They Were, and Are CC

I moved my office at Ford recently, from Livonia to Dearborn. I packed and carried to the new office two or three boxes of personal memorabilia, items toward which I’ve grown increasingly fond of and, as time passes, grow increasingly meaningful to me.

There are objects that my kids made in pre-school, including an odd carved wooden object that Matthew, now 28, made. It reminds me of a dolphin slicing through the water. It has two nails sticking out of it at different angles and when people see it, it serves for me as a kind of weird Rorschach test as they interpret what they see. I never know what they’ll say.

There’s an oversize poster that my daughter Kelly, now 24, created years ago while she was visiting my office. It has the word “Kelly” written several times across it in a free-form style, in different sizes. It’s accented by creative streaks of color slashing through the poster, that play off her name in a je ne sais quoi artistry that I find captivating.

These two items have something in common: an attitude toward life and living that is bold, is fresh, and declares an absence of self-consciousness or of fear.

There’s another item in my office, a group photograph of several young men, which shares these same qualities.

It was taken in July 1997, ten years ago, when my son and his friends graduated from high school. It was toward the end of a graduation party that occurred late in the season for such parties.

The photo was taken at the home of Richie Kostrzewski, one of Matthew’s friends in high school. The party was hosted by Richie’s Mom and Dad.

The photo was taken toward the end of the party, late in the afternoon. It was a hot, sunny day.

The boys, there are 11 of them in the photo, are illuminated by the sunlight, and stand or kneel around some shrubbery accenting the rear of the house, which is immediately behind them.

Above the boys, in the upper center of the photo, is a dark blue flag with large white letters. The flag says, at the top, “Catholic Central.” At the bottom, it says “Shamrocks.”

Separating these sets of words in the middle are two large interlocking white letters that say “CC.” Following the letters is a small symbol of a shamrock.

The flag describes who they are, and provides a little perspective. But it is the boys’ faces and postures that speak volumes about their youth, their confidence and, ultimately, their happiness.

Each is smiling, flashing bright white teeth. Some are laughing. The eyes are sparkling except for the two unfortunate souls who blinked as the camera’s shutter snapped.

 Several of those standing have hands on their hips, boldly proclaiming who they are. Several have baseball caps. Those kneeling in the front are relaxed and comfortable. Again, some are laughing. They’re having a good time.

What looks like a soccer ball rests in the shrubbery, an apt accent for their enjoyment of participation in sports, sparked by the competitive desire that I witnessed burning in each of them for those four years.

The young man in the middle, John Faunce, would leave the party shortly after the photo was taken, to travel with his Dad in their Econoline Van to West Point, where he would graduate as a lieutenant in the U.S. Army four years hence.

The boys (I suppose they always will remain “boys” to me) were and are great friends. They met as freshmen when they ran cross-country and track together, and continued to improve and grow together as athletes and friends through their senior year.

Detroit Catholic Central, often referred to as CC, is an all-boys high school that was founded in 1928 in Detroit, on Harper Avenue near Woodward.  It has had a long history in southeastern Michigan, occupying several different sites in Metro Detroit. It moved a couple years ago from Breakfast Drive in Redford, where the boys went to school, to a brand-new site in Novi.

CC’s motto is “Teach me goodness, discipline and knowledge.” And the Basilian priests who run the school, with the help of lay teachers and staff, take to heart that mission.

My introduction to CC discipline arrived when the boys and their parents had gathered as incoming freshmen at the school for an orientation, and were being seated on the bleachers in the gym.

Matthew didn’t have any friends in Belleville that went to CC. He had made up his mind in the fifth grade, while he went to St. Anthony School in Belleville, that he wanted to go to CC.

In sixth grade, he moved to South Middle School, where he stayed till he left for CC to begin the ninth grade, leaving some good friends that he made at South.

Back in the CC gym, Father Moffatt, the principal, waited patiently at the microphone for everyone to be seated. The boys had been given CC baseball caps saying “Class of 1997” as a token of their initiation into the school, and many still wore the caps as they sat waiting in the bleachers.

Father Moffatt requested that the boys remove their caps as a token of respect for the prayer he was about to say, a benediction toward the incoming freshmen and the beginning of their shared experience for the next four years.

Many of the boys removed their caps at the first request, but a few did not. Father Moffatt returned to the microphone and, in an unmistakable tone, said, “Boys, remove your caps.”

