Staying Canadian

Recently – through facebook of all places – I have had the wonderful experience of reconnecting with a lot of my old high school friends.

And they tell me that they have enjoyed very much my stories of being a teenager in Lawrenceville, Georgia, and my adventure of moving back to the Great White North.

But – as they are Americans – and proud to be so – they often ask me why I stayed in Canada after school.

America is the land of opportunity you know.

I returned to Canada – as I have said before – simply to go back to school yet again – to get the education – to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. I knew I didn't want to slug it out doing the hard work I did in Louisiana, delivering electrical supplies to all corners of that odd and interesting state, or managing grocery stores – and especially not digging any more damned ditches.

So I returned to Canada, land where I was born but had left when I was three years old. I was a Canadian citizen – but I was not really Canadian.

The personal computer had just arrived, but had not yet made its niche on every office desk like it is today. People were just trying to figure this new version of technology out. And I found that I understood the concepts of the mainframe and mini computers – their roles – how they worked – and how they fit into the schemes of what was then called data processing.

So I studied hard for several years – occasionally slipping back into those youthful desires to have too much fun – which got me in so much trouble in my previous attempts at achieving a higher education.

But my Uncle Fred – a wonderful man who I miss dearly now – and who I can never pay high enough tribute to – had this time instilled a work ethic in me.

"Keep your eyes and ears open – and your big mouth shut!" I was told over and over again.

I still have not learned that lesson.

After the second year of school, I was fortunate enough to land what was called a Co-op" position with Revenue Canada – in their headquarters in Ottawa, right across the street from the Parliament buildings – the very seat of the federal Canadian government. The Canadian version of the American House of Representatives.

On a fairly frequent basis, as part of my duties, I would deliver documents and reports to the Minister of Finance or a Deputy Minister in charge of this and that and what-not.

One of my Mom's cousin's – therefore a cousin of mine I suppose – was a gentlemen who represented the riding of Owen Sound – Mr. Stan Darling.

Cousin Stan had held that seat for a good number of years – as conservative as conservatives can be... in Canada – and was often seen on television standing just behind then Prime Minister Brian Mulroney in Parliament sessions – and as the Prime Minister would speak – cousin Stan - sitting right behind the Honourable Prime Minister - would holler things like "here here" and "that's right" – in unison with his colleagues seated on both sides – pounding their fists on the table, face red and jowls jiggling.

A true back bencher.

"You should go visit your cousin Stan", Ma would tell me from her nice warm Pensacola paradise in Florida. "Just to say hi, and to tell him I said hi too".

So I tried, but he would never see me. Later at a family reunion, Uncle Stan claimed to my Ma that he had no idea I was in Ottawa, let alone trying to stop by to say hi.

Politicians are politicians – no matter what land you live in.

Canada, as you probably should know if you don't already, is a bilingual country. The French Canadians and the English have for years struggled in cooperating with each other. The best government jobs go to those who are bilingual, so mostly the French – who had little option but to learn English – hold the best cival servant positions.

So picture if you will – a young good old boy named Fred, still talking with a thick southern drawl, still driving his favorite little Mazda 626 with Louisiana license plates – still planning on returning to the sunny south of Florida when his degree was earned – totally French illiterate to say the least - working in a French Canadian office environment where French is the predominant language.

I made very few friends.

A beautiful girl in our office named Sylvie – who spoke only French when I was around – despised me. My nickname to her was not a French name I can repeat.

I understand it is a vulgar term .

In a second work term, I actually worked across the Rideau river in Hull Quebec. My luck there was better, but still not one that made me feel … welcome.

So I returned the following Fall to London. School started up and I had a very good school year.

My grades were all A's with the odd B here an there. When that semester was over, I decided to fly down to Pensacola to visit my Mom and Dad for Christmas.

Uncle Fred drove me to the Airport in Detroit. We crossed at the Windsor bridge – and I was pulled into customs for questioning. They examined my bags – and they asked for my identification – proof of citizenship. I pulled out my little green card – the one I had been carrying since I was three.

My picture was still that of a three year old boy.

A heavy set African American lady was the customs officer inspecting me. She watched as I pulled my green card out of my wallet and handed it to her.

"What was that in your wallet?" she asked.

