It snowed a bit over a half foot in Cincinnati overnight and this morning.† It has stopped for now; but more snow, along with some sleet or other wintry mix, is expected tonight and tomorrow morning.† The city is essentially shut down with schools, universities and businesses closed for the day.† I am babysitting the warehouse waiting for my landlord’s delivery of chicken and beef while he makes deliveries to his customers.
The neighborhood is quiet today, the warehouse silent but for the roar of the florescent lights.† I can’t help thinking of the first big snow of my working career.† That day was not so quiet.† (Readers uninterested in “walked five miles in the snow each day, both ways uphill” may exit the page now.† You’ve been warned.)
Today also happens to be the 31st anniversary of the Blizzard of 1978.† I was in college and also working for one of the Big 8 accounting firms.† School was out of session for the between-semester break.
The night the blizzard arrived, I had a late racquetball game on the north side of town.† It was raining steadily with temperatures in the low 40s when I arrived at the club.† When I left, the temperature had dropped to just above freezing and it was still raining.† As I drove home on I-75, the rain turned to freezing rain, then sleet and finally snow.† The temperature dropped 10 or so degrees over just a few minutes.† The stuff on the road began to freeze and the winds howled from the west.† One strong gust blew my car across two lanes of the highway.
The radio station to which I had tuned suspended its normal programming to focus on the weather.† I recall the shock in the voice of the newsman who took over for the DJ as he reported unheard of drops in the temperature and barometric pressure.† It was clear we were in for something big.† These were the days before doppler weather radar, sophisticated weather satellites and extensive computer generated weather models.† We simply didn’t get the four or five days of ominous warnings from the television weather geeks to which we have become so accustomed.† By the time I reached Newport, the rain and mixed precipitation had frozen solid and the snow was accumulating atop the ice.† The hill past St. Luke Hospital was littered with cars and trucks stuck at crazy angles to the road.† I managed to zig and zag my way around them without slowing and made it to the top of the hill.† I may have been the last car to navigate that hill; as I reached the top, police cruisers with flashing lights were blocking access to the hill.
When I awoke a few hours later, my father quizzed me on the road conditions.† I reported that they were bad, but not, in my opinion, dangerous or impassable. He decided that we could (and should) go to our respective offices.† And so, we drove together into downtown without incident.† Traffic was not an issue — we didn’t see a single other vehicle.† We were the crazy ones.† The roads were covered with 10 inches or so of new snow overlaying an inch or more of solid ice.
When I arrived at the accounting firm’s office, the phone system night bell was clanging.† For those too young to remember, 1978 straddled some important technology shifts.† We used 10-key adding machines; pocket calculators existed, but were prohibitively expensive.† Electronic word processing was in its infancy; reports were produced using MAG card typewriters.† We had a print shop in the office where reports were printed on an offset press.† We prepared tax returns by filling out large data input sheets that we sent for computer processing to a service in Texas (I believe). And only the most technologically advanced companies had direct inward dial phone systems.† Our firm had a modern (by the standards of the day) switchboard operated by the receptionist.† When the office was closed, she activated a “night line.”† The night line could handle one incoming call at a time; you couldn’t place the call on hold; and even a transferred call blocked the line until the call terminated.† The system could, however, queue calls for that single line.† Oh, and the night bell sounded like the klaxon on a naval vessel.
It took me a minute or two to determine I was the only person in the office.† I answered three calls in succession off the night line, shouting to be heard over the klaxon’s insistent reminder of another call in the queue.† All were from fellow employees calling off.† I knew this wasn’t going to work.† I couldn’t answer calls fast enough using the night line and couldn’t perform my actual work with the night line blaring at me.† I walked to the receptionist’s desk and stared at the console.† I had watched her play her fingers over the keys, buttons and switches; she made it all look so easy.† After all, how hard could it be to operate a switchboard, I thought.