He added, just in case he wasn’t being sufficiently clear as to what the boys and their parents should expect, “At CC, you’ll learn to follow instructions the first time.”

Whoa! He had me from that moment. We later were given a small magnetic sign for our refrigerator door with CC’s phone number and the name of its Vice Principal, Mr. Hayes. One of Mr. Hayes’ duties was student discipline.

 We were assured that, if our boys got out of line in or out of school and we needed a little assistance, that we should simply call Mr. Hayes and he would provide some help.

I don’t mean to suggest that CC was a type of military school, in which discipline ruled all and fear of authority was the watchword.

It wasn’t. In fact, the boys were cut added slack by the administration as they became upperclassmen, as long as they stayed within the behavioral bounds they now understood. Their time at CC often was filled with fun, leavened with academic and athletic standards they were expected and encouraged to achieve.

Imagine if you will the sound of a bowling ball rolling down an empty school corridor. The classroom in which you are sitting shifts suddenly from order to distraction to disorder.

The rolling ball creates a booming sound, a little ominous as it rolls unencumbered along the tile floor, crashing at intervals into lockers and caroming back into the center of the corridor. 

This is among the pranks leading to the annual CC event known as Boys’ Bowl (Get it? Bowling Ball?). The Boys Bowl was begun years ago as an annual football game between CC and Boys Town in Nebraska, as a fundraiser for the boys school founded by Father Flanagan.

The annual game metamorphosed over the years into a football game between CC and a Catholic League rival, and when Matthew attended CC, the opponent was Brother Rice.

CC usually got the better of Brother Rice in those days (not anymore, sadly), but Rice was even then a supremely worthy adversary.

I recall one year where CC was down by three points with less than a minute to go. Its players marched downfield, crossing into Rice territory, but were stopped on third down with just a few seconds left on the clock.

The field goal to tie the game was witnessed by over 3,000 people. It featured a football that floated 50 yards down the field, barely passing above the crossbar, between the uprights.

The CC side in Wisner Stadium in Pontiac erupted in joy and disbelief. Friends, a 50-yard field in high school is a rare thing. And this was and is no less true of CC than other high schools.

Despite this, however, we reminded ourselves that it now was an altogether new game, in overtime. Time in regulation had expired.

But how could the Shamrocks lose the game after such an inspiring finish in regulation? And, as fate would have it, CC won. What a day. What a victory. The picture in my mind’s eye of that day is almost as clear as the picture of the boys at the graduation party.

The boys in the photo never did get into much trouble. Although they loved pranks, they rarely broke the law. In fact, they respected authority - they might just tweak it a bit.

 Over the years, they stood together throughout CC football and basketball games as very involved fans, and delighted especially in exchanging insults across football fields with the aforementioned boys of archrival Brother Rice High School in Birmingham.

“What’s a Shamrock?” the Brother Rice boys would ask from the bleachers on their side of the field, as they taunted their rivals. “Ask your girlfriend,” the CC boys would slyly respond on the opposite side of the field.

At other times, the boys would chant other phrases, including “We Are…CC!” They were and are proud of their shared experience. CC provided the common thread that unites them as they continue their life’s journey as adults.

With pretty young ladies on their arms, they went to proms and homecoming dances, all dressed up, patiently posing for photos happily snapped by their excited parents, especially the Moms.

They have remained great good friends despite changes in their lives in the last decade. They went to different universities, they got different jobs, they have moved out of the state, but still they come together to celebrate big events in their lives as they continue to grow as adults, particularly weddings and the bachelor parties that precede the weddings.

Make that bachelor weekends. The boys have extended the customary hell-raising evening out into a weekend that begins on Friday and ends on Sunday. By that time, they are exhausted and hung over (on one weekend trip, my son claimed to have slept for a total of four hours), often returning home on an airplane.

Many of these events have taken place outside the state, including twice to Las Vegas, and once each to New Orleans, Pittsburgh and Key West.

But, despite the occasional hell-raising, they have grown into adults. Several have married. One, who lives in Arizona, has a child. John Faunce, who lives on an Army base in North Carolina, is a Captain who completed two tours of duty in Iraq.

Another is a dentist. Two are teachers, a few are automotive engineers, and others are in financial careers like mortgage banking. 