Caught off guard – I held my wallet open. She pointed to my old security card from Revenue Canada – Customs and Excise. She recognized the logo. I pulled it out of my wallet and handed it to her.

"That's my security card from Revenue Canada in Ottawa", I said politely and proudly. "I worked up there on a co-op job for my schooling".

She looked at me, and her face went so sad. She told me that the terms of living in Canada and retaining my American green card meant I was not supposed to work in Canada.

"But … how was I supposed to survive if I couldn't work?" I asked. "This was part of my schooling – I had to take a co-op job for this program – for this degree!"

She actually started to sob, and told me she was so sorry she had to do this – that she wished she didn't.

I simply looked at my watch and knew I had to catch my plane.

In that blink of a moment, as this very sweet lady with a downtown Detroit accent cut up my green card while crying – I made the decision that I was going to stay in Canada after school.

Canada would be my home. I would be a Canadian.

I had already been honorably discharged from the United States Coast Guard for being Canadian. And I never really had any luck making anything work in the States.

So I thanked the lady. "Please don't be upset", I said. "You helped me make a decision I had been wrestling with."

She really was a very nice lady, and she felt much more horrible about this tragedy than I did.

I took my bag and my wallet and I turned to my horrified Uncle Fred who could not believe what had just happened, and we left for the airport.

In the car, Uncle Fred turned to me and said yet again, "how many times have I told you to keep your eyes and ears open and your big mouth shut!".

This time I looked at Uncle Fred and said, "It's all for the best".

America may be the land of opportunity, but it was clear to me that day that America didn't really want me there.

So I am a Canadian. And proud to be so.

A Lunch With Great Friends

Today I am having lunch with old friends.

People I worked on a contract with for seven years.

I was the "new" guy, as the rest had worked on this contract for fourteen years total.

This lunch is occurring because one of the team members moved to British Columbia when the contract ended. He was chasing his dream of living out west. But a family matter brings him back to Windsor for a week.

I received his email last week through facebook.

The very reason I ever started using facebook was so that I could keep in touch with this fellow. For that period we worked together we became very good friends. His wife actually sold us the house we live in today.

So I created a facebook account, and so did he. We agreed to do this during a night on the town in Toronto while both there on business for different reasons. Pat created one to.

So Pat was my very first contact on facebook. But I never ever talked to him on there.

Within the course of a couple of days, my friends list on facebook grew to a huge number of people I have known in all parts of the continent that I have lived. High school friends I had thought about and tried to contact using more primitive means but failed suddenly showed up on facebook.

Poof. Instant contact.

But no Pat.

If you were to look at my friends list, you would see a long list of pictures of smiling faces. All but Pat. His was still the grey silhouette – only his name beside it, with no activity.

As time passed on, and things changed, Pat's profile remained empty. And I was talking to friends from Lawrenceville, Minneapolis, Baton Rouge, London , Toronto, and Ottawa. My list continued to expand with friends from Dublin Ireland and the U.K.

But still no Pat.

Last week – I received an email. It said that Pat had added me as a friend on facebook.

I logged into facebook later that evening. There was a picture of Pat with his lovely wife and two children.

"Who the hell was that other guy?", I wondered.

So I wrote a note to the grey faced silhouette also named Pat.

A reply came back. "Wow, I had no idea I even had this account!". Indeed it was Pat.

In the days of that contract, we had a long standing tradition Fridays to that our team would go out together for lunch. There was a little Irish pub down the road from the office called Murphy's. We would go and sit and have great conversation while having a pint. The food was pretty mediocre, but we didn't really go to Murphy's for the food.

We went for each other's company.

Today we will all meet up again for lunch. But Murphy's is only an empty shell on a street corner. Instead we will meet up at an old roadhouse tavern on the outskirts of town, similar in atmosphere to Murphy's – but not Murphy's.

Pat will be there, and so will the few of us remaining at the company after the contract. And Roseanne will be there as well – who I used to tease by showing her pickle jars – asking her if we could keep her brain full of adjudication rules in there – because we would never learn all that she knew about that process.

And Crazy Roy will be there. I call him Crazy Roy out of respect, because the man is indeed a genious in my book – but slightly past the edge of eccentricity. I learned an awful lot from Crazy Roy, who was famous for his long grey beard and hair pulled back into a pony tail. Truly one of the most unique individuals I have ever met.

