Freedom

Our country is udergoing an extreme makeover. We can't read a paper, listen to a radio or turn on a TV without a reminder that our next president is a black man. He is a black man descendant from a Kenyan - not an American slave - but the symbolism is there for every son or daughter that has learned anything about plantations.

I have always been conflicted about the mechanics of the slave economy. I inherited it from my southern mother. She told me one day that "the war between the states ruined the southern way of life". This perspective seemed to influence her tolerance of people on the subway in New York.

My family was a blend of poor farmers from the south and Irish-German immigrants from the north. Each summer, I was bussed down to Norfolk from New York's Port Authority to visit my grandparents. It was a confusing trek filled with tastes and experiences so foreign I had a hard time recounting them to my playmates on Long Island was impossible. The trip was always a blend of oddities: vacation bible school, collards and okra, 'Sis Laura, High's ice cream and the long drive, further south to Creswell, to visit "Grandaddy".

This is house in Creswell, North Caroline where my great-grandfather lived and died. I remember handing him a banana in the dark surrounded by women in waiting for his passing.

Frank and I found the house this year and we toured a close-by plantation the same day. Slaves were an investment our guide said. He showed us the ledger where a blacksmith was worth $1800.

It could be argued that the plantation owner was an investor in human capital before mechanization but his "investment" was self serving. The investments in people that we need to make today need to serve everyone.

It is a privilege to work for other people and get paid for it. We can do whatever we want with our paycheck. We can do whatever we want with our time.

Brian – my son, graduate student in Portland – summed his impressions of Florida in a gentle way. “I can’t believe how many people come to Florida to stop working.” I don't know if that was a simple observation or a veiled suggestion that I need to keep working.

I am in Florida and I work from our motor home every day. Last Friday, I stepped away from the phone and the computer and drove to Deland to volunteer. I answered the call of Barack Obama to service. I invested four hours of time. I finally figured out I can work to be paid and find time to work to pay back.

That's freedom.

kentucky: whiskey anyone?

It was 4:30 when we pulled into our visitor parking space at Maker’s Mark Distillery. As we opened the door to the visitor check-in, we were face to face with a gentleman that said “Sorry folks. We were just closing up but the gift shop and info center may still be open. It’s over there.”

We walked to the next building, he walked with us and asked where we were from. It’s always a showstopper when we tell them, in a most casual manner, “Alaska”. “Well, folks, my name is Kevin. I am the master distiller here. See the people following us? They are here to film a tv show. Do you know CBS Sunday Morning? Just because you came all the way from Alaska, please join us.” I turned to see Martha Teichner and her producer, Judy. They were at the Distillery to do a segment on food – and booze, obviously – that will air on the Sunday before Thanksgiving.

We introduced ourselves. I confirmed our stature as true fans by mentioning Charles Kerault and the fact that Frank gave me a present of his autobiography years ago. Then to add syrup to the mix, I complimented her scarves. Now, that was a conversation starter and a showstopper. She told me she hated to be cold and she wanted to know our story.

Time for showstopper #3: Motor home. We talked for a bit about our road trip. Martha said without showing a sign of emotion - well, maybe there was that twitch of confusion we often note when we mention "motor home" to people we meet on the road - that she thought "that kind of travel would be a great thing to do for 2 or 3 years." I smiled but didn’t tell her that I am not so sure. Two or three years is a short time on the planet but a long time in a motor home.

I wonder where she spent the night.

notes from the Journey

There are many stories from our trip. Here is one from July.

There needs to be a book enclosed in every motor home that’s titled “How to Stow your Belongings So You Won’t Get Killed by a Projectile.” Just like a boat on the water, motor homes jostle on the road. Every dip and wobble sends something flying unless you have put it away or tied it down to something. Our motor home is deceiving, however, because it neither looks nor feels like a vehicle. It feels like a small apartment and just as you would in an apartment, we put things away. We don’t “stow.” Big mistake.

The Alaska Canada Highway (the Alcan) is a waving ripple of a roadway. Frost heaves and the perpetual freezing and contraction of the tundra cause the road to peak and bow in a continuous wave. We were celebrating our seatbelts, when there was a crash in the back of the bus. Over my shoulder I saw milk spilled and splashed, on the floor and up the walls.

It was then we figured out we needed to secure the refrigerator door before the first bounce of the road or there was going to be trouble. We needed the “double click”. Without the double click sound of the refrigerator door lock, your food isn’t safe and neither are you.

After several days of mopping salsa, wiping cat food from tipped bowls, and repositioning the cat litter box so it didn’t…well you can imagine…. I am good at securing doors and drawers and stowing coffee pots and sharp knives. God bless bungee chords.

the last great road trip

July 15th was a big day. It was the first night I slept in my new house on wheels...at the bottom of my driveway. We were exhausted from cleaning and emptying our Anchorage home.

We sold our house in Alaska two weeks earlier which was the same Friday I was hosting a VIP Leaders' Retreat. Hanging out with good friends, ambitious friends, was a great finish to our two year stay in Anchorage. Then, we were outahere, gonzo, see ya later alligator. We bought a 34' Holiday Rambler Motor Home, sold most of what we had, shipped family photos and four pieces of furniture to a storage shed in Red Granite, Wisconsin and said goodbye.