And you know what? Their attitudes haven’t changed.

They are confident, they are cocksure, and they are great fun to be with. Despite the confidence, however, there’s a self-imposed limit: they respect others and themselves. The CC motto stuck.

I had the opportunity to join them last year for Matthew’s bachelor weekend in Pittsburgh, because Matthew selected me to be his best man for his wedding.

Matthew selected Pittsburgh for the bachelor weekend because, after having coached there at a couple summer basketball camps after high school, he grew to like the people. Years ago, he told John Faunce, with whom he sometimes coached, that he would return to Pittsburgh for his bachelor party.

 On the bachelor weekend, I was able to keep up with them through Friday night and about 3 a.m. Saturday morning. I got some sleep, but I had to beg off about 9:30 p.m. that Saturday night after dinner, returning to the place where we stayed, where I quietly watched TV, alone. The break from the activity was a blessing - I was gassed.

But it was worth it. I was able to party with them for at least a short while that weekend, and I got to know each of them a little better.

The time that I spent with them helped me to understand more clearly their bond with each other, providing a brief glimpse of their connection, an attachment born in youth, in confidence, and in optimism.

It is captured and kept for all time in that decade-old photo of eleven young men who continue to enjoy a common experience with each other, which helped to make them who they are today.

They were, and are…CC.

The Nicest Person in the Room

Today, Jan and I celebrate the forty-second anniversary of our meeting in Auburn, NY. And when I think about her and my resulting good fortune, I’m reminded of something that I often do think about, and have even written about. It still defines a large part of who she is today, and how I feel about her.

I have been blessed for many years now by a partnership with a woman that, while it’s sealed by marriage vows, is a bargain I would freely choose again, and again -- and again.

Why? Because no matter where I go, and with whom I associate, if she’s with me, then I’m with the nicest person in the room.

She’s not perfect. She shares many of the behavior traits with other women that mystify and sometimes frustrate many men, including me: a passion for attractive jewelry, actually enjoying shopping (go figure!), a compulsion to get the house ready for the arrival of the cleaning lady and, of course, Oprah.

But that’s OK. I sure as heck don’t want to be with someone who is too much like me, and these minor liabilities are more than offset by the assets she brings to our partnership, things like a surfeit of common sense, patience with many things, including things mechanical, an ability to be up when I’m down, and, well, a gift for being so darn nice to other people.

Many years ago, she told me that she likes to end a conversation with another person with them feeling better about themselves that when they began the conversation.  

And based on the number of good friends she has, she must be getting it right.  “Good” is the key word here: these are people for whom she would perform big favors, but I suspect that these people would also be prepared to do big favors for her. 

There was the co-worker last week who was having a difficult time: her sister had a serious illness that resulted in both of the sister’s feet being amputated, and the co-worker was understandably distraught. She was sent to Jan by their boss, and the two women talked for a while.

Jan carries with her religious medals that have been blessed by two different Popes, and, after trying to console the poor woman, gave her one of each to help lighten the load.

And as the woman left later that day to visit her sister in the hospital, she made a quick stop by Jan’s school room, thanked Jan for her time, confirmed what their boss had said to her earlier that day about Jan’s being a good person to talk with about her sister, and left for the hospital clutching the medals.

 This is so different from me. I’m not an unkind person, but I typically don’t make an extraordinary effort to help or to console someone else. It’s so ironic to me that I’m paired with a woman who possesses gobs and gobs of empathy – no doubt God had something in mind. It can’t just be a coincidence.

In a Christmas Eve Mass a couple years ago, the pews immediately before Mass began were very crowded. We had arrived an hour before Mass to score some comfortable seats, and to hold some space for others who arrived a little later.

A few minutes before Mass began, there was an older man and his family who appeared briefly in the archway leading to our section. They were looking for a seat or two.

Noticing our section was full, they moved on. But not before my wife arose from her seat to retrieve the man, and to assure him that, if we squeezed together just a little tighter, why, there was plenty of room!

Me, I figured he should have arrived earlier, like me, to get a good seat. Can you say “Bah, humbug?”

I got to watch her the other day run a few computer classes in the elementary school in which she works. Her young students range from Kindergarten through Fifth Grade. She manages the classroom like a drill sergeant if the kids don’t behave – she will not tolerate bad behavior or a lack of effort - but if they behave, she is patient, helpful and kind.