It will be good to be there with them all again. To sit and listen to them chat. To hear about what they are working on.

To feel that warmth of lost camaraderie.

A lot of workplace teams have lunch together on Fridays, or they get together for drinks on a chosen night – like paystub Thursdays. These are great experiences that build stronger teams – more committed to each other – more passion developing for what they do together.

But this team was the most passionate team I have ever had the pleasure of being a part of.

Perhaps at lunch I will suggest to those of the team not on facebook to join. And I will explain to them that we could create a group in facebook , and call it Murphy's. And we could find a time when we could all meet inside there and chat – the page decorated like the old Irish pub, maybe even post a picture of the old menu.

And maybe they would come. And chat.

But it wouldn't be the same. Not like sitting there at the old round table – elbows wet from the sweat of the pint glass as we laugh and talk about what's going on.

But it would never be the same.

Social networking has its place. It has its function. But it will never replace the camaraderie of really good friends sitting at a table – having a pint and a bite and the chatter and the laughs.

So today I will cherish this lunch. Because you can never be sure that you can all be together like that again.

Thank You Bill Huseby

I came home from work Thursday, and like most summer evenings, I grabbed my laptop and my radio and settled down to checking out the baseball stats for the evening. And while I do so, I flipped on the radio to listen to my favorite Detroit sports talk host and columnist – Pat Caputo.

Caputo – or "The Book" as he is better known inspired me to start this blog. I read his daily and comment on it almost every time he puts a new post up. And I think we have kind of become buds of sorts. I do know I would love to have a beer with the guy if the opportunity ever presented itself. A link to Pat's blog is on the left column as "Open Book".

Thursday, Brandon Inge – third basemen for my beloved Tigers – was voted on to the roster of the 2009 All Star team. He was voted in by "the final vote" – screwy system where fans can vote online as many times as they want for the player they want to get in. I had spent the last four evenings at home – tied to the laptop – plugging in votes for Inge. I must have voted a kajillion times.

I figure Inge owes me big time.

So I was happy for Inge. He is one of my favorite players – if not my favorite player – on the Tigers.

And I am not alone. Even though Inge career average is .238, he is a spectacular third baseman. But This year – Inge is hitting in the .280s.

Now this drives The Book nuts. He sees Inge as a mediocre player that fans like me put on a pedestal for no reason. Last year, when the Tigers pitching was so awful, he sarcastically said "hey .. maybe Inge can pitch, and son-of-gun his phone lines lit up with callers thinking the Third basemen who was then catching – could also pitch.

So on this great evening, The Book had started his show congratulating Inge – but before he took a breath he went on to say that by the end of the season, Inges average would be down to .242. I took exception to the back handed compliment and typed a text message in and sent it to the show – basically saying that it wasn't right to degrade a Tiger on the night he gets voted to the all star team.

Then, as I sat to listen to the radio to see if The Book would respond to my text – I checked my email.

That's when I read the email from Robb Irby – Bill Huseby had passed away after a battle with cancer.

Bill had lived two doors over from us when I was a kid living in Lawrenceville, Georgia. His name is kind of sprinkled through various posts on Head Stuffing when I remember my teen age years living on Plantation Court.

In my book, Bill was one of the coolest guys I ever knew. Sorry to use the word cool, but it meant something when I was a kid. And I valued Bill's opinion very much.

I jumped over to Facebook on my laptop – to see what my old Berkmar high school friends from the Class of 1980 were saying. Bruce Thompson had a post stating that we should appreciate our time while we were here, and Tommy Wester posted another tribute to Bill, announcing his passing and honoring him. And the list of classmates adding to the tribute were growing.

I wanted to post something to, but I had only known Bill for the five years we lived in Georgia. The last time I saw anybody there was 1980.

Then I heard the Book on the radio behind me

".. and I have a text message from Fred Brill in Windsor … "he started .. The Books temper starting to flare .. and he read my text in a sarcastically loud way ..

But I was thinking about Bill.

