The Wastrels

Our electric utility company has decided, for reasons not quite transparent to me, to provide us with periodic infographics like the one above, illustrating how poorly we are managing our consumption of electricity relative to our neighbors.  This pisses me off, and I’m not really sure why. 

My first reaction, politically incorrect as it will appear to my “green” friends who nobly seek to guard the earth’s finite resources, was along the lines of “Screw you. I have paid my bills on time for the past twenty years. That makes me one of your best customers.  You should be giving me a volume discount.”

Upon further reflection, I began to question the utility’s motives.  Like tobacco companies that sponsor “don’t start smoking” campaigns, it strikes me as more than a bit disingenuous that this particular company is beseeching me to purchase less of its product.  Are we not operating in a capitalist economy?  Don’t more sales translate to more profits? 

To discern the motive behind any company’s actions, one must follow the money. I am imagining the internal PR machine within National Grid’s corporate bureaucracy, calculating the ROI of a “go green” campaign.  How many top-line revenue dollars can be sacrificed, to be offset by gains in other channels such as fees for “energy audits,” or the free advertising that flows from positive publicity about a socially altruistic, environmentally friendly, tree-hugging energy retailer? 

Is this a bad thing?  Not necessarily, but please, National Grid, spare me the sanctimonious messaging; you are in business to make money.  Period.  If you can save the earth while making more money, it’s gravy; but no private sector, for-profit company operates on altruism.  I know this.  Don’t insult me.  

I actually found this particular infographic to be pretty humorous.  Wow, we really are bad people, aren’t we?  Just look at that blue line – we are off-the-charts bad!  So, as I tend to do when I come across humorous visuals, I posted it to Facebook.  Then things got interesting.  Three of my friends commented within a couple of hours that they had received virtually the same helpful notice from their electric utilities.  One friend, a woman in another state, with a different electricity supplier, opined that electric companies must send the same sort of message to everyone, as a “scare tactic.”  I’m not sure why they would want to scare us, but they may well want to aggressively sell us their “energy saving products.”  Hmmm.  

A couple of friends suggested specific steps we can take to reduce our consumption – install fluorescent bulbs, get an ‘energy audit’; well-meaning suggestions, but I’m pretty certain that these moves wouldn’t make a significant dent in our monthly bills.  The truth is, I’m pretty sure I understand what’s driving our consumption: we are pigs.

I was raised in a very frugal household, taught at an early age to turn the lights off when leaving a room.  I’ve tried to instill this habit in my now-grown daughters, to no avail.  A couple of decades of my ranting notwithstanding, they still seem blissfully unaware that a light switch can be used to turn a light off, as well as on.  And that’s just the tip of the energy iceberg.

To be clear: I’m not putting that nasty blue bar on the chart solely on the shoulders of my family.  I, too, am a pig.  I refuse to be uncomfortable in my own home.  That means I use the heat and the central air conditioning whenever necessary to be comfortable. It has ever happened – albeit rarely – that I’ve used both in the course of the same day.

I will not do the Jimmy Carter sweater thing.  I’ll economize in other ways – I’m probably wearing the same jeans right now that I had on the last time you saw me, however many years ago that may have been – but I will not compromise on thermal comfort. I know people in this town who live in seriously large, elegantly decorated McMansions, who keep their thermostats at 64 degrees all winter.  They must be my green-bar “efficient neighbors.”  Good for them; I'm just glad I don't have to live there.

Our house is tight and well-insulated.  We had it built, so I know what’s in the walls.  Our systems are modern and well maintained.  The truth is, we don’t have a “problem” to solve.  We’re just pigs – fat, dumb, happy, comfortable, and paid in full.

But kids, really – please turn the damned lights off.  Now. 

On Demons

I recently talked with three people, each of whom is going through a difficult time due to personal circumstances.  I’ve known these people forever – two are close relatives and the third is a childhood friend.  I wanted to reach out, to help them in some way, but there was nothing I could do that would materially help their situations.  Their challenges are quite different, and they each face their demons alone.  I can only wish them the best, and hope that they know I'm here for them.