She has “adopted” different kids over the years, befriended them on a personal level sometimes outside of the classroom, and all teachers know the rewards and occasional pitfalls associated with that. But, despite having experienced some of her own difficulties with this, she continues to help when she sees a need.

She spent over $100 a few years ago on winter clothing for a young person, and worked with another teacher to concoct a story that the clothing was the result of an award sponsored by the school. She didn’t want credit for the kind deed; it was enough to do what she felt was the right thing.

If we visit a Borders bookstore, she spends most of her time in the section for children’s books. As we check out, I am usually assured of at least a $50 bill for new books for the classroom. The “Froggy” series of books are among her favorites.

Years ago, we brought one of her young charges to an MSU-UM football game in East Lansing. The kid had so much fun, when we went to leave, he threw himself on the ground and had a tantrum about having to leave. I managed to pull him upright after some scolding from Jan, and we were able to go.

It was pretty shocking, but if you live with the nicest person in the room, you learn to live with all the consequences. I’ve found it’s worth it.

My Sunday Feeling

This is not my first newspaper job. Many years ago, late during high school, I had a job as a copy boy at the Post-Standard newspaper in Syracuse, N.Y.

       A copy boy is the lowest rung on the career ladder at a large newspaper. Our nominal job was to pull stories off the teletype, roll them up and secure them with a rubber band, and place them on a bulletin board using a numbering system in the small room in which we worked.

My real job was to do anything that the editors wanted, including getting regular coffees for them at a small café across the street.

The stories could be written either in understandable English on regular paper that ran through a teletype machine on long rolls, or they would be sent in a sort of code that reminded you of Braille - a one-half inch strip of colored, thicker paper with small holes in it.

When an editor would call for a story to be published in the next morning’s newspaper, we would walk it out of our small, dimly-lit room down a long aisle through a vast outer room.

The aisle was probably was 75 feet long, and was brightly-lit. The many desks were occupied by busy reporters and editors, on the phone or writing away using typewriters – no PC’s back then.

After walking down the long aisle, we would open a swinging door at the end of the aisle and place the story on another bulletin board.

The world past this swinging door was not like the world we could see from the copy boy room. It smelled of machinery oil, was shrouded in semi-darkness, and was noisy.

It was the room where the printing presses ran, where each evening (I believe the deadline was 11 p.m. each night) the technology in the back room resulted in the newspaper that readers would see the next morning.

The creativity was in the large, well-lit room through which we traveled with the selected stories for the next morning’s newspaper.

Past the door, it was a world of thickly-muscled, beefy men represented by a labor union, men with opinions and attitudes that carried little tolerance for young people, and in particular copy boys.

You delivered the story just past the door, and left the room. You didn’t linger there, because you didn’t belong there; you weren’t even welcome there.  

It was among about a half-dozen jobs I had as I was growing up, and it ranked as probably the best.

Why? Because of the people with whom I worked. And I don’t say this because they were nice people, necessarily. Some were, for sure, but if you looked at the collective personality of the people with whom I worked at the newspaper, they were on the grumpy, irascible side. 

They were cynical, they were world-weary, but they were smart. The air around and above their heads seemed to crackle with electricity as you walked your story past them, down the long aisle in the large, brightly-lit room, where you witnessed the process of producing a daily newspaper.

It was here that I met some unforgettable characters, here that I listened one evening to a high military draft number being called for me, a guarantee that I wouldn’t be drafted to go to Vietnam, here where we joked and talked and sometimes out of boredom parodied the process of a late-night talk show, complete with a host and special guests.

One of us, his name was Bob, would play the role of Johnny Carson. He would welcome the guests to his show and interview us. Years later, Cosmo Kramer did the same thing with Jerry and George and Elaine and Newman on the TV show “Seinfeld,” after cadging an old set from “The Merv Griffin Show” from a dumpster.

I left the newspaper after about nine months, to take a better job promised by my cousin Chris. He described the new job as underwater photography in the Caribbean, working for the Disney Studios. I mean, can you imagine anything better when you’re 17 years old?

Chris was the “good idea” man among my friends. He was clever and he was imaginative. He was also a bit of a dreamer.