"Fred … Fred! C'mon now Fred ….", finished The Book, and he went to commercial. My favorite sports writer had just yelled at me so the whole town of Detroit could hear. But I didn't care. "Bill wouldn't have cared", I thought. "Bill would have thought it was funny", and I started to laugh to myself as I pictured the Bill I remembered from my youth.

So I started to write my comment into Tommy's tribute for Bill. I don't remember what I wrote – but I remember it was from the heart. I remember stating that Bill and the rest of the guys from the neighborhood were a part of me and were a big part of who I am today.

They are.

And then I sat back and remembered Bill.

I remembered playing football in Bill's back yard shortly after moving to Georgia from Minnesota and trying to fit in. And Bill and the guys welcomed me easily. And how much I appreciated that.

Bill was a leader in that group. And some of the Leadership traits that I have today I adopted from Bill, like how to diffuse a bad situation with humor. And how not to be scared of anybody – even another kids Mom or Dad.

Bill stood up for himself.

I remembered Bill on his Yamaha motorcycle – riding through the woods across the street. Popping wheelies – making jumps – and making it all look easy. And I remembered seeing a picture on Classmates.com Bill had posted of him and his son riding – Bill in what looked like the same riding suit – and you knew it was Bill because it was that same posture – the same silhouette of the guy. That was Bill alright.

I remembered playing pick up basketball in the Livesay's driveway. Bill was the first of us to get a summer and after school job at a car dealership on Peachtree Boulevard.

The other guys in that group were Robby Irby, Mike and Ronnie Lafever, Ken and Chris Stillwell, and John Bartles. The girls in the neighborhood were very pretty – very nice,and just as important and close in our group. Girls like Donna and Debbie Rice, Debbie Smith, Tracy Tomblin, Amy Livesay and Shelly Guyton.

I remembered one day my Dad took a whole bunch of us to a ball diamond he found buried way back in isolated spot – and he got us playing ball. Each of these guys played little league – and some on the high school team. My Dad could always find something to teach a kid about baseball – but when Bill went to the plate – Dad just sat and watched – Bill didn't need any help. He had it right,

When I left to go to University, I fell into another real good bunch of guys. And I fit in really well with those guys. But only because Bill and the guys from Plantation Woods taught me how to be a guy.

Later on that night I sent a twitter message to the Book – in an attempt to make peace with him – about a quote from the movie Bull Durham about the difference between hitting .250 and .300. I thought it an appropriate and humorous attempt to explain Inge's batting average:

"You know what the difference is between hitting .250 and hitting .300? I got it figured out."

"Twenty-five hits a year in 500 at bats is 50 points. Okay? There's six months in a season, that's about twenty five weeks--you get one extra flare a week--just one--a gork, a ground ball with eyes, a dying quail-- just one more dying quail a week and you're in Yankee Stadium!"

The Book tweeted me back to let me know he read my text on the air – and that he agreed the quote was appropriate. I knew it was ok because he used "LMBFAO" in the tweet.

And maybe it's appropriate in life too.

Because being friends with Bill Huseby and the guys from Plantation Woods was a lucky break for me – a break that changed me.

My groundball with eyes.

Twenty nine years later – I still remember that break. And I still appreciate Bill's and the rest of the guys generosity to let me be one of them – even if only for five years.

Rest in peace Bill. And thank you.

Now Yer Messin With A …

Amazing how music finds memories in the very back recesses of your brain.

It happened to me just today.

I left the office today and marched across the parking lot to my little Sebring. It was a beautiful afternoon of full sun, so I rolled down all the windows and opened the moon roof all the way for that convertible effect.

Detroit has a great radio station, 94.7 that plays classic rock just like the play list that my favorite station in Atlanta, 96 Rock, used to play when I was a teenager in Lawrenceville, Georgia.

It was one of the best things about moving to Windsor from London. A 94.7 made me feel like a kid back in Atlanta again. To me, it's a great radio station.

As I pulled on to the expressway, an old song came on that brought back memories like only music can do.

Even songs you don't like, but still remember, will bring back great memories.

This was an old song by a band called Nazareth. In all it's crudity. The song is called "Sum ub ah Bich" (or something that might sound like that anyway…).

So at the now graying age of forty six, I turned it up real loud, put on my sunglasses and reclined the seat of the car back a bit.

