Solstice

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Yesterday was the winter solstice. Brings back memories…

—–

Yesterday was the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. Said another way, there is more darkness on December 21^st than any other day. It’s also the day I got engaged many years ago.

The story I like to tell is that my wife, who was then a collegiate volleyball coach, was watching VHS videos of players she was hoping to recruit. I asked her to stop the video and pay attention to me for a moment or two. She reluctantly did with a “this better be good” expression. I asked her to marry me. She considered the proposition. She looked me up and down a few times. She remained quiet for a terribly uncomfortable amount of time and finally said “Ok” and then hit play on the VCR and returned to her work. She’ll deny much of this story, by the way.

It’s usually the darkest day of the year that I begin my annual Christmas panic purchases. I fear that I’ve underperformed with the gift giving; that my gifts won’t amount to enough. I blow through my preset budgets and start tossing stuff under the Christmas tree in a panic. My kids never mind this. My wife says you’ve done too much, you’ve gone too far. She’s never returned any of the gifts I get her, by the way. She says “You’ve gone overboard” as she takes her bounty with her to the back of the house.

And I get the same complaints from kids every year. “Dad,” they say, “you’re too hard to buy for.” They’re right. Like most fathers I tend to get myself what I want. Every year I struggle to get my father something and this year he flat our said “I don’t want anything. Nothing. Really. Nothing. I’m trying to get rid of all the stuff I have.” However, I’ll get him something. It’ll may be a new phone charger. The one he has is quite dated. It’s powered by a gerbil on a wheel and takes all night to charge his phone. However, I struggle with the question “Is a phone charger the right gift to give your father?” Seems very impersonable. My grandmother used to give the gifts she received back. She’d say, “I’ve enjoyed it for many months. Thank you very much. Now I’m giving it back to you.” We started buying her gifts with that in mind – what will I want in the spring that I can give her for Christmas?

Incidentally, my wife and I married on the summer solstice. We got engaged on the winter solstice and married on the summer solstice. We realized this years later. So my wedding day was absolutely the longest day of the year. That cannot be denied. It’s all in how you say it.

As 2023 winds to a close, I wish you a happy holiday season and a Merry Christmas. Try to slow down. Find a warm fire and stare into it for a while. Fires make good company. There is stress all over during the holidays, but for a short time, try to sluff it off and sit quietly. I’ll do the same.

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

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Leena’s China

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A family tree of photographs is at the top of the stairs at my father’s house. 

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A picture hangs at the top of the stairs at my parent’s house. It’s of my mother’s grandmother, my great grandmother. I think it’s Grandma Leena. My father and I were trying to figure out who it was. My mother had told me about the picture and about Grandma Leena for years. I never listened. There are a bunch of other pictures. At the top, near the ceiling, are pictures of my mother and father’s family and they form a family tree, coming together, picture by picture, generation by generation, to a picture of my father and mother with my brothers and me. It’s nice. It’s my roots. My mother’s family was from the upper peninsula of Michigan. The cities of Ontonagon and Rockland come to mind. Her grandfather’s corner drug store. Another’s cattle farm. Mom wanted me to know about all these people. “You’ll want to know, someday,” she said.

Mom told us that the happiest times of her life were her summer visits to her grandparents when she was girl. She wanted us to know this. She wanted us to carry her summer memories on . Afraid that with her death they’d be gone. And they are. She died a while back.

In a box in my father’s attic is Grandma Leena’s wedding China. It’s carefully wrapped in brown paper. Each piece brittle and delicate. Mom loved it. My father and I looked at the box. “It’s all hand painted,” he said. My mother’s handwriting across the top. Some of the China visible inside. “You want it?” my father asked? “No. I don’t think so,” I said. “But don’t throw it away. Maybe I will someday.” That China just sits in the box. I don’t know the last time the box was opened. A decade, maybe. If I were to take it, I’d put the China in my attic where it may sit for decades more.

Prior to my mother’s death, she shared a lot of stories with us. And when she could no longer talk, she asked us to tell her stories of our memories of her. Our favorite days. Our funny adventures. She wanted to know she wouldn’t be forgotten.

What is it in us that makes us want to be remembered so badly? And why do we hold on to things cherished by our loved ones that mean so little to us? I don’t know.

We were around the Thanksgiving table at my parent’s cabin in the woods a few weeks back. Lots of food. Lots of smiles. It’s a special place. My mother came to   mind. But I wasn’t remembering her. I was feeling her. She was there with me. In me. I don’t know. It sounds so strange to say. It wasn’t a memory.  It was better than a memory. Again, I can’t explain it.