You couldn’t help but like him and sometimes admire him, but you learned to be careful about planning on his ideas. Sometimes, they didn’t materialize, and this was one of these. I left the job at the newspaper to take the summer photography job which never materialized, couldn’t return to the newspaper, and was left without a job altogether.

I found another job – the low pay common to all these jobs at least helped to ensure that jobs were available to me – but I missed the newspaper.

Another thing that has lasted for me from my experience at the newspaper is the way that the mood of the place, and with it my mood, changed on Sunday.

The large Sunday newspaper had been published that morning, and the preparation late on Sunday afternoon to get ready for Monday’s newspaper was unlike the other days I worked at the newspaper.

It was lower-key, more relaxed, people at work were a bit nicer, and we often nipped out to a nearby sub shop, Jiffy King, to get a delicious submarine sandwich for supper, which we consumed in the small Copy Boy room.   

At the time, in the late 60’s, a rock group that was among our favorites was called “Jethro Tull.” The group was named after an agricultural pioneer in England in the Eighteenth Century.

We were vaguely aware of the allusion, but far more interested in the music: a driving sound with superb guitar work and drumming, complemented by the flute played by its leader Ian Anderson. At times melodic, at times manic, the flute would fill in the space between clever lyrics, often penned by Anderson.

One of their early songs was called “My Sunday Feeling,” about the hangover one may experience after having too much fun on Saturday night. Its significance resonated with us, because we occasionally partied too hard on Saturday evening, followed by the hangover.

 A sample verse:

My Sunday feeling is coming on over me.
My Sunday feeling is coming on over me,
Now that the night is over.
Got to clear my head so I can see.
Till I get to put together,
that old feeling won't let me be.

A typical Sunday, in those days, was often accompanied by work at the newspaper. Talking about it one day with a good friend who also worked at the newspaper, with whom I often partied the night before, he joked about the song and its relevance to us, referring particularly to our turn-down condition and a subdued mood at work.

Well, the phrase has stayed with me through the years, but it has come to mean to me something far different than the nausea and fatigue that it once represented. It now signifies a very special day in my life each week, one to which I look forward.

And I know my wife feels the same way. In fact, in a little poll to which she responded the other day, I noticed she said that Sunday was her favorite day of the week as well.

All Sundays are not the same for us. There is occasionally the obligation to which we’re committed, and sometimes something unexpected happens that changes our plans.

I use the word “plan” loosely, however, because the Sunday we like the most has a decided absence of plan and of normal weekday responsibilities, of which we have plenty.

Things like our own goals and desires, each other, kids, friends, family, dogs, work, appointments, meetings during the day and the evening, you know, the stuff to which Nineteenth Century poet William Wordsworth referred:    

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

But not on Sunday. A good Sunday, the way Sunday was intended, will begin for us in bed together, followed perhaps by Mass at 10 a.m. We’ve begun to favor the Saturday evening Mass the night before, however, to keep our Sunday mornings free.

I’ll rise early, work on a story, do some household chores, watch an old movie on TV that I recently TiVo’ed, walk on the treadmill as I read a book, shower, and head to Canton for a copy of the Sunday “New York Times” newspaper.

My wife and sometimes I will watch “CBS Sunday Morning,” a TV newsmagazine show that’s on each Sunday at 9 a.m., a leisurely, friendly show with affable Charles Osgood as host.

It’s news journalism at its best: informative, entertaining, sometimes inspiring. Yes, it includes footage and reporting of current events - weather disasters, war, corruption, generally bad behavior – but these are reported in a dutiful manner and you move on to the stuff that captures your imagination.

 Stories about how Eric Clapton’s song “Layla” came to be written, stories about the Iowa State Fair, a traditional, homey State Fair that features deep-fried Twinkies, and the show’s weekly ending that features nature absent of people, and often even of narration: nature is allowed to speak for itself, with animals at work or at play, the wind whistling through the trees, and sparkling water in a stream that pushes hard downhill as winter begins to turn to spring.

The rest of our Sunday is up to us. It often involves an absence of household cleaning chores (ugh!), but includes for me watching sports on TV, and marathon newspaper reading: the Free Press followed by the Times. My wife will busy herself with a hobby, and tolerate my TV habits.

We use that blessed Sunday to recharge ourselves. We’ve come to look forward to it, and to treasure it each week. Because, once you’ve experienced it, that “Sunday Feeling” is a reward for the previous week, and can help you through the week that follows.