I reached out and flipped the switch marked “Night.”† The klaxon went silent — good.† The console sprang to life, a dozen or more lights indicating incoming calls† — not so good.† I grabbed an operator’s headset, said a little prayer and began pressing buttons.† I disconnected a few callers, but soon got the hang of answering calls.† Most of the initial calls were from staff members either announcing they wouldn’t be in or asking if the office was open.† For the latter, my answering the phone was clue enough; I didn’t sound much like Betty, the receptionist.† I started a legal tablet of the names of those who called off.† One of the callers was the woman who is now my wife, lamenting that she would have carried more work home had she known she would not be able to get out of her driveway.† Some things never change.
The rest of the world was unaware of our weather plight.† Soon I began answering calls involving the real business of the firm.† It was the heart of the audit busy season, and partners and managers from around the world were calling to inquire about, or update the status of, multi-office projects.† I explained our weather situation to people who couldn’t fathom a little snow’s shutting down a city (a partner from Vienna comes immediately to mind) and took messages for the intended recipients to return the calls.† I burned through two pads of pink “While You Were Out” slips.† I was fortunate that I didn’t have to transfer any calls as there was no one else around to take them.† I am sure to this day that task was beyond my ability as an operator.
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Eventually, the phones quieted down, two others (a young partner and the office accountant), out of more than 100 employees, arrived and I got a bit of work done.† Around 2:00 p.m. my father called and suggested that we call it a day.† Because the governors of all three local states had declared the roads closed to all but four wheel drive, public transport and emergency vehicles, we decided to take the bus home.† I packed a large audit bag of work for the evening and (likely) the next day.† We met at the bus terminal, my father also in possession of an enormous briefcase.
We waited only a few moments for a bus of the line that stopped within a block of our home. A bit under half way home, the driver stopped the bus (at 10th and Washington in Newport) and told us to get off the bus.† When we informed him that we were going further, he told us we were at the end of the line for today.† When we said that we would just ride back downtown, he laughed and told us his was the last bus of the day and he was going to the garage (neither closer to home nor downtown).
We were out on the street, each carrying a heavy briefcase in the bitter cold dressed in what is now known as business casual and light winter coats, with nary a hat nor glove between us.† We certainly didn’t want to face a two mile hike through deep snow to a downtown hotel; the walk home was longer and more treacherous.† In those days, there was a little neighborhood grocery/deli on that corner.† The manager agreed to let us use the phone for 50¢ a call (when a pay phone call was a dime).† We gave her $5 against our usage.† The first call was to home to advise of our predicament.† The next calls were to two doctor friends who had recently acquired the latest in physician chic — original Jeeps outfitted with oversize tires, snow plows and winches.† Both were out showing off their new toys to other friends.† We left messages with a family member at each home as well as at the homes of several of the usual suspects they might have been visiting.
I honestly cannot remember how long we waited at that store.† It seemed like hours, but was likely only one or so.† We did have to bribe the manager to stay open a bit longer than she planned.† Eventually, one of the docs showed up and dropped us at our front door.
We decided to stay home the next day, along with all the other sane people.
A storm of the magnitude of the 1978 Blizzard would create nowhere near the chaos — or adventure — today.† This morning, just after 6:00 am, my wife received an email message on her BlackBerry that the company’s office would be closed today (as we were walking out the door, she decided to go in anyway; some things never change).† In addition, the company maintains a dial-in hotline for situations such as this.† Calls to empty offices are automatically routed immediately to voice mail, to be picked up from home or anywhere in the world.† Urgent messages are transmitted by email to BlackBerries and iPhones or by text message.† Who needs a big briefcase when the corporate VPN is but a broadband connection or WiFi hotspot away?† The emergency alteration of the bus schedules would appear prominently on the transit authority’s home page, accessible from office, home or smart phone.† And once stranded, help is but a cell phone call, text message or voice mail message to any of hundreds (or thousands) of stored contacts.
And yet, as much as I would have appreciated a cell phone that afternoon, I wouldn’t trade the experience of that day for one — or anything else for that matter.† Life was simpler, less predictable and infinitely more exciting.