It rained and snowed our way out of Alaska into the Yukon. With a smile on my face, we headed back to the lower forty eight.

customer service cruising style

When did I become old enough to think that sitting on a boat with 2000 people might be fun?

Each year in March - not coincidentally the same month we married - Frank and I head out for a vacation. The range has been from Snowbird to Santa Fe, from Quebec to the BVI. This year, Carnival came calling, luring me from Anchorage to Mexico.

I was cold the entire time. Prepared for sultry temps, I packed only sandals with shorts, t-shirts and some travel knits that qualified for formal dining room attire. I yearned for my jeans and long sleeved shirts until the right turn into the gift shop for a fifty buck sweatshirt emblazoned - in silver - with Carnival on my back.

But it wasn't the weather that really bothered me. In fact, us northern folks turn rather crispy in the sun. It's just that you feel so damned old covered up in your beach towel surrounded by spring-break-bikinis. Ahhh...youth.

Let's face it. I am a cruising neophyte. (Who knew there was a cocktail party for seasoned cruisers? The people we ate dinner with could discuss not only destinations but the differences in the ships they had cruised on...) There was the "Disneyland Factor." I wandered about the ship looking for something to dislike with eyes agape and couldn't find it. (Well, maybe the photographers trying to snap a memory for Frank and I to put over our mantel got annoying but only because I have never seen a good picture of myself.)

I know all this sounds like complaining, but the truth is I loved my big ship cruise. I loved the clean - I mean super-clean - sheets and fluffy comforter. I loved chocolates on my pillow, the towels shaped into cute animals each night, and the continuous offering of food from every country. (Even with the upper decks calling, what's not to like about free 24 hour room service?) I loved seeing Cabo and shopping in Ensanada. I loved unlimited ice cream cones in the casual dining room. More than anything, I loved the smiling service. Everywhere.

So no point here except an easy one. I am a sucker for a friendly smiling face reassuring me that there is nothing to do except relax. Once I moved passed the stress of being cared for, even in a very pedestrian Carnival cruise ship kind of way, I was fine. So let's toast the masters of customer service everywhere - and make sure there is an umbrella in the drink when we do!

It's not about the coffee

I was talking to Dr. Bob yesterday and he reminded me of the Starbucks anthem titled "It's Not About the Coffee." The small book (a quick read) got buried in my library so I pulled it out again. I was delighted that the theme of the book echoes the VIP mantra "Build people. Build profit."

We need to be optimistic to realize our vision in challenging economic times. The Starbucks story is a tumultuous one. In spite of the "we the people of Starbucks" declaration of team dedication, their stock has declined this year. Critics love to comment on overpricing, long lines and dirty tables. You can find any variety of coffee drinks at your 7-11 and MacDonald's now. But let's face it...when you have to have a Starbucks, you have to have a Starbucks. You've grown accustomed to the tatooed cashier and your vanilla macchiato.

The company knows they have a great product. They have great store placement - even in China. So what gives? Where are the profits?

They seem to think it's with their team on the front lines. Starbucks made big news a few weeks ago when they closed their stores for training. Now, it's too soon to tell if this will result in a profit turnaround, but it makes a great story and if the tactic succeeds, it will change investor thinking in a big way.

It's a noble act to invest in people. Whatever happens, I know that everyone of their employees is more focused on the bottom line. I wager that team happiness will ultimately mean more to the company than even a price increase could. We'll see.

blast from the past

I got an email last week from a Durango friend that the old New York Bakery exploded. The demise of the 200 year old building was due to a fire two doors down. The pictures on the net were of the bricks from the roofline strewn on the street below.


I used to own the old building and the business it housed. We brought the croissant to southwest Colorado. Albeit a questionable claim to fame, the spirit of the business was to bring new things to a historic small town with tourist traffic that defined it. Every summer, out of towners flocked to the Durango Silverton Narrow Gauge railroad. Excited in the morning and weary in the evening, they wandered Main Street and, when we were lucky, they found our restaurant.

When I got the news, a flood of memories came upon me. So many that I couldn't finish this post. Places are really about people. Enjoy the story of our stop along the journey (read more above) that proves the point:

One night in Anchorage, a few months ago spurred by an email from my friend in Durango, we had fun looking for friends from our ski area days. Turns out, there was an obscure discussion forum post that mentioned John Briner, Skagway, AK. John ran the ski school when we worked at the ski area. We had more fun and drank more beers together than anyone should be allowed. He was there the night we rode the canoe in the powder on Chipmunk Hill and forever tweaked the bow. (Another story, another time.)

The night before we got on the ferry in Haines, we called information and found that, yes, there was a John Briner in Skagway and yes, he was the same one that worked at Purgatory.

We met John in the Red Onion, a bar on corner across from the train station. He walked into the bar looking around smiling so that his eyes squinted just as they always did. His six foot something skinny frame leaned over to hug and shake hands. His lady, Karen, was there to witness our first-time-in-twenty-years reunion. We found a table, ordered the beers and began two days of “whatever happened to” stories.

Like I said, the places we've been are only as memorable as the people we meet.