This got me to thinking about the universal nature of demons.  We all face them, and we each deal with our own, in our own way.  Some of us are tortured, for whatever reason, more than others.  In the end, hopefully, we find a way forward.

The silent veil of night is pierced by an alarm clock.  Awakening each morning is, and always has been, his very worst moment, the low point of his day.  Rising in total darkness is unpleasant in its own right; the shadows will soon extend to include his entire morning commute.  And his evening commute.  This marks his annual reversion to a mole-like existence in which the sun exists only on the weekends, and even then, low on the horizon, casting long shadows.

His demon simmers, just below the surface of his outward self, as always.  He had been relatively free of its grip for a while, owing to some combination of extreme busy-ness and friendly chemicals.  But fall has returned, and this is its time.

He is acutely aware of losses, large and small.  Poor decisions, ill-timed investments, loved ones gone too soon, squandered opportunities, friendships long abandoned, long-gone youth, and ultimately, the loss of his capacity to care about any of it.  All gone, finis.

He has always had great difficulty with vision.  Not eyesight, but the ability to imagine a future beyond today.  Now this lack of vision also clouds the past.  Decades that should be reflected in a lifetime of pleasant memories exist only in foggy recollections of random events. He struggles to summon meaningful contexts.  Regrets alone become clearer with time.

To others, he appears as different people, chameleon-like.  Some find him gregarious, others reserved. What they do not understand is that they’re watching a play unfold.  Lines are recited, movements controlled, choreographed.  He is not insincere; this is simply all he has to give, and going through the motions thoroughly exhausts him.

At day’s end, he wants for little more than to engage in some minor self-destructive behavior, to self-medicate, to retreat to the relative peacefulness of his bed.

 

Our youngest child has left for college. There is quiet now - the absence of ruckus, of disarray, of drama.  This is new.  The nest is empty.  The house feels big, for the first time in a long time.  My wife and I rather like it.

Our children are children no longer.  Grown and gone, however temporary their absence, I’m left to ponder what I’ve given them.  Materially, they can’t possibly have any complaints.  They have all that they need and then some.  But we all know that that’s just stuff.  I have failed them in ways that count.  My serious nature, my stoicism, the demon that has robbed me, has robbed them as well. 

I have tried – truly, I have – to lead by example in matters of character.  Although I am deeply flawed, as are most of us, I am honest and true to my word, always.  It’s a point of pride.  Whether that will resonate, or truly matter in their lives remains to be seen.  I should have found a way to be more “fun.”  I didn’t.  Now there is a distance for which I hope, someday, to find a bridge.

My thoughts are with those who continue to wrestle their demons.  May they – may we - find the strength to prevail.

The New Rat Race

A colleague, Kristin Woodman, whose values as a corporate manager I respect very much, recently wrote a thought-provoking post on her blog.  The topic was work/life balance.  In it, she asks why so many of us who are in leadership roles fail to practice what we preach when it comes to taking time away from the office, enjoying the unplugged, relaxing vacations that we have earned.  You can read her post here:

http://www.kristinmwoodman.com/2013/08/24/work-life-balance-and-the-great-leadership-hypocrisy/

This got me thinking about why I am too often personally guilty of engaging in the “great leadership hypocrisy” that Kristin describes.  I do take time off, but I'm almost never entirely "off the grid."   

At face value, “Do as I say, not as I do” presents as a fairly straightforward, classic phenomenon.  In other contexts, the central issue and root cause are pretty clear: the parent who is a smoker is physically addicted to nicotine, lacks the resources [motivation, capacity, support system, whatever] to kick the habit, and is acutely aware of the consequences that will prevail if the child fails to heed the warning never to begin smoking.  Do as I say, or you’ll end up like me.  ‘Nuff said.