During the previous week, we’ve got and spent, and laid waste our powers. Sunday is our day to cast off the world. It is a day to stop and to appreciate some of the good things that God has provided, including a truly beautiful day for which we are forever grateful. 

In praise of a job

I returned to work for Ford in a capacity similar to what I did before I retired, and really, it's been the best:

I work four days each week, about six hours each day. I get paid for what I work - no paid sick days, no holidays; if I take a week's vacation, I don't get paid.

I love my job. I have the best boss.

I work with bright, ambitious, intelligent people. They're different than I am - I don't have excess aptitude in high math, but these guys are automotive engineers.

I can be analytical, and the journalism training and experience has helped me to develop spreadsheets that try to combine data with simplicity, to convey ideas and suggest recommendations. You never, ever achieve the ideal, but it’s out there.

Imagine designing an automobile - thousands of moving parts, which have to operate in all kinds of environments - blazing hot, stultifyingly cold, 10,000 feet above sea level, ascending impossibly steep hills, mountains even.

I think there are more than 300 separate components in an automatic transmission, more than an engine. Imagine designing them to work together through all kinds of environmental conditions.

I admire these engineers - it makes me want to serve them better in my role as reporting how they're doing versus their budget. Sounds banal, I know, but they do care about it, and it's great being able to help them navigate how to get something through the system, or to explain why their travel expense was $10,000 in January, compared with a monthly budget of $5,000.

But hey, you pay attention to this this now, and we'll fix it - together.

I sat in an executive staff meeting on Monday morning, and I'd be willing to bet that the average IQ in the room was 150. They are brilliant.

Today, I got a note from my boss' boss' boss’ boss congratulating me on helping to deliver a key part of the budget, with levels consensed by a dozen different department managers, none of them a bit shy.

In the note, my boss’ boss’ boss’ boss said I was organized and methodical. And I sure try to be.

It feels great to try to get it right. Evanescent goal, I know, but worthy nonetheless. And they pay me for this.

Things we shared

Toward the end, my visits with her were timed to coincide with major golf tournaments. I would arrive Thursday evening at the airport, greet her with a big hug around the tiny, increasingly fragile frame, and she would drive us in the tiny white Saturn to Applebee’s for a snack. I sometimes would succeed in picking up the tab, but more often she insisted I take the proferred cash for her share.

            I believe our golf tournament viewing habit began when Tiger Woods first won the Masters in 1997. The timing of my visit then was a coincidence, but we were thrilled to see him win. He was one of her heroes.

At the same time, I began to realize our time together was growing shorter – she wouldn’t be here forever.

            And so I began to visit more often, timing my visits with the Masters Golf Tornament (my personal favorite – I will never again view those beautiful vistas on TV without thinking of her), the British Open, the U.S. Open and the P.G.A. Championship.

            She had her dislikes among golfers, too. She detested Fred Couples, because she heard that he had cheated on his wife. Remember, there were rules to live by. I didn’t bother checking whether he had in fact cheated – she was sometimes wrong about these things – because even if the man was truly a saint, I couldn’t have convinced her.

            She loathed Phil Mickelson, but that antipathy wasn’t based on his behavior or a bad reputation; in fact, it was quite unfair. She disliked Mickelson because he competed with Woods so effectively during that time. She admitted to me once that she would whisper “Miss It” as Mickelson attempted a key putt.

            Of course, we didn’t spend all our time watching golf. She had home improvement projects planned, projects that required my help, living alone as she did. In fact, she would prepare a list before my arrival.

            But she wasn’t a stern taskmaster. I have little talent or inclination for complex home improvement projects involving carpentry, plumbing or wiring, but I’ve a learned a few things over the years, and I can do the simple stuff.

            I’ve also learned, however, that I have little patience when such projects go wrong, as they invariably will. The right tool isn’t available, the instructions aren’t clear, or you drop the screw below you on the floor and can’t find it.

  

It was then that she shone. She encouraged me to postpone the project, relax, and maybe watch a little golf. There was no hurry – we could get back to it tomorrow. In fact, there were some visits that ended with my having completed very little, although we tried. What I viewed as failure didn’t bother her a bit – we’d get to it next time.

            Late in 2001 and into 2002, her health deteriorated. She had lung cancer and heart disease, and was hospitalized for a while. I visited a half-dozen times in 2002, at times hopeful, despairing at other times.