"Now yer messin' with a … son of a …"

And my mind went back to when my family first moved to Georgia in 1975.

At that time we were living in Apple Valley Minnesota. South of Saint Paul – Minneapolis – just outside another small town called Rosemount.

Minnesota was – at least to me as a boy of twelve or thirteen – a very sterile and clean environment. Everyplace was well groomed. Gardens and the greenest of grass. And the people in Minnesota were very … well .. I guess "proper" is the best term that comes to mind. Boring – but sterile and proper.

My Dad received notice in the summer of 1974 that he could choose the transfer of his choice to become a regional manager for 3M company's business products division. The choices were San Diego California, and Atlanta Georgia.

Dad chose Atlanta.

Mom and Dad took a trip together to go look for our new house. And they found one in a little town I have written here about before, Lawrenceville. It was a nice subdivision, with a community co-op style club around the corner called Plantation Swim and Racket Club – or PSRC for short.

When we arrived, the culture shock was immense.

We were Canadians living in the United States as green-card-carrying landed immigrants. And in Michigan, where we lived when I was a little boy in elementary school, and then Minnesota, where we lived when I was in middle school (grades seven and eight), we fit right in. Minnesotans could easily be confused for Canadians – at least I think so.

But Georgia – well that's a whole different bowl of peach cobbler. A completely new slice of pecan pie.

The food was different. The attitudes were different. The rules were a lot more relaxed. And well, the pattern of speech was different.

I remember sitting in my very first class in the eighth grade – a trailer – a busted down trailer – with graffiti on the desks and walls – dirty and smelly – waiting amongst this strange trailer full of southern kids – all talking like a completely different language. It was English – but damned if I knew what they were saying.

"That thar's the new kid, I dun wonder where he come from?" said a pretty little girl a couple of seats ahead of me.

"Don't know, but he's kind-a funny lookin."

I guess I was pretty funny looking to them. I had a short haircut my Mom would approve of, I was short, and pudgy. I was also very pale in comparison to southerners. I was just new from Minnesota – and Minnesota wasn't really a sun tanning paradise.

"Hey kid, where y'all from?"

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" I replied.

I thought I had landed in Mayberry. I thought "all these kids couldn't really talk this way, could they?"

In came the teacher. Mrs Blylock.

"Thank God", I thought. "She'll tell these kids to stop faking their Gomer Pyle accents."

"Mornin' y'all", said Mrs. Blylock. "How was y'alls summer?"

"Oh my God", I thought, "This is real. Holy cow these people really are serious".

Every single syllable word was spread out to become two or three syllables. The pitch of their voices went up and down in a sing song manner as they practically sang their words. I wish I could write music to express it to you more effectively.

But as time went on, I adapted.

I learned that y'all meant you. And all y'all meant everyone present. I learned that yonder meant someplace over there – or thar . And dun (done) didn't mean something you completed, but just simply added action to the sentence. You didn't just do something. You dun did it.

Then I was assimilated.

And that year of eighth grade at Lilburn Middle School went along quite nice. There were big kids in my class that I looked up to, like Kirk Ewing and Damon Huston. On our street it was Bill Huseby and Mike Lefevbre. The cool guys. The big guys. The guys who weren't scared to fight. Not bully's. They were all pretty damned good guys.

After eighth grade was over, and summer was kicking in, I started playing baseball in Lawrenceville's little league and swimming for the local club PSRC. I was pretty good at both. And I also hit a growth spurt. I grew somewhere between six inches and a foot in a single month.

And now I was as big as the guys I looked up to.

And I learned what confidence felt like.

But now to get back to the point about a song bringing back memories … It was the first day of high school at Berkmar High. Waiting for the bus with my now neighborhood buddies. And the bus pulled up to let us on.

As I got on the bus, an old dilapidated version of a bus with those big green seats with the springs shot out and rips bandaged up with silver duct tape, there was something weird. The driver was a hippy looking girl probably in her early twenties. And she had … an eight track tape player … in the bus? And it was playing Rock music. Pretty heavy music.

And as I sat down in my seat, the music blared …

"Now yer messin with a … son of a …."

"So this is high school.." I thought as I sat with my buddies. "This is pretty cool".

