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.

Four-day lifestyle change shock

   

        As I watch, Owen is standing at the glass door to the backyard of his home, looking out. He’s watching his dog Gretta, but he’s taking everything in – fallen leaves, a black squirrel, an overturned sandbox lid.

       He is dragging a toy tape measure, which I roll up for him, so he can pull it out again. We play the simplest of games, and my 15-month-old grandson is enchanted and entertained. As am I.

       When I’m with him, I remove my wristwatch a dozen times each day and place it on his forearm. He admires it, takes pleasure in it, but it drops to the floor a moment later. Thank goodness my watch is as durable as my cell phone.

       I babysat with my wife Jan for my two grandsons for a few days this week. I was reminded of why I love my boys so much, even as I faced radical change in my lifestyle during this time.

I drove a high-tech large SUV with a backup camera, a blind spot warning system, navigation. The fuel tank filler door was on the wrong side. It seated seven passengers.

I moved among the swells along Woodward Avenue in Birmingham and Bloomfield Hills, pumping gas, buying coffee, groceries, dropping my oldest grandson Noah at preschool.

Some of the men wore suits and ties, en route to their job; many of the women on their way to work looked like Connie Britton. Speaking of Britton, I got a chance to re-connect with the first few episodes of “Friday Night Lights,” to this day one of my favorite TV shows.

The homes were grand, some majestic – several thousand square feet. They were nestled gently into wooded areas.

The cars they drove were predominantly European or high-end Japanese. I saw Porsche, Mercedes and Fiat dealerships lined up on Woodward.

On our way home from school on our last day with the boys, Jan worked with Noah on store signs with the letter “N” in them. As I drove south on Wo0odward, it was amusing to hear Noah shout as he recognized the first letter of his first name in large signs on storefronts. Jan is a teacher through and through.

But for as much as he enjoys games of learning, he is head-over–heels for animated superheroes. We bought him a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles outfit complete with mask, bandanna, turtle shell and sword.

Jan warned me not to take the sword to preschool, familiar with the schools’ widespread rules regarding even toy weapons. But as we arrived at the school parking lot, sans Amma, Noah begged to bring it to school and I thought, there’s no harm in asking, right?

To my surprise, his teachers said yes, and he was allowed to bring it into school. He brought it the next day as well, but one of the teachers said that they had had a request to not bring the sword to school anymore. We stopped, although he continued to bring the rest of the outfit.

The increase in responsibility with young children for several consecutive days was a bit enervating. With no dependents at home any longer, we’re not used to it. Jan said she was on full alert every moment she was there.

I’m a punctual person, but I’ve become accustomed to arriving at work between 8 a.m. and 9 a.m. If I’m running a little behind, it’s OK except for meetings and assignments with a short fuse.

But with Noah at preschool, he had to be dropped and picked up at a certain time. And I was dependent on Noah and Jan to get him ready – backpack, warm clothing, cap, TMNT garb, and water bottle. Technically, I wasn’t late, but I like to be a few minutes early in arriving.

It’s good to be home – I know where things are – and it’s easier to relax. But I miss the smiles, the laughter, the goofiness we share with them. In another day or so, I’ll be missing them again.

Under the gun

On Monday, I covered the Van Buren Township Work Study meeting. The agenda was packed with interesting stuff, and it ran for almost three hours. The exchanges among township officials and over 20 people in the audience were civil and constructive. It was, as they say, a good meeting, despite its length.

But I noticed a recurring theme, one to which we're all subject, including our elected representatives: dealing with important issues when you're running out of time.

Included were the following:

• A contract with Romulus Animal Shelter - at a $200 savings per month, this was a good deal, and it was said that we'd better act quickly, lest another community replace us as their customer. But, at other points during the meeting, I heard that the shelter would easily be able to expand.
• A couple of outdoor projects, including completing a bike path in Van Buren Park, and an expansion of Bethany Bible Church; gotta launch these this year, it was said, before the weather turns.
• Avoid losing $49,000 of a federal government grant that expires at the end of the year. Purpose is to upgrade Beck Road ballfields, but officials decided to wait until after a lease agreement between the township and EQ, which owns the ballfields, was agreed.
• Two incomplete subdivisions, including Country Walk Phases Three and Four at Martinsville and savage Roads, and the Victoria Park subdivision at Ecorse and Morton Taylor Roads. Representatives of SR Jacobson had proposed acquiring the land to build out the subs, but township officials weren't satisfied with all the terms of the deal. They decided to do further research, negotiate further with the potential buyer, and to return to subsequent board meetings this year to reach a decision.

Comfort Zones and Learning Curves

                When you’re introduced to something new, you can welcome it, resist, turn away, manage some sort of response, worry over it; but you will respond in some manner.

                The nature of your response is affected by your comfort zone. That zone governs how you react to changes in your life. And after you first respond, you climb aboard a learning curve, in which you hope to improve your response with each additional attempt. 

                Example: My wife Jan and I joined a gym about a month ago. It has a delightful large area for all sorts of water activities for young and old, including a lazy river. This is where you often find the older folk early in the morning, before the sun rises.

There is a large window to the east where you may witness the sun rise, and arriving and departing flights from Metro Airport. The image of a lone plane against a slowly-emerging natural backdrop is something that gets to me each morning I visit. I want to show it to my grandson Noah, who is a big fan of airplanes.

                Jan and I have joined the folk in the lazy river – we have to leave the gym by 7:30 a.m. to get to work on time, but I think many of our new friends are retired – we’re still getting to know them. I was talking in the locker room the other day with a retired gentleman who was 82.

Ultimately, I’d like to begin swimming laps in the separate lap pool, but never having swum competitively and being out of shape, I would be leaving my comfort zone. So I’ve approached it slowly. I’ve watched others in the lap pool, and jumped in myself last week to swim a lap.

I swam poorly. My breathing as I swim is more a sideways gasp for air, and I begin to build an oxygen deficit. On my first lap, I had to stop swimming after completing two-thirds of it, but I thought: no big deal. I’ll simply stand on the bottom, head above water, catch my breath, and continue swimming.

I was wrong, and was briefly shocked. As I looked down for a place to put my feet and rest my body, I could see for the first time that the bottom of the pool was several feet below me. I collected myself, rose to the surface, and swam the rest of the lap. And, after a brief rest, I added a second lap.

Earlier this week, after my first experience, I left the lazy river, and walked over to the lap pool. I sat down with my towel over my shoulders, and watched a man swimming laps, very comfortably, it seemed.

As I watched I noticed his motion was slow, strong and consistent. He was in no rush.

And, as he swam, he lifted his mouth well above the water’s surface, using a swimming motion that overextended the twist in the torso as you reach for oxygen, permitting him more time to grab a good, relaxed breath, not the desperate gasp I had done.

And, as I went to the locker room, I thought, that’s what I’ll do next time. I had expanded my comfort zone, and had begun a learning curve. I’m interested to see where I go with it.

We face comfort zones and learning curves each day. Where are your comfort zones? What is outside your comfort zone?

Among those activities where you’ve expanded your comfort zone, where are you on the learning curve?