            Ironically, the woman who did so much for me was toward the end reduced to asking me for help. I will never forget making a lunch of grilled cheese for her on my last visit – it was such a pathetic little offering for someone who had done so much for me. I felt puny and ineffectual. I wished I could have made her one of those rare roast beef sandwiches on thick, hand-cut Italian bread, generously layered with sweet salad dressing.

I believe with bedrock certainty that the measure of a good mother’s love is infinite. It’s an article of faith for me, one of the eternal verities.

 It’s reaffirmed as I live my own life, by seeing my wife’s actions toward our children. I joked this week with my son about the embarrassing portions of food my wife jams into the storage container for his lunch – the effort to do this simple act is animated by love. My daughter received similar attention earlier this week. OK, I admit I get the same treatment.

This love is evidenced in acts, often small acts, not words, acts whose recompense for the giver is as simple as a little time together with the receiver. I was fortunate to have been the recipient of this love for so long, and have learned much from it, about others and myself.

Happy birthday, Jan

This column dates back a few years. But the woman who inspired it is unchanged, and still surprises me with her kindness and thoughtfulness. Here's to the nicest person in the room - any room.

The Nicest Person in the Room

A couple months ago, my wife Jan celebrated a birthday, and she turned 22. I say 22, because she tells the kids at school when they ask that she’s 21, and who am I to say?

Now, I think it a little puzzling that we will celebrate 42 years together later this year, but she’s pretty smart, and I’m gonna be a gentleman and give her the benefit of the doubt.

And I have been blessed for even a few more years than that by a partnership with a woman that, while it’s sealed by marriage vows, is a bargain I would freely choose again, and again -- and again.

Why? Because no matter where I go, and with whom I associate, if she’s with me, then I’m with the nicest person in the room.

She’s not perfect. She shares many of the behavior traits with other women that mystify and sometimes frustrate many men, including me: a passion for attractive jewelry, actually enjoying shopping (go figure!), a compulsion to get the house ready for the arrival of the cleaning lady and, of course, Oprah.

But that’s OK. I sure as heck don’t want to be with someone who is too much like me, and these minor liabilities are more than offset by the assets she brings to our partnership, things like a surfeit of common sense, patience with many things, including things mechanical, an ability to be up when I’m down, and, well, a gift for being so nice to other people.

Many years ago, she told me that she likes to end a conversation with another person with them feeling better about themselves that when they began the conversation.  

And based on the number of good friends she has, she must be getting it right.  “Good” is the key word here: these are people for whom she would perform big favors, but I suspect that these people would also be prepared to do big favors for her. I've seen the reciprocal nature of her friendships, many going back decades, and it's for real.

There was the co-worker last week who was having a difficult time: her sister had a serious illness that resulted in both of the sister’s feet being amputated, and the co-worker was understandably distraught. She was sent to Jan by their boss, and the two women talked for a while.

Jan carries with her religious medals that have been blessed by two different Popes, and, after trying to console the poor woman, gave her one of each to help lighten the load.

And as the woman left later that day to visit her sister in the hospital, she made a quick stop by Jan’s school room, thanked Jan for her time, confirmed what their boss had said to her earlier that day about Jan’s being a good person to talk with about her sister, and left for the hospital clutching the medals.

This is so different from me. I’m not an unkind person, but I typically don’t make an extraordinary effort to help or to console someone else. It’s so ironic to me that I’m paired with a woman who possesses gobs and gobs of empathy – no doubt God had something in mind. It can’t just be a coincidence.

In a Christmas Eve Mass a few years ago, the pews immediately before Mass began were very crowded. We had arrived an hour before Mass to score some comfortable seats, and to hold some space for others who arrived a little later.

A few minutes before Mass began, there was an older man and his family who appeared briefly in the archway leading to our section. They were looking for a seat or two.

Noticing our section was full, they moved on. But not before my wife arose from her seat to retrieve the man, and to assure him that, if we squeezed together just a little tighter, why, there was plenty of room!

Me, I figured he should have arrived earlier, like me, to get a good seat. Can you say “Bah, humbug?”

I got to watch her the other day run a few computer classes in the elementary school in which she works. Her young students range from Kindergarten through Fifth Grade. She manages the classroom like a drill sergeant if the kids don’t behave – she will not tolerate bad behavior or a lack of effort - but if they behave, she is patient, helpful and kind.