And when I got to school, my new found height, my athletic build, and the muscles in my arms – not to mention my deep tan, was noticed. The guys I used to look up to came up to me to say "hey" – southern for hi.

And I said "hey, how y'all doin?"

And I was converted.

And on the way home from school, the hippy chick bus driver was playing her eight track tape again. And I remember thinking to myself as I sat next to a pretty neighborhood girl …

"Now yer messin with a son of a …"

Summertime Jealousy

I am jealous.

It's clearly summer now. Both the weather and calendar agree. The days are hot and steamy. Thunderstorms could erupt at almost any minute. The grass is growing so fast it needs to be cut every three days. The cool waters of our pool are warming to temperatures in the eighties.

Yet my golf clubs sit idle in the storage room downstairs. My knee isn't ready yet.

So I am jealous of those who are playing twice or more a week. I hear them talking daily at work about their game. Their problems with slices and hooks. Their short games bailing them out or failing them. Their putting success and woes.

And I wish I had their problems.

The Tiger's are playing well now (knocking on wood as I type this). They are a game below the even mark of .500 after being as poor as twelve games below that mark. I sit on the back yard deck on the evenings they play and the weekend afternoon games. I root for every pitch. I have some friends who have season tickets – and others who have bought the baseball package for their satellite or cable T.V. at home. I couldn't justify the thousand dollars for the season tickets or the couple hundred for the TV package.

I prefer to listen to a ballgame on the radio, but still, I am jealous.

When I was a kid, I loved summer more than any holiday. More than my birthday. I would live with my friends down at the community pool at Plantation Swim and Racket club. The club is still there. I checked it out on Google Earth. And then I walked the neighborhood in Lawrenceville, Georgia. It looks exactly the same. Thirty years have not changed the physical appearance of the place at all. They did add two tennis courts though.

Now my kids have a pool and playground in their backyard and I wonder if I did them any real favor by buying this house with that stuff. But we do love to hang out in the back yard playing in the nice weather.

But on Mondays, as I head back into the office, I am jealous.

I know that jealousy is an immature thought. And I am not a person generally jealous of material objects – except perhaps the huge LCD HD Television my in-laws have. But I do cherish my personal time. And there is not much of it I can claim with work, physiotherapy, and events my daughters partake in. So when it comes to the free time I had like when we were kids in the summer, I get jealous.

This is a condition that I have learned to control. But not a condition I have learned to conquer. I know there are people who have conquered jealousy though.

And of those who have conquered jealousy, I am jealous.

Absolutely Right

When I was a boy, growing up in the southeastern state of Georgia, my Dad would continually pound into the heads of my brother Paul and I the means to achieve a positive outlook on life, and demonstrate to us again and again the kind of doors such an outlook would open for us.

At that time we lived a suburban town of Atlanta called Lawrenceville. It was there that Paul and I grew into teenagers. It was there that we became athletes. Not only did we love sports, but we were very good.

Okay, I know, that sounds egotistical. And I apologize. But this is how we saw ourselves. This is how our Dad taught us to see ourselves. We believed wholly in our hearts that we were and therefore that is what we became.

It started with baseball. And baseball started before we moved to Georgia. As long as I can remember, anytime we came across a ball diamond, we pulled the family car over, got the equipment bag out of the trunk, and held infield, batting, and pitching practice.

We did this for fun. This was our family’s way of having fun together. I still remember slamming long drives and flies out to center and right fields and watching mom get on her horse to get under the ball to make the catches. She would throw the ball back into Paul who was on the mound pitching, and Dad catching behind the plate.

God those days were great.

Dad would pound balls at me at short stop – making me trust me myself that charging the hardest hid grounder was the best way to pick up the ball. Charging hard in, picking up the ball on the short hop, and wheel it to first.

We were both good, we made every all star team, and we knew that we always going to play well. That was what our Dad instilled in us. Confidence in the very skills he taught us.

When Paul started getting good at tennis, Dad used those same principles to instill into Paul that he was good and he could compete with anybody in the State. In the mid-seventies, Atlanta was quite a hotbed for junior tennis, and the competition was fierce. Paul moved his way up the state ladder to reach the top-five. He had the skills, he had confidence in those skills, and he used them to achieve the goals that he set.

Those same principles are still deeply instilled in both my brother and I today.

