few times. But, it still resonates.

In the past two weeks, I’ve had four small business friends share that things aren’t going well for them right now. A fifth one chimed in this morning with the same report. Regardless of what the economists say – some say it’s great out there, others say it’s dire – for my five small business friends and me, we’re feeling squeezed. Pressure.

One friend desperately needs orders. And when these times happen, he must remember to do the thing that’s gotten him out of these pressures several times before. He has a beautiful piece of property, and he has to remember to sit comfortably and look out over the expanse – over the pasture and at the trees and the pond. That view provides inspiration and creativity. He has to remember to do it. Otherwise fear and worry will have him buzzing around thinking that busyness is the solution.

Another needs walk-in traffic to his store. And for him, busy hands set his mind to creatively solving his problems. He takes on big projects knowing that somewhere along the line something will trigger a solution to his problem. Busyness presents him a solution.

But the question comes back to what are the ingredients we’re putting into ourselves so that when we’re squeezed something positive comes out? Life’s going to squeeze you. For the vast majority of us, it has already, I’m sure. How are you preparing for the inevitable squeeze? Have I prepared appropriately for this squeeze? What are the ingredients I’m putting in? And what’s the pressure doing to them?

Time will tell. Assuming the squeeze ends at some point, I can then look back and evaluate. Right now, my effort includes a work ethic having me make lots of phone calls to interact with old colleagues and working to meet new ones. I’m forcing curiosity by asking them “what’s new?”, “what’s going on?”, “where’s your pain?” I’m working hard to keep a positive attitude about letting go of what’s always worked in favor of trying something new. I’m asking, “What do people want from me?” not stating “Here’s what people should want from me.” These success ingredients I’ve used before but I’m having to create new variations.

I’m working to embrace the struggle. To embrace the squeeze. Because, so often, this is where the good stuff happens. And I’m counting on it again.

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

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Lent

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Mardi Gras ended Tuesday for Cam. Immediately following Mardi Gras is the beginning of Lent and Cam struggles with what sacrifices he should make.

—–

Lent. I struggle with Lent every year. How much suffering is enough to prepare my soul for the Easter arrival of the Lord? Is there enough? Who knows. There’s always someone suffering more; someone taking it to the next level.

As a child it was ice cream. I gave up ice cream every year and dutifully reported it to my religion teacher as the assignment instructed. I love ice cream, vanilla especially. In fact, I’ve created an association called the Vanilla Ice Cream Eaters of America Social Aide and Pleasure Club. It’s known by its acronym: VICEA. Our motto is “It comes from Udder Space” and our logo shows a scoop of vanilla with Saturn rings around it and a Holstein cow walking across it. We’ve had a Facebook page since 2008 edited by Holt Stein. It has fifteen members.

However, I don’t eat vanilla like I used to. It’s gotten expensive. That plus my waist size. Giving up ice cream is, well, too easy. I love the stuff but giving it up wouldn’t equate to enough suffering.

A friend from long ago gave up everything containing wheat for lent. Everything. That’s a lot of stuff. She had to pay close attention to everything she ate. Anything with flour. All beer. Bunches of stuff. She was the same person who kept a bowl of peanut M&Ms at her front door and allowed herself one M&M per day. No more. I eat peanut M&Ms by the double fist full. If they’re in front of me, I eat them. I can’t stop. She had a degree of self-control that is unrelatable.

Another friend gave up alcohol a few years ago. However, he had devised a chart of “skip days” where he could drink. He explained all this over a beer during Lent, by the way. His skip days were quite frequent, and it appeared to the rest of us like they related to the days that he wanted a drink. I was not impressed with his Lenten suffering. Mainly because there wasn’t any.

The good book says we’re created in the image of the Lord. So, imagine hearing prayers saying “I’m planning to remember a big event in your life in about forty days. To prepare properly, I’m implementing things to temporarily remove joy from my life.” I’d say, “Wait. Pardon me? Say that again. Is that what I’m supposed to want from you?”

One year I tried to drink more water for lent. The health effects of more water and all that but it’s not the same. The gest of lent is giving up something you enjoy.