The work/life balance behavior modeling scenario is far more subtle and complex.  Weaved into this tapestry are the following:

Demographics:  The Baby Boomer cohort elevated workaholism to an art form in the 1980s. As they entered the workforce in droves, their sheer numbers upped the ante with regard to finding a job and advancing within a career.  Sociologically, this group, in typical rebellious-youth fashion, rejected the laid-back “hippie” value system of many of their predecessors, becoming instead a particularly competitive generation of workers.  The three-martini lunch was out.  Yuppies and Bimmers were in.  Boomers, throughout their lives up to and including the present day, have had to compete more aggressively against their generational peers for finite goods, whether those be job promotions, houses in coveted locations, or anything of general appeal to their particular age group.  The result?  Continual, relentless “raising of the bar.”  It’s no surprise that we see this reflected in rampant credentialism; the Bachelor's Degree long ago became the new High School diploma.  These days it seems that the M.B.A. is the new Bachelor's Degree.  Run faster, work harder, be scared. 

Did I mention demographics?  It isn’t that the Boomers are an evil bunch, though it is interesting to follow all that has been written about the numbers of Gen X-ers and Millennials who, in typical rebellious-youth fashion, rejected the uptight, striving lifestyles of their predecessors in favor of living more balanced lives.  Although it can be argued that some of the cross-generational shift in priorities was driven by economic necessity (all those Boomers who continued to hog the good jobs well into their golden years had crowded out many who arguably should have been their successors,) I believe that each of the generations in play within today’s workforce has a great deal of wisdom to share with the others, especially on topics such as work/life balance, if only we can bring ourselves to listen.   

Technology:  So much has been written on this topic that anything I may add will surely be unoriginal.  The introduction of computer automation, of the internet, of wireless technology, of countless other technological advances over the past 50+ years has tended to follow a common arc: initial rosy predictions of vastly increased leisure time made possible by the unimaginable efficiencies to be realized through these wonderful new inventions become perverted, with outcomes being diametrically opposite initial expectations.  We have become a nation of people tethered to our jobs, “on call” 24/7, not necessarily because we want to be, but because the fact that we can be has created nearly universal expectations that we will be.

Global competition:  Another shopworn topic, but one that must be mentioned in connection with the question of why we engage in self-flagellation when it comes to taking time away from our duties.  All that technology has enabled outsourcing of all manner of service sector jobs on a grand scale.  There’s a widespread perception that {choose a country – China is a current favorite} is about to eat our lunch.  American companies, quite understandably, have responded by introducing countless initiatives aimed at becoming “lean and mean,” doing more with less.  If the Baby Boomers hadn’t already killed the three-martini lunch, the emerging markets labor force certainly would have.  We are no longer just competing against each other, we’re competing against – or learning to exploit the availability of – cheap labor in faraway lands.  How do we accomplish this?   By proving our value every day – keeping nose to grindstone, being available 24/7, not taking ‘off the grid’ vacations…

And there it is.  In the end, we are simply running scared; running further, faster every day so as not to fall behind.  Breaking the cycle, especially for those in leadership roles, requires acts of bravery.  As perverse as this seems, it takes courage to indulge in a bit of relaxation. 

The Days are Getting Shorter

Ah, summer.  My absolute favorite time of year.  Absent obligations, I would happily spend every waking hour (and most sleeping hours) on a beach.  Unfortunately, the notion of assuming away obligations brings me back to Economics 101, in which every lesson began with “assume perfect competition.”  That’s one hell of an assumption.  It’s impossible – perfect competition doesn’t exist in nature.  Nor does a life without obligations.

The rub is that my “obligations” each summer seem to become more demanding in direct proportion to my increasing desire to do as little as possible. 

I have pretty much wasted the month of July (my favorite month within my favorite time of year.) Oh, I did a few things that were fun, but for the most part I worked – fulfilling job-related obligations, meeting the needs of tenants in my role as a part-time landlord, maintaining the family fleet, and doing what has felt like endless yard work. I went swimming exactly once.  And I own a beach house.  That’s just pathetic.

I remember, as a kid, counting down the days in June in anticipation of school vacation.  It was the ultimate gift – two and a half months of freedom!  Like clockwork, we would head for the lake the day after school ended.  There we would find my uncle, who each year would wait for precisely the right moment to deliver his line (around about June 22^nd, for maximum effect): “Well, the days are getting shorter…” 

I wanted to kill him. 