We both know that there is nothing to hard for us to learn and master. We both know that we can acquire any skill we need to meet any challenge we may face. And we both know that having mastered the skills, the confidence comes naturally.

"So what does this have to do with positive thinking?" You may ask. "Did you get off track again, Fred?"

No, confidence is the core foundation needed to acquire optimism. When you are confident in yourself, in your skills, then you can only be optimistic about the results. You simply know you will succeed.

You will succeed. There is no doubt.

Optimism is the ultimate positive state of thinking.

My Dad had a saying. “If you think you are right, then you are right. You are absolutely right, until you are proven wrong.”

"Huh? You lost me."

Well, let me break it down. If you think you are right about something, and you are a confident person, then you will commit yourself to the decision you believe is right. You will not approach that decision in a wishy-washy manner of “I think this might work”.

That confidence allows that commitment to that decision to be clear in your mind. That clear decision becomes your goal. And you have commitment to your goal. And once you set a goal, you must be absolutely committed. There is no room to waver or second-guess yourself. You are absolutely right, and you must proceed with that commitment to complete that goal.

The part about “until you’re proven wrong” simply means that should your decision be incorrect, meaning your committed to a false goal, you have to understand – identify that you are wrong, accept that you are wrong, and re-align your commitment to your new decision.

To follow this method of thinking will result in ever-deepening confidence in yourself. That ever-growing confidence will inspire greater optimism. That optimism will ultimately conclude in a very positive thinking, self-satisfied person.

The person you want to be.

For all the things that my brother Paul and I have to thank our Dad for, this lesson I believe is the greatest gift I have ever received. While it is difficult – if not impossible – to maintain this state of thinking all the time, it does become easier each time you slip from it to identify that slip, and correct your mental course.

And of this, I am right. I am absolutely right. Until I am proven wrong.

Becky's Big Day

On my desk at work, I have tons of photographs.

These photos are set up in various holders and frames, scattered amongst my various toys like my Don Cherry bobble head, Alannah’s t-ball bobble head, sponge stress balls, globes and even a stuffed Maple Leafs zamboni.

Some would say that such a display suggests I don’t take my job too seriously.

In truth those toys and photographs are there to help me not take my job too seriously. I can be a bit obsessive about what I do. I have to watch it some times.

So I play.

And I look at my favorite old photos.

My screen saver on my PC is full of new photos – pictures taken since digital cameras became the norm, not the novelty.

But I have not yet scanned in my old pictures.

I have some great ones: friends I went to University and College with, my beautiful wife from the days when we met, days when Paul and I were kids in Lawrenceville.

My favorite pictures are of family. And in particular my Brother Paul’s family – since my little family came along with the digital camera.

And in this collection are two very special pictures of a little girl, my niece, Becky Brill.

In one picture she is about two or three years old, and sitting in a chair opposite her dad. They both have their feet up on a coffee table, and because her dad has his foot up on the coffee table, so does Becky. And because Paul is reading a book, so is Becky.

But Becky’s book is upside down.

In the other picture, I am holding Becky as one would commonly carry a four or five year old, on my hip with my right arm supporting her. And she is smiling big. And so am I, which is odd for me in pictures.

When my co-workers see these pictures, they think the younger one is of my daughter Ashley-Rae – because Ashley-Rae looks just Beck did then. The older Becky they think is Alannah – as Alannah looks like Becky at that age.

These Brill girls are all pretty.

Becky and her younger brother Ben were both raised mostly in Mexico, while Paul and Leigh were down there as part of various projects. Construction projects if you will. They returned to the American Gulf coast – resuming life in Baker, Louisiana – just north of Baton Rouge.

I have had such little chance to spend time with Becky and Ben when they were in Mexico. But those times I did were very special.

As you can see in these pictures, Becky has grown into a fine young lady.

And I hope both of my girls grow to become even half the young lady that Becky has become.

Today is Becky’s birthday. She is now eighteen. Look out world!!

Happy Birthday Becky. I am very proud of you.

The Summers in Lawrenceville Georgia

What a beautiful day it is today.

It is the first day of September, but you would not know it by stepping out on our back deck.

The sky is pure blue. The sun is working its way across the morning sky. Soon it will be above the pool and we can go swimming.