But I suspect it was it was the same way my mother felt when, every now and then, she opened the box, removed the paper, and held a piece of Grandma Leena’s China.

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

 

 

 

 

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The Master is Dead

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This may be a bit over the top but it’s what it looks like to me:

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The apprentice to master model in the workplace may be dead. It was declining prior to the pandemic but now, after the struggles from the pandemic are largely behind us, the apprentice to master model is gone. And it’s a shame. Our society today, our workplace, our government, all of it comes from this model. It served us well. We’ve left it behind. Out to pasture. It’s not a good thing.

Begun in the trades ages ago, its basic tenants are that a person enters a trade or a workplace with little to no knowledge. They apprentice themselves to someone who can teach them – a master. The apprentice slowly learns, begins mastery of their craft, to become the master themselves. They then train the next generation and so on. Stone masons, mechanics, glass blowers, plumbers, electricians, lawyers, and accountants. All of them and many more.

What brought apprentice to master to an end? A few things, the first of which is technology. Technology began its creep into the workplace two generations ago. The Baby Boomers were running the show. Boomers were first skeptical of stuff, and took it on reluctantly. In time, the power of technology became apparent and most Boomers didn’t know how to use it. Who did? The Gen X’ers.

The Boomers said “Hey Gen X. We need your tech skills. Please come work here, use this stuff, and teach me how to use this stuff.” Thus, Gen X entered the workplace as the master. The young were teaching the old. As technology continued its creep, more and more Gen X’ers were needed to teach the Boomers. The technology changed and the Millennials then entered teaching the Gen X’ers. Again, the young teaching the old. The workplace desperately needed the young master.

After the pandemic hit it changed again. No one could find workers. Workplaces were doing cartwheels to get employees with no proven experience, no discernable talents. Employers further sent apprentice to master into oblivion by giving the youngest workplace entrants perks and benefits and hybrid workplaces and flex schedules that previously only the masters could dare ask for. Tenure no longer mattered. And if the new employees didn’t like the way they were treated, if they felt unappreciated, registered too many microaggressions, off they went to quickly find a new job. A California MD told me in her workplace the newest workers are weaponizing wellness. “I don’t want to do that,” they’re saying, about whatever it is. “It will make me unwell.”

I was with a client in Dallas Wednesday. They’re struggling. They make high pressure valves and pumps and such. They’re struggling to find people to work. Making the items, installing the items, building things, and fixing things. To learn this stuff, employees have to apprentice to a master. No Google search, YouTube video, or ChatGPT will do it.

There was a lot of white hair in the room of 850 people wondering how to keep their businesses going. I’ve studied workplace trends for twenty years. I didn’t have much good news for them.

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

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Sock Shoe Sock Shoe

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Time to begin considering New Years Resolutions…

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It’s December first which means it’s time for me to begin planning my New Year’s Resolutions. I take these seriously and begin planning them a month out. Any fool can resolve to change things New Year’s Day when they’re hungover, their belly is flopping around, and they’re full of regret. Drink less and get in shape is a New Years Resolution standard, like turkey for Thanksgiving.

At my gym, I refer to the first fifteen days of the New Year as tourist season. People show up motivated and driven by the hopes of meaningful change. They’re seldom stick around. Old habits take over. Their muscles start to hurt. And they justify not returning – it’s too expensive, it takes too much time, it hurts too much, I wasn’t as bad off as I had thought. All the things. Tourist season in the gym. It never lasts long.

I have a standard secondary New Year’s resolution I’ve recommitted to for many years. It’s from the late New Orleans musician Alan Toussaint and it’s this: Everything I do gonna be funky from now on. It’s one of his songs. The first line is: Just be myself and do my thing. It’s my reminder that fitting in is overrated. I know folks who try to fit in and find each of them, to a person, unremarkable. I resolve to not be that guy. I gonna try to be funky again this year.

My primary New Year’s resolutions a behavior   deeply held. And old habit. If I can change a habit, I know I can tackle most things. A few years ago, I resolved to change how I wave when I’m in the car. We wave in my neck of the woods here in Mobile, Alabama. To walkers. To runners. To friends in cars. To strangers. We’re quite friendly. And for years my wave was to raise my thumb, my index finger, my middle finger off the steering wheel and shake my hand back and forth three times. You’ve seen this wave. That along with a smile and I did it without thinking. But I resolved to change it. Not because something new would be better, but to prove I could change. And I did. I turned to the garage door wave. Four fingers around the steering unroll to a wave and roll back down – garage door style. It’s a hard change. It took a while. But I did it.