And I’m not sure what to think about it. All the hard-fast black and white rules that I learned as a child have faded into grey. I wish they hadn’t. I knew the rules, I followed the rules, and I counted on the rules to take care of me. It was easier following and never questioning. Now, I question. A lot. And, believe it or not, it’s made me a better follower.

However, I still don’t know what to do about lent.

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

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Dry January

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On this week’s Keepin’ it Real, Cam Marston has thoughts about this upcoming weekend. Mardi Gras is on us down here in Mobile, and that leads to some tough decisions.

—–

Dry January ended last week. Dry January followed soaking wet, sodden to the bone December. I’ve never done Dry January before and after sodden December, I needed to give it a try. Aside from one small drink to celebrate my daughter’s twenty-first birthday, I drank no alcohol for thirty-one days. I’m not sure I’ve done that since I was a teen.

The net result? I lost nine pounds. I slept very well every night for a solid month. I was eager to get out of bed each morning. All in all, Dry January was a hit. And I was surprised and thrilled with how easy it was to do. I’m now struggling to decide if I ever want to go back? I’m pretty sure the answer is No. And, my friends, that’s huge.

Some of my favorite people are the guys I gather with every Thursday evening after work. We’ve done it weekly for ten years at the same table. We talk and we chat. We rib each other like guys are prone to do. And we have a beer or two.

In early January, I avoided those Thursday gatherings, afraid that seeing a cold beer would tempt me too much and I’d cave. And I might have. However, by late January I had developed confidence in my Dry January and I was joining my group and ordering a NA beer.

What I learned in Dry January is that I’m not nearly as funny as I thought I was back in December. And maybe even for a decade before that. For years I’ve laughed at my jokes until tears poured from my eyes. And my friends were hilarious, too. Well, in Dry January, nobody was funny. Especially me.

A different friend hasn’t had a drink in over ten years. I now feel embarrassed about the times I’ve been with him with a few beers in me and I realized he wasn’t laughing at what everyone else thought was hysterical. In Dry January, it became clear why.

And I’m not sure what’s gonna happen. This new me is fond of this new me. But I liked the old me, too. And as of today, we’re entering the teeth of the Mardi Gras celebration here in Mobile. Mardi Gras about silliness and revelry and I enjoy both of them and a drink always helps with both of them. It’s a quandary.

I know that creating a grand drinking strategy for Mardi Gras is foolish. Temptation is everywhere and I know myself well enough to know that I manage temptation poorly.

However, my uncle told me that he stopped smoking by telling himself that when he wanted a cigarette, if he still wanted one in ten minutes, he’d smoke one and not feel bad about it. Gradually he stopped wanting them at all. I’m going to adopt his strategy and call it “the ten-minute delay plan for an uncertain semi-reformed drinker.” If I want a drink, I’ll wait ten minutes. After ten minutes, If I still want one, I’ll get one. And won’t feel bad about it.

And if you spot me laughing hard with my friends, you’ll know what happened.

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

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God Stop

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What do you call it when your certain plans are suddenly upended? They’re changed with no warning? You call it a God-stop. On this week’s Keepin’ It Real, Cam shares his experiences with them. 

—–

A friend told me a story about how he had applied for a job a long way from home. His potential new employer had said they were going to make a very attractive offer. My friend and his wife began discussing selling their home and moving their kids to a new school. It was certain to happen and then…it didn’t. The job offer never came. His calls to the new employer to get an answer or a simple explanation went unanswered. “I’ve been in business a long time,” he said, “and no one had ever disrespected me like that before.” He had already left his former employer and was now jobless. He was crushed and wondered what he was going to do.

Over lunch my friend told me the business he was now a part of was about to sell and some of the sale would come his way. The new role had been a perfect fit for him. His talents soared there, his skills were cherished, and his team had come to not only rely on him, but to really like him. It was the best job he’d ever had, he told me.

“What about the other job? The one they never called you back?” I asked. “It was a God stop,” he said. “That’s the only explanation I have.”

A God stop. Where a part of the Master’s plan is to firmly close the door on what we thought was certain. A divine interruption. No explanation can be offered other than the supernatural. How many God stops have each of us had? Lots, I suspect. And in hindsight, they’re always for the best.

Yet that’s the very problem with God stops. It’s only in hindsight that we recognize them. In the moment, they’re agonizing. They feel like abandonment. They feed our uncertainties and escalate our fears. In the moment, they’re awful. And we don’t recognize them as God stops. They look and sound and feel like failure. 