But September is here.

On Tuesday, Alannah will start first grade at her new school. On Wednesday, Ashley-Rae will start Senior Kindergarten.

Both are anxious. Both are excited and apprehensive. Both are absolutely normal.

I remember being a kid, and the last few days of summer were left to those last three days that made up the Labor Day weekend. The fact that it was a three day weekend meant nothing to me as I had just had nearly 3 months off for summer holidays. And I counted down the minutes – those precious final minutes – until school would once again commence.

I didn’t hate school. I just really loved summer.

Baseball, swimming, and gathering up the friends in the neighborhood for pick up games of basketball, football, and baseball.

I really loved summer best when we lived in Georgia. We lived in a suburb of Atlanta between two rural towns of Lilburn and Lawrenceville. Around the corner and down the hill was our community club – Plantation Swim and Racquet club. It had a great pool, and two tennis courts. We would hang out at that pool all day with all our buds in the neighborhood. My brother Paul learned to play tennis there and rose to the top five in the state – on those very courts.

Back then, my best friends were Robby Irby, Steve Stillwell and his brother Ken. John Bartles and the LaFlevbre brothers lived further down on one side. And further down the other side of our house lived Bill Huseby, Stuart Franklin, and Mark Lane.

Directly across from our house was the Tomblins. And next door to them were the Livesays.

On the street behind us – behind my house – lived Donna Rice. A year younger than me – she was the first girl I ever had a crush on.

All the friends we had then seemed to be athletes. Very good athletes. At one time, we had four starting players for our high school basketball team in our neighborhood. And the pick up basketball games were really great.

These are the guys I drank my first beer with. And yes – smoked my first cigarette with – but it didn’t stick back then. It stunk actually. I didn’t start smoking until University.

One of the Livesay’s was Ken. He wound up going to Auburn on a football scholarship in my senior year of high school. He was a legend at our school. And I wish I knew how he made out at Clemson.

Even though Ken never hung out in our little circle of friends, we all looked up to him. His little sister Amy was in our circle of friends. And she was – and most likely still is – one of the nicest human beings you could meet.

Summer was pretty sacred to me. It is funny now to realize those most special summers there with those friends only counted up to five. It seemed like so many more.

I often wonder what happened to some of my friends. Some I have seen on our high school alumni website. Bill Huseby runs a car dealership, Tracey Tomblin has married and raised a nice family. Donna Rice married some very lucky fellow and they own a restaurant somewhere around the Greater Atlanta Area. John Bartles works for one of the school boards in the area.

But I have seen no sign of Robby Irby. And Robby was my best friend of those days.

Last year I downloaded the Google Earth program. I spent many winter weekend mornings using Google Earth to find the homes of all the people that we know and love. If you click on the Satellite view, it actually shows you the satellite photographs from as low as about 500 feet.

View Larger Map

When I found my old neighborhood in Lawrenceville, I zoomed in real close – and I went visiting. I first found our house on Plantation Court. I went around the corner and down the hill to the club. They had added two more tennis courts – and after thirty years – the swimming pool was still there. Nothing had changed – except there were two more tennis courts. I went back up the street and visited the Bartles', the Stillwell's, the Irby’s, and over to the Tomblin's and the Huseby's. Up to the Lanes’s and the Franklin's.

All the while I was looking for any sign that they might still be there. But there was no such sign. “It was 30 years ago you know” I said to myself. “Do you think they will still be there being 13-16 years old still?”

“Maybe some twilight-zone effect? No … don’t be silly”.

I like to call my daughters over to the computer sometimes. And I take them for a walk through my old neighborhood. I show them the house Paul and I lived in. I walk them down to the club to the pool. And I show them all the great driveways where we played basketball, and the backyards we played football in.

And I tell them all about my friends. And they sit in listen. I can see them imagining us playing in those yards. And I tell them some of our funny stories – but only those that you can tell five and six year old girls.

“Do you miss your friends, Daddy?” asked Alannah.

“Yes, I guess I do honey”.

“Why don’t you call them?” asked Ashley-Rae.

I guess we out grew each other I thought to myself without answering. But I sure did love those guys back then.

I think I’ll load up Google Earth and take another walk through the old neighborhood.