The Christmas party of my father’s family has been held on the Sunday before Christmas Eve for more than sixty years.† The first thirty or so instances were held at my grandparents’ home, and the guests included all the decendants of my paternal grandfather’s parents.† Although I recall bits of earlier parties, my first firm recollection of this party is from either 1964 or 1965.† My father and I made the 90 minute trip and attended alone, my mother having stayed home with my four younger siblings to whom I had given a Christmas gift of chickenpox.
After my grandparents sold the home in which they had raised their ten children, the party rotated for a few years among the homes of uncles living in Louisville, Kentucky.† It was at that time that the guest list was pared to include only my grandparents and their descendants.† I will admit to having missed one or two instances of the party when it was held at these temporary venues.
Twenty-plus years ago, my mother took over hosting this family party.† As my sisters and brother married, had children and moved from place to place, a rule developed, solely by operation of practice — celebrate Christmas in your own home and city, or anywhere else for that matter, but be “home” and attend “The Party” the weekend before.† I don’t recall any of us ever having violated that unspoken rule.† Over the years, the number of attendees from outside my immediate family has dwindled as the membership of my sisters’ families has swelled.
The constant feature of The Party (other than perhaps the menu) is a visit from Santa.† As the event is quite close to Christmas Day, the children have come to understand that The Party is neither the time nor place to present Santa with wish lists.† Rather, by tradition each child performs for Santa by singing a song, reciting a poem or telling a story.† For the past 7 or so years, I have taken on the role of Santa.
The Party was special this year as we welcomed a new generation to the family and to The Party.† Just before Thanksgiving, niece number 2 gave birth to a son; and, of course, baby and his parents made the 100 or so mile drive to attend.† Sister number 1, and grandmother to new baby, presented the newest family member to Santa while the family sang “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” in recognition of the reindeer slippers baby was wearing.
As I held that little child, it occurred to me that one or the other of my sisters with children would likely soon take over The Party.† The guest list will likely be pared yet again.† And something very old will be new again.† Life goes on.
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I received two phone calls this week from people I know not at all; and each call considerably brightened my day.† I have mentioned several times on this blog that the single largest disadvantage of my being the sole employee of Just Cured is the relative lack of meaningful engagement with others.† A principal reason for starting this blog was to give me an outlet for thoughts I want to express and to open a dialogue with consumers and friends.† Even though I don’t post as often as I would like, I am quite happy with the blogging experience.† The direct interaction with consumers by phone this week was a welcome development.
The first call was from an older woman who received a gift basket last week from a business associate.† I had received an email from the gift giver to the effect that this woman might be calling; as a result I was expecting her call.† My caller identified herself, expressed her appreciation for the giver’s thoughtfulness, told me how much she enjoyed the gift.† She then asked a few questions about storage and shelf life of the items in the basket.† It occurred to me then that she was excited about this gift of food that she had not consumed.† We spoke for a few more minutes before I realized she appreciated most the hand written note I had included in the basket introducing Just Cured and thanking the gift giver for having confidence in our products.† Finally, she asked about pricing as she thought she might send a basket or two to some of her friends.† A gift of a product she hadn’t yet tried, I thought?† All because she received it from someone she trusted and because I included a personal note.† Thanks to my mother and grandmother for emphatically impressing on me the importance of those thank you and other notes.† I fought them every step as a child; but I can now assure them that the message stuck.
The second caller was a gentleman from one of Cincinnati’s outlying suburbs.† He clipped the article about Just Cured and me that appeared in the Cincinnati Enquirer
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in early November and had it sitting on his desk for the intervening month.† He and his wife enjoy eating smoked salmon often and are discerning about the quality of the products they consume.† They have perceived a decline in the quality of the product they have been buying for some time.† He provided me with a detailed description of the problems they identified with this competing product and the efforts he has gone to with the producer and retailer to resolve his concerns.† He quizzed me at length on the quality of the fish Just Cured uses, our production techniques, consistency of our product quality, shelf life and product handling.† He concluded that Just Cured’s salmon may satisfy his needs and that he and his wife will visit me soon to sample the product and decide whether to switch their brand allegiance.† I am confident that Just Cured’s smoked salmon is superior to the fish he is buying today and that he will agree.† I suspect Just Cured will win his and his wife’s business and loyalty.† Based on this one call, I am going to hear from this gentleman often.† And I’ll welcome his calls and notes; give me a consumer who is passionate about what he eats and serves his family any time — in fact, give me a few hundred.