My focus in such instances is too often on what didn’t happen. The narrative I had created in my mind of what I wanted, of what I thought was certain, was beautiful. It was leading me to the land of milk and honey. I struggle to focus on what might now happen because I was so embedded in narrative I had created. Perhaps this new destination will be even greater.

If we lived in the now, as countless sages have told us we should for millennia, God stops would never cause a problem. If we could manage our imagination, God stops wouldn’t feel like disappointment. Instead we – or at least I – live in the future with a runaway imagination and I often struggle whenever my plans meet a God stop. I focus on the door that’s just closed instead of stepping back to find a new door that’s standing wide open.

The goal, I guess, is to recognize the moment for what it is. It’s not failure. It’s not a loss. It’s a God stop. And somewhere an open door is waiting for me.

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

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Twenty-One

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Cam spent Monday evening at a big party for a small group of twenty-one year olds. To say the least, times have changed. Here’s what he saw.

—–

A moment after midnight on March 4^th, 1990, I stood on a barstool and declared loudly to the packed bar that I had just turned twenty one years old. I was in Boulder, Colorado. A moment later the bouncer had me by the shirt and said, “That means you used a fake ID to get in”, which was true. I was nearly carried, my feet barely touching the ground, to the door and tossed into the street.

Oddly enough, the same story happened to my wife, long before we met. It was a stroke after midnight on July 13^th, 1991, and she was on Franklin Street in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Her declaration was not made atop a bar stool. She was greeted by cheers from her friends and was bought a round of drinks.

In both instances, our parents were not there. And, in both instances no evidence exists that any of it ever happened.

Monday night in Oxford, Mississippi, I was with my favorite oldest daughter in a bar called The Summit. All her crowd was there plus more. She and her friends who had turned twenty-one over the Christmas break banded together to celebrate. My wife and I were invited. We were, in fact, encouraged to come. Decorators created an Instagram-able background including a balloon-arch and streamers. There was a platter of cupcakes in the shape of 21.

Picture books were created for each of the birthday girls. The girls wore bawdy signs around their necks for the night. After a couple hours, my wife and I sensed the tide turning, the energy increasing, and a bar full twenty-one-year-olds were about to begin doing what bars full of twenty-one-year old’s do. My wife and I paid our part of the tab, hugged our daughter, posed for countless photos with her, and got the hell out of there. This is a low estimate, but approximately 55 million billion photos were taken in the two hours of the party.

This is not the way I would have wanted it, I kept thinking to myself. But the truth is, I didn’t have a pocket full of magic back in 1990. While it was her celebration, the cell phone and its camera, this magical device, drove the show.

I read somewhere that today mankind takes more photos in one day than we did from the invention of the camara roughly two hundred years ago to today.

The picture books she was given were made quickly compared to what it would have taken back in 1990 – imagine developing 35mm film, duplicates, photo booths. The sign she wore was full of images, printed as a whole, and laminated. It certainly took some effort, but simple compared to what it would have taken back in the day.

As much as I wanted to flinch, she and her whole party were a reflection of what technology has created. A natural consequence. Said another way, while I’d like to think differently, had the technology been available, I would have probably wanted the same. But I am indeed happy my parents weren’t there. And I am indeed very happy no evidence remains.

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

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Resident Cynic

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My real name is Charles. But Chuck and Chas live inside me. Chuck was trying to get out this week. Chas had to try to keep in under control.

—–

An icicle hangs from the roof of my house. I’m looking at it but still can’t quite believe it. Icicles are very rare here. Usually reserved for the freezer door that was left open overnight. A winter storm blew through and Mobile, Alabama is doing what it usually does when it gets below average cold – we’re freaking out.

School is cancelled, quote, “out of an abundance of caution” for the kids. There’s no rebuttal to that phrase. It can’t be argued. Right now, my kids are picking up their friends to go to lunch. School was cancelled to keep the kids off the hazardous roads. The roads are fine, and my kids are loving it. There’s no abundance of caution in them. There’s about to be an abundance of Chick Fil A.  