She has “adopted” different kids over the years, befriended them on a personal level sometimes outside of the classroom, and all teachers know the rewards and occasional pitfalls associated with that. But, despite having experienced some of her own difficulties with this, she continues to help when she sees a need.

She spent over $100 a few years ago on winter clothing for a young person, and worked with another teacher to concoct a story that the clothing was the result of an award sponsored by the school. She didn’t want credit for the kind deed; it was enough to do what she felt was the right thing.

If we visit a bookstore, she spends most of her time in the section for children’s books. As we check out, I am usually assured of at least a $50 bill for new books for the classroom. The “Froggy” series of books are among her favorites.

Years ago, we brought one of her young charges to an MSU-UM football game in East Lansing. The kid had so much fun, when we went to leave, he threw himself on the ground and had a tantrum about having to leave. I managed to pull him upright after some scolding from Jan, and we were able to go.

It was pretty shocking, but if you live with the nicest person in the room, you learn to live with all the consequences. I’ve found it’s worth it.

Who is that guy?

Who is that guy?

When you first see him, he’s a forehead and a pair of eyes peeking above a tall yellow rectangular sign. Often, he wears a red cap on his head.

But as you pass the Livonia Lube Center at 35989 Plymouth Road each day, across from the Ford Transmission Plant, there he is – again.

He moves a bit behind the large plastic sign. Ah, he’s standing there promoting the business to passersby, you think.

He seems to be there virtually the entire day. He stands in rain, in snow, in subfreezing temperatures, in winds that on some days reach gusts of 40 MPH, the sometimes-insufferable heat and bright sunlight in July – any and every kind of weather.

It’s the high wind that’s the worst, he says. He struggles to grip the sign as the wind blows. In fall-like weather, he wears four layers of clothing on his upper torso. When it rains, he holds an umbrella with one hand, the sign with the other.

Who is he?

He is Charles Echols, and in what has to be a record for fortitude and dedication to a tough assignment, he has done this now for well over three years.

Echols, 49, works holding that sign six days each week, Monday – Saturday, from 8 a.m. until 6:30 p.m. each day. He has a cell phone, he says, but he can’t afford the monthly fee, and uses the phone to store phone numbers. 

He often rides a bicycle to and from work.

Echols lives with his mother in Detroit, and supports a five-year-old stepson who lives with his own mom, also in Detroit.

The sign he holds is lettering printed on a thin plastic sheet, its structure reinforced by a frame of attached two-by-fours.

Among the physical realities that affect him every day at work, Charles Echols knows that the bottom two-by-four will eventually wear down the toe box of his shoe, normally a boot but today a black athletic shoe. The boots are worn out, he says.

As we talked, he pointed to an area in the upper left of the sign that had recently been hit by a stone hurtled from Plymouth Road. The stone cracked a small portion of the sign, in what had to feel like a reminder of the danger he’s exposed to each day. What if the stone had hit him?

How do people react as they drive by? It runs the gamut, he says. Some drivers wave or honk their horns, greeting him each day. A carful of three youths that passes by will sometimes swear at him, and give him the finger. Once, he says, they threw a cup of coffee at him as they drove by. But he’s not an angry man, you can see. He is quietly philosophical about his job.

Once, before the holidays, a Ford employee from across the road stopped and gave him a turkey and $100. Echols was grateful.

Sometimes, he counts the passing cars to relieve the boredom. It’s hard to do much else, in addition to holding the sign.

Has he achieved the objective – has he improved the oil change and car wash business by increasing sales volume? He thinks so, saying, “It’s picked up a lot.”

Echols’ fortitude in facing southeastern Michigan’s weather each day is noteworthy, perhaps carrying a lesson learned for each of us. In the 42 months since he began, he’s held that sign for 10,000 hours.

He’s remarkably cheerful about it: “This job is treating me all right,” he says, without a moment’s hesitation.

Postscript

This story was first published in a newsletter for Ford’s Automatic Transmission Design organization. After reading it, several employees stepped forward and contributed a few dollars toward something for Charles. It was decided to buy him a top-notch pair of insulated, waterproof boots that would keep his feet warm on bitterly cold days. The boots will be given to him on Thursday, in time for Christmas.