I’ve always been a sock sock, shoe shoe guy. Beginning January second – the first is a holiday, after all – beginning January second I resolve to become a sock shoe sock shoe guy. I’ve been a sock sock shoe shoe guy since I was a toddler, so this will be a big one. Sock shoe sock shoe is a bit inefficient, but I welcome some inefficiency to prove to myself I’m capable of change. Sock shoe sock shoe. It will be my focus in  2024.

I did a practice run when I got dressed this morning and it went OK. This one’s going to take some time. I felt like I was dressing another man.  

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

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Christmas Comes Early in Oxford

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I took the Friday after Thanksgiving off but found an excellent stand-in. This commentary comes from one of my daughter’s college writing assignments.

—–

Christmas Comes Early in Oxford

There are two types of people in this world, ones who celebrate Christmas months in advance and those who celebrate after Thanksgiving. I can honestly say that I put people in these categories. It is an essential question I ask when getting to know someone along with, “What is your name?” and “How old are you?” People are passionate about their category. Those who celebrate early say that their favorite holiday is Christmas and that it is superior to all other holidays, which is true. People that don’t celebrate early say that they hate keeping up with the tree and that It’s messy, which is also true. 

I visited Ole Miss as a high school senior. I got to Oxford in late October and toured the campus. It was beautiful. Throughout the tour, the guides talked about this place called “the square.” I knew nothing about Ole Miss or Oxford but figured out that the square must be the heart of the town. My mom and I later found the square. We stepped up to it and I was shocked. THEY ALREADY HAVE CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS UP? Again, it was October.

My family has never been the type to start celebrating Christmas early but, Oxford, MS was starting to celebrate even before Halloween. I was floored! How can people be celebrating Christmas without celebrating Halloween or Thanksgiving? The decorations are adorable, but it was way too early for this. Walking through the square I saw that not only were the Christmas decorations up around the square, but all of the boutiques were selling exclusively Christmas decorations and clothing. They even had their fall decorations on the sale rack. How can people be so obsessed with Christmas that they start celebrating two months early? I felt like I was standing in the middle of Whoville. 

My father thinks the tree should be put up on December 20^th. My mother thinks Christmas decorations should start November 1st. It is a battle. It happens every year. My parents recruit my siblings and me to their sides. My mom usually pulls my sister and me because it means we can start our Christmas lists early. My dad tells my brothers that if we get a tree now then they’ll have to put it up and keep it alive.

We’ve had the same Christmas eve and Christmas day traditions since I was around four years old. They’re full of memories. And I think this is why the city of Oxford, MS and people in general celebrate Christmas so early, they want to have the feelings that they have on Christmas morning for longer than just one day. People buy Christmas gifts over months because they get a rush when thinking how the present will look wrapped and under the tree. They want that rush all of the time. People want to be happier, and if putting Christmas decorations up sixty days before the actual event does that for  them, I can let it slide.

I’m guest commentator Reiney Marston and, on behalf of my father and me, we’re just trying to Keep It Real.

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Pigs. Hogs. Sounders. And Litters.

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Some swine content before your Thanksgiving ham.

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This is about pigs. Hogs, too. Sounders. Litters. And it’s timely since many of you, like me, accompany the Thanksgiving turkey with a ham. So, let’s have a quick chat about the magic that is pigs, hams, hogs, and other swine-related stuff.

Next week I’ll spend part of the Thanksgiving break in the woods of Clarke County, Alabama. If the weather is nice, my Thanksgiving meal will be on the porch of my father’s camp breaking bread around 1pm with my wife and kids, my brothers, their wives and kids, and my father. It’s what we do. There will be a ham there.

In the woods nearby will be hogs. Wild ones. And if I understand the story correctly, some of them are descendants of the hogs the first explorers to the Americas tossed out on islands as they came through. The explorers were preparing for return trips to Europe and put hogs on the islands knowing they’d survive because they can and will eat nearly anything and they’d multiply. When the explorers came back through on their way back home, they provisioned with some fresh pork. Some of the hogs that were left behind found their way to the continental US and the ones rooting the woods of Clark County, Alabama could be long descendants of those founding father pigs. Columbian pigs. Mayflower pigs. And I think that’s pretty cool.