At work, I am a victim of the Fortunate Dinosaur’s Paradox:  I’ve worked for the same firm for so many years that I’ve amassed an embarrassingly large number of earned vacation days; but my responsibilities prevent me from taking them in significant chunks.  In theory, I could take the entire months of July and August off.  In reality, were I to do so, I’d be spending the month of September on an unemployment line.  So instead, I typically take what I can, when I can; and dutifully check in via e-mail while I’m away.  I will be doing this next week.  Not exactly an exotic, off-the-grid safari, far from civilization, but I WILL be on that beach, dammit.

I wrote about this phenomenon a few years ago, in another forum.  In keeping with the cheesy journalistic tradition of posting “rerun” columns while on vacation, I will re-post my entry from August 17, 2009 here. I am following my own advice; so should you!  I’ll see you on the other side.

“No Excuses”

8/17/2009

This is for all my workaholic friends... you know who you are - all you good Company Men and Women. Monday morning bit pretty hard today, didn't it?  I know, I was there and I spoke with some of you.  There you were, huddled in your flourescent-lit office spaces, waiting for all those weekend corporate-network-security-patch pushes to finish up, when it hit you: it's August 17th!  It is late August!  And you've done nothing!  Nothing!   I saw the look on your faces - like you'd found a dead moth in your Starbucks latte.

You never saw it coming, did you?  You missed the memo.  No surprise, given how busy you are.  Who has time to think about vacations, anyway?  Vacations are for lazy people.  The disengaged.  The unemployed.  Hobos.  Besides, there'll always be time to figure something out.  Plenty of time left.  I'll sleep when I'm dead, right?

And the job... how can you leave the job for a whole [day, long weekend, {gasp} week]?  What if there's no signal for your BlackBerry at [the lake, the beach, the mountains, the cruise ship]?  It would be irresponsible.  It just isn't done anymore.  It's... unpatriotic.  They need you.

Now, don't get me wrong; I'm not advocating sloth, or dissing those who have a good work ethic.  I work pretty hard myself, most of the time.  But ask yourself: can you personally take credit for your 401(K)'s bounce back from the edge of recessionary oblivion, however partial and unrewarding?  I'm betting that had more to do with [the cash-for-clunkers program, the consumer confidence index, the triumph of greed over fear, the price of... well... eggs and stuff] than with the sweat of your own personal brow.  The thing is, stuff happens, with or without you.  We all want to believe we're in control, but you know what?  Well, you already know where this is going.

Here's a little exercise: Subtract your age from 74 (if you're male) or 80 (if you're female.) That's how many summers you have left. [source: howstuffworks.com, USA life expectancy, 2001]

So, this is the final boarding call.  Summer's heading off over the horizon.  A friend in Vermont reported seeing colored foliage at the top of Killington Mountain today (thanks for THAT, Willi!)  It's now or never.  What are you saving those vacation days for, anyway?  Christmas with the In-Laws?

I'll see you on the beach.  And if I don't... well, you can't say you didn't get the memo.

 

 

The Mona Lisa Smile

 

"Ginger"  ~1999 - 2013

 

It had all the trappings of a clandestine drug deal: we had planned to meet after dark, in the parking lot of a remote convenience store in a nearby town.  We arrived first, and waited.  A rusty old Volvo wagon pulled up next to us.  A woman emerged from the car, wearing grimy clothes.  She had what we had come for: a young, mixed-breed dog of unknown origin that she had rescued from a “kill shelter” on the South Shore.  She had described her to us by phone as a “Miniature Golden” and had given her a name: Ginger. 

Ginger had not had the benefit of a bath – she smelled awful.  The woman handed me a filthy leash, and Ginger proceeded to drag me around the parking lot.  She was young, strong, and wild.  Untamed, almost, but clearly not aggressive.  There was a moment when our eyes met, and I swear we formed a bond.  I glanced at my wife and young daughters.  They seemed skeptical.  I said “we’ll take her.”  The woman, whom we later took to calling the Crazy Old Dog Lady, drove off.  Ginger was ours.

