By John Y. Brown III, on Tue Sep 4, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
The importance of grandfathers—on Labor Day.
The most important thing my very wise and learned paternal grandfather ever told me was when I was 20 years old. We were having a philosophical discuasion about the ends never justifying the means being illustrated in a criminal law case he was involved with –and I took a personal turn with my next question.
“Papaw, how old was dad when you realized he was going to be really successful?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t out of time yet myself.
There was an uncharacteriatic pause and I looked at my grandfather’s winced face. It was the first time I had ever stumped him. Or at least the first time one of my questions had left him temporarily speechless. Recovering, he said in a stern tone raising one eyebrow, “Well, to tell you the truth, I never thought your dad would amount to much of anything.” And as he realized that even though my father was now 51 was helping support both of us, he couldn’t remember ever amending that opinion, he broke into a broad smile and a hearty laugh.
That’s it. The most important thing grandfathers usually pass down to grandchildren is the truth about their parents.
The wisest thing my maternal grandfather ever said to me.
I was in my final year of law school and into my late 20s. My grandfather Durall, who possibly had the finest mind of any of my family members, had to drop out of school at age 14 to go to work in the coal mines–for $2 a day pay.
We were about to sit down to chat and his first question to me was, “Reckon you are going to stay in college until you can draw Social Security?” he asked, chuckling to himself. It made me laugh hard–and was probably the harshest thing I ever recall my grandfather Durall saying to me.
The reason I thought of that conversation this morning is that whatever I can think or say about Labor Day, I’ll never quite be able to give the term “work” the kind of meaning that he did. Of all my family members, none worked harder, endured more, and received less than my grandfather Durall. And he almost never missed a day of work or took a vacation time. Or complained. It was just his way. He honored the term “labor” in a way his grandchildren can salute but will never replicate.
By Nancy Slotnick, on Tue Sep 4, 2012 at 8:30 AM ET
“He makes me laugh.” – Ann Romney, Republican National Convention.
She said it at least three times I think, so it must mean a lot to Ann Romney, but in my opinion the quality “he makes me laugh” is overrated. I tried it on for size with regard to the Presidential Race—“He’s such a great President; he always makes me laugh.” Something just didn’t sound right.
But then I am mainly interested in love and relationships, being that I am a Recovering Dater, so I applied the same litmus test there. Al Bundy makes me laugh; Peter Griffin on the Family Guy makes me laugh; but would I want to be married to them?
If you go onto any online dating site and look at profiles, you will see “sense of humor” on top of most women’s wish list. Don’t get me wrong- I love to laugh with my husband- that’s one of the best experiences in the world. And giggling—so much the more so. But just because someone makes you laugh, can you tell anything about his character?
Comedians can be very angry people; they can be loners. The straight man (in the comedic sense, not the sexual orientation sense), on the other hand, can often prove to be more “stand-up” than the funny man, when it comes to love. Or at the very least the correlation between funny and good husband is inconclusive. So we must look for some other clues when we attempt to assess character.
Judging someone’s character when you first meet is a monumental task, yet an important skill in dating. In my coaching practice, I advise women to read his actions, not his words. In other words, if he says, “I’ll call you,” that is words. (often lies.) If he actually calls, that speaks volumes.
So in advance of meeting, when you are trying to scope someone out from afar, how can you get a reading?
1. Eyes are the window to the soul. If you believe in a soulmate, then start looking into the eyes of strangers and find out what you see. It’s not staring, but reading their eyes. I dare you to do it.
2. Watch him while he’s talking to his friends. You can tell a lot by how he interacts with others.
3. Listen to what he’s talking about and see if it sounds intelligent. Ok, I grant you that this may be hard to do if you are scoping him out in a sports bar setting. This is why I recommend trying to have 1 date/week. Some things you can only find out from going more in-depth.
4. Finally, look for his smile. That Aretha Franklin song says “It’s in his kiss- that’s where it is.” That is true too. But we’re talking about in advance of kissing. Then, it’s in his smile. Even if you just observe him smiling at his friends, or laughing with them, you can glean a lot. And if you dare to smile at a stranger, you may get to find out a lot about him and his character.
So it may not be all about him making you laugh, but rather seeing when he laughs, and what it’s about. If he has a winning smile, he’s a keeper. And I’m not just talking about Obama. Oh wait, maybe I am.
By John Y. Brown III, on Fri Aug 31, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
Friday morning –stylin’ like a guy.
In Starbucks this morning I noticed a guy I hadn’t seen before.
Nattily dressed like he was ready to pop off a cover of GQ magazine, but looking stressed and impatient pacing as he waited for his coffee. I could smell his cologne from the condiment bar and thought to myself “He reminds me of a temperamental European sports car.”
And when I walked outside, guess who I see standing (posing, really) next to his European sports car? Yep!
So I wonder to myself, “Do guys as they get older start to look like their cars?” Maybe so. His sports jacket matched the exterior of his car and his pants matched the interior. His hair even seemed styled to coordinate perfectly with his sleek and sporty car.