One of the better traditions of my former law firm was an office Thanksgiving lunch held on the day before Thanksgiving.† The firm provided the turkey, dressing and ham; and the partners, associates and staff provided side dishes drawn from their family traditions.† My first year with the law firm, I brought an enormous bowl of the chocolate pudding that was a staple on the menu of my friend Richard Perry’s Jefferson Avenue Boarding House in St. Louis.
The pudding was a hit, even if almost everyone called it mousse.† The pudding took on a life of its own; regardless how I tried to substitute another dish, each year I was forced to make the pudding in addition to whatever else I had chosen to cook.† As a result, on this day, I have made that chocolate pudding every year for fifteen years, even in the years when client obligations meant I would not be attending the lunch party.
Over the years, the significance of that meal together waned.† The office grew in size.† Store-bought foods found their way onto the menu.† People opted for a day of vacation rather than joining their colleagues around several dining tables.† At the end, I felt the meal was nothing more than an excuse for those blessed with much already to gorge two days in a row.† And yet, I continued to cook the chocolate pudding as demanded and whip by hand quarts of cream as garnish.
Last night, however, in the moments before sleep overcame me, I thought of that pudding.† Of gifts of food as expressions of thanks for having the means to give.† And I missed making that dead-simple, but oh-so-satisfying dessert.
This morning, I arose a bit early, assembled ingredients, a saucepan and a bowl, and made my annual batch of chocolate pudding.† I thought about giving a few bowlsful to friends; I thought about taking it to my family’s Thanksgiving dinner.
Instead, I took my large batch of pudding and freshly whipped cream to my favorite Over the Rhine haunt, Tucker’s Restaurant.† Joe and Carla Tucker traditionally serve the turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, etc. meal as the special on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and close the restaurant on the holiday.† I have asked Carla to give a small bowl of my pudding to each guest who orders the turkey special, until the pudding runs out.
Today, I share my Thanksgiving chocolate pudding with guests for whom the $7.00 special is a luxury, with those I recognize but do not know for whom the Wednesday special will be Thanksgiving dinner, and with those without family, and in many cases, home for whom that little restaurant on Vine Street is as much home as anyplace and its proprietors as much family as anyone.
I am thankful for many things today.
***
I am certain that my friend Richard Perry won’t mind my publishing the chocolate pudding recipe here.
Richard Perry’s Boarding House Chocolate Pudding
3 1/2 cups sugar
1 1/4 cups cocoa
1/2 teaspoon salt
7 cups milk
1 cup cornstarch
2 1/2 cups milk
1 1/2 tablespoons vanilla extract
In a large pot, whisk together the sugar, cocoa and salt.† Add 7 cups milk and heat to boiling, stirring constantly.
In a medium bowl, whisk together the cornstarch and remaining milk.† Add 1 cup of the hot liquid and thoroughly mix to temper.† Add the cornstarch mixture back to the pot.† Return to a boil stirring constantly; let boil 1 minute.† Remove from heat.
Add vanilla and blend.† Transfer pudding to a container.† Cover surface of pudding with waxed paper to prevent a skin from forming.† Refrigerate until cold.
Serve with a large dollop of freshly whipped cream.
Maybe it is the importance placed on bread in this season’s celebrations of the Christian and Jewish faiths. Maybe it is my more flexible schedule that has put me near a kitchen for large parts of many days. Whatever the reason, I have been thinking about bread a lot lately. I have also been baking a fair amount of it, including my continued tweaking of a recipe for a bread to serve with Just Cured’s smoked salmon.
Because my family and I spent an unusually large amount of time during Easter week telling stories of the long ago past — the times only my parents, sister number 1 and I recall, I have also been thinking about the traditions that bind a family.