Ginger, we quickly learned, loved to swim.  She was drawn to the water like a magnet to a steel post. Always impetuous, she’d leap off of our boat for a swim without warning.  We bought her a doggie PFD (life vest) which actually did save her life once.  We were anchored in Wellfleet Harbor off Billingsgate Shoal, a spit of sand that separates the harbor from Cape Cod Bay.  Someone tossed a lump of bread crust, the remains of a sandwich into the water.  Ginger dove after it.  She swam the short distance to the sandbar, paused long enough to look back at us as if to laugh, then ran into the water on the Bay side, whereupon she – and I, who had donned my own vest and swam out, crossing the sandbar, to retrieve her - got caught in a rip tide.  A kindly fisherman in a skiff hauled us both out and drove us all around the shoal back to our boat.  Our little adventure found its way into the local newspaper, in a story spun to illustrate the value of PFDs for pets.

We’ll never know which dog breeds contributed to Ginger’s heritage, but they somehow came together to produce an attractive dog (in our estimation, anyway.)  Her coat was thick and golden in color.  Even in old age, it never greyed.  My wife has always said that Ginger had eyelashes with built-in mascara, and a Mona Lisa smile.  We never knew what she was thinking, or what she’d do next, but she always seemed to be having fun.

Ginger was with us for fourteen years.  The past year or so had been difficult for her. Her hind legs had all but given out, her vision and hearing had diminished, and she panted heavily most of the time. She was on multiple meds to alleviate other ailments.  Still, there was that “smile.” I imagined, and still do, that her spirit was very much alive.  And so it was that we agonized for months over what to do – whether to “put her down” (God, I hate that expression.)   Yesterday, the decision was made.  With our family gathered around a stainless steel operating table in a veterinarian’s office, we said goodbye.

Now, having the perspective of a day’s hindsight, I’m left still wondering whether we did the right thing.  All I really know is that I miss her presence.  We were lucky to have had her, and given her rocky start in life, I'd like to believe she was lucky to have had us as well.

There is nothing unusual about this story. This was not the first time we’d euthanized an ailing pet, nor will it likely be the last. Countless others have faced the same dilemma and have lived to tell about it.  If there’s anything surprising here, it is this last point:  I’ve been literally overwhelmed by the number of sympathetic and supportive comments generated by my simple, five word Facebook post yesterday, announcing Ginger’s demise.  Grieving the loss of a pet, it seems, strikes a powerful chord with many people.  At some level, we had been thinking we were kind of crazy for being so emotionally attached to an animal; but as it turns out, if we’re crazy, we’re certainly not alone.  Oddly, there is comfort in that.  So, to all of our fellow crazy pet lovers, including the Crazy Old Dog Lady whom I imagine must be resting in peace somewhere herself by now, thank you.

Plus ça change...

Change has overtaken us.  I’ve chosen these words carefully, to reflect the somewhat involuntary, if not exactly passive nature of the swirl of activity that has engulfed our family lately.  Within the course of a one week period, we have supported a loved one through a painfully emotional legal proceeding, visited an aging relative who had been rushed to the hospital amidst initial reports that she was “unresponsive,” and spoken several times with another aging relative who lives a significant distance away and has increasing physical and emotional needs that we find ourselves unable to adequately meet. 

We’ve purchased a seriously expensive machine for landscaping the yard, continued our efforts involving minor house renovations, and attended two lengthy events at our local high school, the latter being our daughter’s graduation ceremony (congratulations, Sarah!)  My truck has been in the shop – twice (the second time to replace a faulty part that had been installed the first time.) 

We are actively discussing how and when to “put down” our beloved but elderly dog, who has become incontinent.  She seems hardly ready to throw in the towel quite yet.  Yes, all this within the span of seven days.  Oh, and we still have our day jobs.  I could write several paragraphs on that topic, describing the breakneck pace of organizational changes and resulting fallout pertinent to my job alone.  But I won’t.