I learned yesterday my generator that died at 3am in last week’s storm is unrepairable. It’s dead. The technician, a very nice guy, felt guilty telling me the replacement part I bought won’t work due to the alternator being destroyed by what was probably a lightning strike. Replacing the alternator would cost as much as a new generator. So, it’s dead. Here, he said, is his bill for the replacement part and for his time replacing it even though the generator is unfixable. That stung.

We are but nineteen days into 2024 and Nick Saban has retired, the election year chaos has started, we’ve had a horrible storm that knocked out the power then its lightning killed my generator, it’s now too cold to go outside, there’s an icicle on my roof, and my kids should be in school but instead are at Chik Fil A with their friends. If I could rhyme all this with beer and mud and tire it would be a country music smash.  

A cynic lives inside of me. He’s powerful. I call him Chuck. When he gets out, he becomes uncontrollable. He runs amok. It’s been a life-long challenge to keep Chuck at bay. And it’s times like this that he’s banging at the door to tell the world what he thinks. What he sees. What the real truth is. And what’s wrong with everybody. Chuck is a know it all. And I don’t like him, but Chuck does live here. And it’s on days like today that he rages to get out.

Chuck’s foil, lives here, too. His name is Chas. Chas finds what’s right and what’s good and what is working. Chas sees the bright side. His cup is half-full. It took years for Chas to show up. And Chas has to be groomed and fed and nurtured every single day or he’ll vanish. Chuck needs nothing to thrive. He feeds on everything. Nurturing Chas requires discipline. He’s delicate but vital and I need him now.

Chuck says it’s one skinny icicle, why are my kids out of school? Chas says the surprise on my kid’s face from no school today was wonderful to watch.

I’m Cam Marston and on behalf of Chuck, Chas, and myself, we’re just trying to Keep it Real.

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Kids These Days

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Storms blew through Monday night. It was tough weather. I survived. My daughter? It was the aftermath of the storm that nearly broke her…

—–

My favorite oldest daughter is upset. “I just can’t deal with this. It’s just too much,” she keeps saying. She’s leaving for a bit. She needs to get out of the house. “I’m going to Starbucks,” she says. “I’ll be back later.” My wife and I say nothing.

You see, the power is out. The big storms that cruised through Monday night left us in the dark. It’s now Tuesday afternoon and the power company estimates another thirty hours or so before power returns. And the home generator, which kept a few rooms working, died about 3am Monday morning.

My daughter needs her wireless, her internet. Apparently, the LTE signal she’s getting is not quick enough for her. And she has no place to charge her phone. So, Starbucks.

We have water here. We have food. It’s cool outside but not cold. We have plenty of clothes and blankets. We won’t freeze. We have places to go to bathe. But she needs her internet. She waited patiently for it to load but the LTE took too long. She needs to Snap and to Insta more quickly. This adversity, well, for the moment, is just too much.

Somehow, she slept through the storms. The rain lashed the house. The wind howled. The power flickered on and off through the night, causing countless electronics to beep each time. My wife and I could hear horns and sirens as tornado warnings sounded. There were sounds of firetrucks and ambulances throughout the night. My daughter awoke the next morning and asked what was going on.

My wife and I were zombies – we had been up all night ready to react to any roof leaks, trees on the house, windows broken, or windows blown open. How she slept through it I don’t know. My wife and I were boiling a pot of water for coffee on the gas stove still dressed from last night when my daughter walked in in her pajamas.

I suppose there was something that, as a child, I felt I couldn’t live without. Something that I needed so badly that not having it was “just too much” like my daughter and her speedy internet. What was that thing? Was it my love for my stereo? I loved my stereo. My car? Some sort of clothing? I don’t know. What did my parents think when I couldn’t get that thing and it crippled me? I’m sure they worried about me. Worried about my future. Worried about their future if people like me may someday be in charge. The same worries that I have. That we have. 

The first comment that I’m aware of about one generation looking at the next and worrying about the future comes from Socrates 3400 years ago. 3400 years ago. So, for centuries, centuries, generations have looked at the generations coming behind them and shaken their head. And yet we seemed to have made it. We always survive. Things generally get better. 3400 years of precedent suggests it will again.

So, I’ll button my lip, and I’ll drink my coffee. It’s the best I can do. Otherwise, it’s just too much. 

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

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