Once again (what is it with that column?), an article in yesterday’s New York Times by Alex Witchel brought those two trains of thoughts together. The parallels are too obvious to avoid. We both are recalling our paternal grandmothers. Both grandmothers went by the name Nana. We both recall and desire a now-unavailable food she prepared; her Nana’s kreplach, my Nana’s (you guessed it) bread.
Nana’s bread recipes died with her many years ago. Her youngest daughter tried for many years to duplicate her mother’s efforts and results, carefully observing technique and measuring what Nana added by feel or by eye. About the time Nana and Pop were selling the big house, that daughter took Nana’s bread-making bowl — the only one that provided the correct visual references and feel — to a local potter. She had the potter make ten identical copies of Nana’s bowl. She then distributed the copies to the homes of each of Nana’s ten children “so mother can bake bread when she visits.” Nana did bake when she visited us, but she was never pleased with the results when using the bowl-clones. The copies weren’t her bread bowl.
Saturday was bread baking day at Nana’s house. She may have baked another day during the week as well, I don’t recall; but she baked bread every Saturday without fail. I was not around often for the actual baking. We usually visited on Sunday when I would enjoy the fruits of the prior day’s efforts.
She made the same three breads every week — white, raisin and cinnamon. I recall fondly sitting down to a meal at that very large table in that big old kitchen and being served slices of Nana’s bread freshly cut from the loaf. As there always seemed to be a crowd at that table, I never got quite as much bread as I desired — particularly of the cinnamon bread to which I was most partial.
Nana’s bread was a soft crumbed loaf, enriched with milk and fat. Her bread was nothing like the pain ordinaire or pain au levain that I prefer to bake and eat these days. Nonetheless, Nana’s bread, Nana’s table and the time I spent enjoying them form my earliest memories of her, and I cannot separate them. Whenever I taste a bread similar to hers, I am immediately swept back several decades to her kitchen.
I think tomorrow I will have time to bake a couple of loaves of pain de mie, the closest thing in my repertoire to Nana’s bread. When the loaves are just barely this side of warm, I’ll cut a couple of slices. Then, I will ponder some more on the subjects of bread and family traditions — through the eyes of a youngster.
My lapses in updating this site have nothing to do with inactivity. In fact, I have been engaged beyond any expectations I may have had. Unfortunately, none of my recent activities have had any connection whatsoever to the business of Just Cured. My short term project that morphed into a marathon became a series of marathons — one per day for the past two weeks.
I have spent my time in a series of conference rooms and offices inside a major U.S. law firm. Punctuate those two weeks in conference rooms with a few hours each day in a rather nice hotel room, a thirty minute daily walk on a beach, a handful of airplane flights, two nice meals and one peaceful evening, and you have the totality of my existence for those two weeks. We completed the project yesterday evening. There will be some details to be handled, but the all consuming part of my engagement is complete.
What we were working on was complex; but it should not have been complicated. We had some personalities involved who made the simple complicated and the complex impenetrable. Our work was intellectually stimulating but not much different from hundreds of similar projects I have completed — if only we could move beyond the personality acting as a roadblock. Every day was the same; our own personal version of “Groundhog Day” (thanks to the guy who made that connection for me). We started out by hearing a new (or old or resurrected) issue from our problem child; we spent the rest of the day solving the problem du jour for him; we ended the day convinced that the next would mark the conclusion of our project. Repeat. Innumerable times, ending with 14 in a row.
My family will attest to at least one interpersonal skill that I have no hope of mastering — I cannot suffer a fool. As a result, the last month or so has been most frustrating for me. What little patience I possess has been tested to the point of breaking. Two things kept me from completely losing control over this fortnight. One I was counting one; the other so unexpected that I was moved to write this.
The first was a trusted colleague, my counterpart for much of this project. We first met on this project but quickly developed a comfortable relationship. I cannot determine which of us was more upset by the impediment to our progress. I knew, however, that we would watch out for each other, and the success of the project, by stepping in or by being comfortable stepping back when one of us was at wits’ end or about to cause bloodshed.