I do not want all this, but it’s unavoidable.  We are the poster children for the Sandwich Generation, juggling the (mostly emotional) demands of aging parents and the (mostly financial) demands of newly-minted adult children.  The treadmill just spins faster, both literally (referring to the one in our basement) and figuratively.  There are days – lots of them – when all I really want to do is jump off, do nothing, relax.  But seldom does that happen.  There just isn’t time.  The hammock beckons, but my butt is elsewhere, hustling, doing, checking off tasks on the to-do list.

Seth Godin semi-famously declared that “Fifty is the New Thirty.”  I don’t buy it.  I’d give my left nut to be thirty again.  Well, maybe not, but I’d think about it. 

In reality, I don’t envy the thirty year-olds of today.  They are victims of their position on the demographic continuum.  The leading edge of the Boomers (read: those much older than me!) who are of traditional retirement age are delaying retirement, essentially hogging jobs that should be freeing up to accommodate today’s up-and-comers.  A gazillion articles have been written, outlining the reasons for this (the real estate bubble, the market crash of ’08, sloppy handling of debt all around; Boomers treating their homes like piggy banks, tapping equity in the false belief that real estate values would only ever go up, and on, and on.) 

I would add only that there’s a certain chicken-and-egg aspect to this as well:  our own prospects for downsizing are hampered by the very real likelihood that our college-age offspring will turn out to be ‘Boomerangs” – themselves victims of the lousy {but improving!} economy, returning to the nest that is our home in the SUVs that we still own and insure.  Dad, my gas tank is empty again.  Ka-Ching.   

And so, we soldier on.  I’m painfully aware that much more change is coming our way, and soon.  The end of days is approaching for our parents who are in their 80s and 90s, and for our dog who can barely walk.  The world awaits the college grads that we hope, one day soon, to turn loose. 

We blinked, and somehow, now we’re here.  I wish I had paid more attention.  I wish I’d been more patient.  I wish I had said the things for which, even now, I can’t seem to find the words.  And I’m grateful for the few pillars in my life that have not changed.  They are my guideposts, without whom I’d be lost.

The Gift

My friend, Jack, “discovered” a local watering hole many years ago.  It became our hangout.  We were young, single, and relatively flush with disposable income.  The place had great Buffalo Wings and cold beer on tap.  It was perfect.

Word spread quickly, and the place became very popular with the “Yuppie” crowd (for those unfamiliar, “Yuppie” was a 1980’s term, an acronym for “Young Urban Professional;” we were Yuppies, and Coffee Achievers, too – Google them for a chuckle.)  Every Friday afternoon, like clockwork, we’d hit “happy hour” with an ever-changing entourage of friends and co-workers. There were no spouses, no kids, no obligations; or so it seemed.  It was, in so many ways, a good time.

Years passed. We grew up, I suppose - acquired families and mortgages and baggage.  We had the occasional “reunion” when we were able to pull it off, but over time the gatherings became less frequent, the attendance more sparse.  It was as though we’d been a part of the cast of “Cheers” for a while, but like the show itself, our ratings had dropped, and so it was over.

But funny things happen at midlife, as we find ourselves stepping onto the turf of the Back Nine.  Extramarital affairs happen.  Convertibles happen.  Gym memberships happen.  Goatees happen.  You name it; internalization of the reality of impending mortality causes people to go a little crazy.  Sometimes, we try to find something within ourselves that we’d long ago abandoned.   

And so it was, very recently, that a few of us found ourselves back in our long-abandoned booth, slugging down beer and Buffalo Wings. Save for the prices, the place hadn’t changed a bit. The food and drink were great, as was the company.  But there was a surreal quality to the experience.  We’d become different.  We no longer looked like most of the other patrons (what are Yuppies called these days, anyway?)  Yes, of course we were older; but we had also grown wiser, and sadder – or perhaps just more somber. Oh, we’ve all had good lives to this point, and on balance we’ve no reason to complain; but we’d each borne unique crosses of one sort or another, and it became clear as the conversation progressed that the weight of our burdens and the years we’d spent carrying them had taken their toll.  I’ve always insisted that Thomas Wolfe was wrong, that you can go home again; but I’m starting to doubt myself.