But admiring wild hogs in Alabama is taboo. They’re hell on property and no farmer or landowner has anything good to say about them. They are, however, a remarkable species. They survive and they propagate regardless of their environment or circumstances. They’re a mammalian kudzo. They drop multiple litters each year of as many as ten piglets. Controlling them is nearly impossible, as any hunter or landowner or farmer can attest. As an animal, they’re full of vulnerabilities, allowing all kinds of prey to feed on them yet, they thrive.

And they’re tasty. Pork loins are delicious. I once ordered a blue cheese stuffed pork chop at K-Pauls in New Orleans and nearly fainted in bliss. I returned, and ordered it again the next night and had it many times until K-Pauls shut their hallowed doors three years ago. I used to genuflect when I went in.

And then there’s the ham that we will pull from Thanksgiving Day. Magically cut in circles. The kids love it. They fill their plates. The ham has that iridescent sheen that glimmers in the light. Exactly why ham glimmers and forms rainbows like spilled petroleum is unclear. I don’t want to know. It must be God’s will.

Later on Thanksgiving Day, after we’ve cleaned up and after I’ve curled up around my packed belly for an afternoon nap, I’ll step into the woods with a rifle, hoping to take down a distant cousin of the ham I’ve just eaten. Whose ancestor may have hitched a ride on the Niña, the Pinta, or the Santa Maria a long time ago. It’s all a bit gross and weird and magical all at the same time.

And that’s all I got to say about that.

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

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The Grove

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My wife and I went to Oxford, Mississippi last weeked. Here’s the scoop…

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Oxford, Mississippi is as beautiful as they say. My wife and I visited this past weekend to see my daughter. We joined her for a morning tailgate in the famed Grove followed by a football game. It was exceptional. Here’s what I saw.

First – These people are serious about their tailgating. Our host was a couple friend who rented a tent on the Grove for home games. The Grove is exactly that, a grove of trees under which these tents sit and by tent, don’t think something for camping. It was a covering over a space of about 10 feet by twenty feet. Our friend’s tent was spectacular with food and drink for lots of people and a small statuette of the Ole Miss Rebel mascot made out of moss positioned in the center of a big bouquet of flowers. People were stopping to photograph it. Everyone who entered our tent – we began calling it our tent but we were, in truth, guests there – was offered breakfast croissants, lunch sandwiches, cheeses, lots of sweets and yogurt and granola.

The same generosity was everywhere. Since kickoff was 11 and people were arriving at 8am there needed to be some breakfast food, hence the yogurt and granola and bacon egg and cheese croissants. The bloody mary’s and mimosas were flowing like water and, incidentally, we were told there was water there somewhere.

Second – Oxford needs more restaurants. We tried eating at several places Friday night and the shortest wait was two hours. On football weekends the city floods with fans and securing a place to eat was nearly impossible. The same was true Sunday morning. We wanted breakfast with our daughter but even Waffle House had over an hour’s wait. We ended up eating at my daughter’s apartment which she shares with her three roommates, which means we first cleaned the kitchen which appeared to have never ever been done before and then we started cooking.

Third – Wow has football attire changed for the female college students. Wow. And I mean Wow. Call me a fuddy duddy all you want, but back in the day, female coeds wore clothes to college football games. I think the word “cute” today means “ain’t much to it.” I was terrified my daughter would show up in something similar. Thankfully she arrived clothed. At an Alabama football game in Tuscaloosa earlier this year, we heard a young female say to her friend “I feel like everyone is looking at me.” They were. We were. Her outfit was the size of a postage stamp. The men were saying “would you look at that” and the women were saying “would you look at that.” If you’re headed to an Alabama or Ole Miss football game in the warm weather and you’ve not been in a while, try not to gawk. Maybe it’s the same everywhere. I don’t know.

Finally – Seeing my daughter in her element, with her friends, in a place she loves was the best part of it all. It made the weekend for us.

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

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Mastery of Self

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A similar theme repeats itself across all faiths. It’s a discipline I have little of.

——

A friend of mine claims he’s a genius. He has little evidence of this. Just an over-confident assessment of his himself. He’s quite entertaining. He believes the lunar landings were a hoax, but of his own genius, he’s certain.