The second was the simplest, most natural, oldest act of human communication. It was a smile. Not just any smile, mind you; it was a dazzling, joyful, light-up-the-room kind of smile. The smile belongs to the assistant (what in the days before enlightenment we referred to as a legal secretary) to our host at this law firm. As assistant to our host, she was also burdened with taking care of or arranging for my needs, from document production to coffee in the conference rooms. When we were introduced, she flashed that big smile and I took notice.
As the hours became days and the days became two weeks, I came to depend on that smile. I depended on her contribution and dedication to the project; her smile, however, became a lifeline of sorts for me. Hundreds of times over the two weeks, I visited her desk with some request and the conversation began silently:
Her: Raised eyebrows. (“How is it going?”)
Me: Rolled eyes; or shaking head; or finger-pistol pointed to temple. (“About the same.”)
Her: That brilliant smile.
That smile sent me a message of hope. One aspect of these projects is they become all consuming. We participants believe there is nothing else more important in the world. And for us, at that moment, there is no other world; the project is our world. That smile reminded me that there was a whole world outside my conference rooms. A world full of family and friends, of adventures and aspirations and dreams, of business to be conducted and goals to be achieved, of beaches and mountains, of butterflies and puppy dogs. A world I could, and would, re-enter just as soon as I pushed the last rock out of the way.
Each time she smiled just for me, I thought of all these things. And I calmed down. I got my heart rate and anger under control. I acquired a new measure of patience — just enough to face the source of my frustrations again. Until the next smile.
I told her last week just how much joy her smile brought to me. And I am telling her again.
I am having an unforeseen reaction to one aspect of my new circumstances.† For the first time since (oh) first grade, I have no place I am supposed to be at 8:00 a.m.† I am not on vacation; I am supposed to be working.† And I am working and making progress.† It is simply odd disassociating work from an office or a classroom.† In the past, I really thought I was the master of my schedule and that I could work wherever I happened to be.† How wrong I was!† The feeling I have is one of liberation.† I didn’t fully appreciate that aspect of this comment until this morning.
I had best not get used to this sort of liberation.† Soon enough, I will be in a production facility, have fish ready to cure and smoke, and have orders waiting to be fulfilled.† Once again, I will have someplace I have to be.
And, for the rest of this week, I will also have a place I need to be.† I will be working for several days on a short-term project unrelated to Just Cured.† So, unless I borrow a little computer time from my hosts, don’t expect to see new posts from me for a few days.
For eight years, my non-lawyer duties at my now-former law firm included acting as the firm’s chief information officer. My principal function in that role was to be the bridge between my management’s technology wish list and my approximately dozen member IT team’s resources to execute technology projects. In fact, I also swapped out my share of hard drives, baby sat more than a few sick servers, and tested innumerable pieces of software and code. One thing I always managed to lay off on an IT professional was spending hours on the phone (mostly on hold) with a vendor’s technical support group.
I hope someone other than me noticed that this site was down for about half the day yesterday. While I spent a solid hour on the phone with Go Daddy’s hosting support specialists, I realized how much I already missed that group of IT professionals we assembled at that firm. I emailed my now former IT director and asked her “is holding for tech support going to be my most time consuming task in my new venture?” Her immediate reply: “Quite possibly.  ”
I emailed another friend that I missed having that dozen member team at my side. His immediate reply: “And do you also miss paying them?  ”
OK, I don’t miss them that much. I do miss their professionalism, their can-do attitudes, and their quirky ways. But most of all, I miss my daily interaction with that dedicated group of really good young men and women. I should have mentioned you in the January 1 post.
Traditionally, the New Year is a time to look forward, to make resolutions, to plan for a better future. In its most essential sense, this blog is about just those things. On this first day of the blog, the new year and my new career, however, I want to look back and recognize few of the people I may have forgotten to say something important to:
- My family — Your immediate and enthusiastic adoption of my business adventure brightened the days when I was having second thoughts and self-doubt. Keep the ideas and suggestions coming; there are certainly a few more dark days ahead. I don’t say it often enough — I love each and every one of you.
- My former clients — Thank you for the privilege of serving you and your businesses. You gave me the opportunity to see first-hand how excellent businesses are built. I hope I added half as much value to your businesses as working with you enriched my knowledge, skill and understanding.