I wrote most of this post in the living room of my mother’s house, sitting on a sofa that was built in the 1950’s.  She was sleeping in her bedroom, in mid-afternoon.  She is 90 years old.  I had traveled a fair distance to take her out to dinner for Mother’s Day; but she didn’t feel up to leaving the house.  Her mind is still sharp, but her body is slowly failing.  She knows this, and in characteristic fashion speaks to it directly: “I just need what nobody can give me – a new body.”  I look into her eyes and see my future.  It scares the hell out of me.  Longevity is a blessing and a curse.

My mother is a stoic and eminently practical woman.  She’s a classic member of the Greatest Generation – she’d lived through the Great Depression, and that experience had, to a great degree, formed her world view.  She wastes nothing.  Her demeanor is blunt and to the point.  She speaks her mind, and doesn’t particularly care what others think or feel.  Her background and personality, of course, played a large role in shaping my childhood.  I learned at an early age not to expect anything to be sugar-coated, and nothing was.

By the time I reached adulthood, I had come to understand that there are certain topics of conversation that are best avoided with Mom.  My wife quickly learned this as well, with a bit of trial-and-error in the beginning.  The general theme was to avoid creating the impression that were somehow profligate spendthrifts.  This was more easily said than done: buying a new car, for example, danced dangerously close to the cliff; and a car is too big to hide.  But that could be alright, if we played up the terrific price bargain we'd negotiated.  Discarding leftover food, no matter how small the morsel, led directly to a lecture about starving children in the Third World.  When I was a kid, it was always Biafra for some reason.  The starving children there must have been on the TV news a lot.  Saving the food in a tiny bit of aluminum foil in the back of the refrigerator until it grew mold and then tossing it – that has always been OK.

When our children came along, the ‘thrift’ theme was extended to include a “you’re spoiling those kids” corollary; so we stepped up our game, expanding the list of off-limits topics.  Our kids walked on eggshells while visiting Grandma’s house, lest they slip up and leave a wet towel somewhere, or forget to turn off the lights when leaving a room. When stuff like that happened – and, of course, it did – they would get the lecture and we would get that look – the one telling us that we were wholly incompetent parents raising unruly scoundrels.

This Mother’s Day visit was unfortunate, in that Mom wasn’t feeling well, but it was also unusual in a positive way, in that we actually had a real conversation, transcending the superficiality of the weather and the news stories of the day.  It was just the two of us.  Dinner had been a bust, so we’d ordered in Chinese food.  She told me about how poorly she’s been feeling lately, in somewhat graphic detail.  She asked me how old I was – she’d lost track – and she seemed surprised by the answer.  I’m further along than she’d thought.  We talked about regrets – a traditionally verboten topic.  We talked about lives that feel like to-do lists, marked by endless tasks and chores, to the exclusion of most everything else (or so it seems at times.)  I mentioned that my wife and I have had our noses to the proverbial grindstone for decades, that we'd sent one daughter to Europe and the other to college, yet we’d somehow managed to postpone our 20^th anniversary cruise for three years and counting.  What Mom said next surprised me: “you should go.  Book it now, while you’re young enough to enjoy it.  You should focus on doing things that make you happy now.” 

And there it was - the pleasure principle.  Since I was a child, I’d heard about the virtues of hard work, that I needed to save my pennies for a rainy day, how “lucky” I was to have a steady job, and on and on.  Now, spurred on by what I imagine to be her own perception of a darkening stage, my mother appeared circumspect. She went on to say, as though I needed a reminder, that life is short.  From her perspective, even a very long life goes by shockingly quickly. 

Driving back home this morning, I realized that my mother had given me a Mother’s Day gift – a new perspective to ponder.  We are going to book that trip.  We must. But beyond that, I’ve got some reassessing and re-prioritizing to do.  Change is in the wind.  It is time.