Last night I told him I was struggling for a topic for this week’s commentary. I hadn’t seen or thought or felt anything that moved me to write about it. So, I asked him for ideas. He blustered and bloviated and finally got around to saying this: The greatest enemy each of us face is staring at us every morning, every afternoon, and every evening before we go to bed. That enemy can be found in the mirror. It’s us. It’s me. It’s you. We’re our own enemy. We sabotage ourselves every day. Things that we know we should do, we avoid. Things we know we shouldn’t do, we do. It ranges from having too many cookies before bed at night to not making the sales calls, or having the tough conversations that we know need to happen. The list infinitely long. We blame others, we blame bad luck, even blame the devil from time to time. But the vast majority of the time, our greatest enemy is ourselves.

Now I would love to tell this self-proclaimed genius he’s wrong but, he’s right. And his description certainly describes me. I have remarkable discipline about some things in my world and remarkably little discipline about others – like gobbling a fistful of cookies on the way to bed at night. I know I shouldn’t do it but down the hatch they go. And I eat them quickly hoping the guilt will go away quickly.

Another enemy is when I try to make a joke when my inner-knower is whispering for me to hush, that I’ve gone too far. The joke may be more hurtful than funny. That happened on last week’s commentary, and I heard about it and I’m sorry. I ignored my inner-knower.

Next to my bed lie a stack of books. One compares Jesus’ and the Buddha’s greatest messages and how similar they are. Another is by Father Anthony DeMello who was a Catholic Jesuit priest from India and knows many of the stories of the Indian deities and shares their lessons alongside the lessons of Christianity. I frequently return to a wonderful book on the lessons of the Bhagavat Gita, a story out of India written 500 years before Christ. All these religions, these faiths, these pursuits of spirituality, while vastly different in important ways, emphasize so many of the same points. And it’s these similarities that fascinate me. That catch my attention.  

One that shines through repeatedly is the mastery of self. Heaven, bliss, enlightenment, you name it. These spiritualities claim they can only be achieved through mastery of self. Self-control. I have so little. I know it. And I think about it each time I gobble the cookies and make the bad jokes.

And I can already hear friend demanding a commission for this commentary.

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

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Being Gone

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The six weeks of travel is nearly over. Now I need to prepare for re-entry.

—–

Good morning from Phoenix. This is my final stop on my intense six weeks of business trips. By tomorrow afternoon I should be home and I will not only unpack, I will put my luggage away.

After years of mistakes, I’ve learned a bit about how to come off the road. For years I walked into my house with a chip on my shoulder and I’ve talked to other road warriors who experience the same. Our attitude is this – Whatever has happened at home while I’ve been gone is not nearly as difficult as what I’ve experienced on the road. I’ve suffered airports, hotels, and cabs. Late nights. Early mornings. The list is long. Travel is exhausting. It’s not glamorous. And my struggles should be acknowledged in some meaningful way when I return.

For example: Yesterday at the TSA checkpoint in Mobile, on my sixty-fifth flight of the year, the agent told me I set off an alarm. He opened all my luggage, he rifled through all my stuff, and I got a thorough and complete full body pat-down by a large, grumpy, and – based on the intimacy of the pat down – lonely TSA agent who might have once been a Catholic priest. It was a bad start to the week.

However, years ago upon returning home, my wife’s position was that whatever I was doing and wherever I was, it was not nearly as difficult as managing a house full of children alone. Sleeping in the airport was nothing compared to a house full of young kids. As soon as I stepped into the house I should apologize for being gone. She never actually said any of this. But it’s the way it felt to me.

I wanted recognition for my struggles which I felt were greater than hers. She wanted recognition for her struggles which she felt were greater than mine. And it sounded something like this: “I’ve been taking care of the kids nonstop for three days. Can you please bathe them tonight. I’m exhausted.” I wanted to say. “I’ve been standing in long lines at airports and crammed into airplane seats made for a person half my size for three days. I’ve been felt up and run down by TSA. I’m exhausted, too.”

Neither of us got what we wanted and my demand for recognition made re-entry into the home routines more difficult.

It’s much easier today. In fact, I stepped into the house a few weeks back with my suitcase and my son said, “You’ve been gone?” Yep. For three days. It stung a bit but it also confirmed he’s largely self-sufficient. It was a parenting win though it didn’t feel like it at the time.

There is a pace to my home when I’m gone and my job upon reentry is to fit into it. People, even family, quickly adjust when you’re not around. Stepping through the back door and expecting sympathy and recognition makes for a difficult reentry. Always and everywhere and all the time. And I remind myself of this each time I drive home from the airport.

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

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