- My lawyer, investment banker and other professional counterparts — Over the many years, I learned more about problem solving from watching you deal with your clients, my clients and me than from any other source. I cannot express how much I appreciate the professional relationships we developed.
- My young friends — You are all young enough to be the children I never had. When I spend time with you, I don’t feel old. Rather, I feel young enough to take on a challenge more appropriate for a much younger man.
- A new acquaintance — In our very first conversation, you told me a story about your father. He abandoned a hobby about which he was passionate. Years later, he explained that when he worked, he thought about the other passion; and when engaged in his other passion, he thought about work. He knew one of them had to go and only the work had the prospects for paying the rent. That story crystallized my thoughts that perhaps my other passion could pay the rent.
- A special young colleague — One of my great joys of the last year or so has been to watch you grow in both knowledge and confidence. I am saddened that I will no longer see your continued development on a daily basis nor participate directly in it. Understand, however, that I will know instantly each time you are tempted to violate Rule 1 of Strunk and White.
- The few friends with whom I shared early glimpses — You could have called me crazy. But you didn’t.
- My two pseudo big sisters — You adopted me and I you, one many years ago and the other more recently. You are so different from one another, yet your similarities are often shocking to me. In the coming year, I wish you both continued professional satisfaction and personal happiness. Know that I will be along for the journey, if only in spirit.
- Jean-Robert — Your passion for life and and everything in life is contagious. Thank you for infecting me. I could say much more, but that would be too much like us.
- My wife — You were my mentor then closest friend before we ever fell in love. Your support and encouragement have been unfailing for more than thirty years. None of what I have accomplished would have been possible without you. Thank you for loving me.
Happy New Year!
Traditionally, the New Year is a time to look forward, to make resolutions, to plan for a better future. In its most essential sense, this blog is about just those things. On this first day of the blog, the new year and my new career, however, I want to look back and recognize few of the people I may have forgotten to say something important to:
- My family — Your immediate and enthusiastic adoption of my business adventure brightened the days when I was having second thoughts and self-doubt. Keep the ideas and suggestions coming; there are certainly a few more dark days ahead. I don’t say it often enough — I love each and every one of you.
- My former clients — Thank you for the privilege of serving you and your businesses. You gave me the opportunity to see first-hand how excellent businesses are built. I hope I added half as much value to your businesses as working with you enriched my knowledge, skill and understanding.
- My lawyer, investment banker and other professional counterparts — Over the many years, I learned more about problem solving from watching you deal with your clients, my clients and me than from any other source. I cannot express how much I appreciate the professional relationships we developed.
- My young friends — You are all young enough to be the children I never had. When I spend time with you, I don’t feel old. Rather, I feel young enough to take on a challenge more appropriate for a much younger man.
- A new acquaintance — In our very first conversation, you told me a story about your father. He abandoned a hobby about which he was passionate. Years later, he explained that when he worked, he thought about the other passion; and when engaged in his other passion, he thought about work. He knew one of them had to go and only the work had the prospects for paying the rent. That story crystallized my thoughts that perhaps my other passion could pay the rent.
- A special young colleague — One of my great joys of the last year or so has been to watch you grow in both knowledge and confidence. I am saddened that I will no longer see your continued development on a daily basis nor participate directly in it. Understand, however, that I will know instantly each time you are tempted to violate Rule 1 of Strunk and White.
- The few friends with whom I shared early glimpses — You could have called me crazy. But you didn’t.
- My two pseudo big sisters — You adopted me and I you, one many years ago and the other more recently. You are so different from one another, yet your similarities are often shocking to me. In the coming year, I wish you both continued professional satisfaction and personal happiness. Know that I will be along for the journey, if only in spirit.
- Jean-Robert — Your passion for life and and everything in life is contagious. Thank you for infecting me. I could say much more, but that would be too much like us.
- My wife — You were my mentor then closest friend before we ever fell in love. Your support and encouragement have been unfailing for more than thirty years. None of what I have accomplished would have been possible without you. Thank you for loving me.
Happy New Year!
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