I wondered how he managed to stand next to his car as he groomed himself in the bathroom mirror this morning.
I was about to chuckle out loud as I hit the unlock button on my own car. And realized that I looked just like my grey Honda Accord –with matching grey interior.
By John Y. Brown III, on Wed Aug 29, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
Pancakes and patience.
Back from last family dinner before our son was college bound.
We shared –despite protestations–an assortment of random funny stories of when Johnny was younger. One of mine was when he was about 4 years old and we were sitting at an IHOP and our order was taking a very long time. It was Johnny’s first trip to IHOP and he was hungry for pancakes and wanted to try all the different syrups.
After he asked again how long it would be until the waitress brought our pancakes, I responded: “Johnny, this is a good opportunity for us to learn patience.”
Johnny’s head whipped around angrily and glaring at me he said in a frustrated voice, “I don’t want to ever learn patience!! Patience is bad!!”
I leaned back in my chair and said, “Yeah, I know what you mean. I”d rather have the pancakes that learn patience too.”
I’m not sure either of us has learned a lot about patience since then either. But we at least considered it briefly 14 years ago.
By John Y. Brown III, on Wed Aug 29, 2012 at 8:30 AM ET
The RP and John Y. Brown, III
— friends for nearly two decades — have a lot in common. A youthful political addiction, a more mature wisdom of the folly of politics, much, much better halves who’ve helped then grow up, truly demented senses of humor (albeit, John Y. is more demented and more humorous). Now they find themselves coping at the exact same time with one of the most difficult rituals of middle age: sending their first borns off to college a few hours from home. They both were pretty apprehensive as the magic date approached, and pretty blue once it passed.
Today, they share their reflections with the RP Nation. Enjoy:
===
JOHN Y:
The importance of ice cream and fathers. And kids.
Our son moves out tomorrow to go to college. As I drove home late from work my mind was reeling—reeling about the immediate future (getting ready for tomorrow’s big event), about the present (the final night at home before our son moves out and moves on) and, of course, about the past (memories which now seem eerily ancient of a boy who is no longer a boy anymore).
My best memory for both my children is what we came to call “ice cream night.” For nearly 9 years –every Monday night—I would pick up my two kids while mom had the night to herself. When we started Johnny was 6 and Maggie 2. It became a weekly tradition with dad. We had a routine and we stuck to it almost without fail. We’d get ice cream (usually at Graeters) and then go to Barnes & Noble bookstore for an hour or so where we’d look at books and magazines, get something to drink like hot chocolate and make up some activity. Sometimes we’d play slow motion hide-and-seek so we wouldn’t be noticed by the bookstore employees. Sometimes the kids would make up a play for me in the children’s book area. Sometimes I’d read something to one or both of them. Later we’d listen to music or just sit in the cafe and talk. But we were there every Monday night. Until we weren’t.
It’s hard to persuade a 15 year old to do much of anything especially hang out with Dad on Monday nights. But I remember a few years earlier asking my family if they would be on board with me running for Lt Governor with then House Speaker Jody Richards. They were. The only hesitation was my son asking if that meant we’d no longer get to do ice cream on Monday nights. I told him softly and candidly “It might.” He looked down at the ground for several seconds but knew something bigger was at stake and then said, “That’s OK.”
I’ll never forget that and tried to keep our Monday nights going through the campaign. And did a better job than I expected. Even the state Democratic Party chairman knew Monday nights were a special–sacred, really–time for me and my children and would ask frequently during the campaign if I had taken care of business the previous Monday night. I was able to say I had more often than not.
I am grateful for those 9 years. More now than ever.
Tonight as I drove home from work I was approaching Graeter’s ice cream and decided to call to see if they were still open. They were. And so was the Barnes and Noble bookstore across the street. Both stayed open until 10pm. I called my wife and she got both kids to meet me for ice cream again and even joined us herself this time. We were buoyant at the funny irony of it all. We ordered our ice cream and sat and laughed about how we can’t go back in time. Perhaps most can’t. But tonight I was able to–at least briefly.
I hurried everyone out of Graeter’s to go by Barnes and Noble one last time “for old time sake,” I said. The kids agreed. We walked through the doors and were greeted by staff offering to help us and reminding us they were going to close in 3 minutes. I recognized one of them from our earlier days. We walked up together to the magazine section and lingered for a minute or two chuckling awkwardly with one another. And then we were told the store was closing. The kids left and my son drove my daughter home. I stayed inside a few minutes longer to do a quick once around to see if everything was as I remembered it. It was. And then I unlocked the already locked entrance door and let myself out. And drove home alone.
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THE RP
Commemorating the 10th anniversary of my father’s passing the same week I dropped off my oldest daughter Emily for her freshman year at college brought forth a rush of conflicting thoughts and emotions.
One of my most cherished possessions is a letter penned to me by my father on my first day of college. He didn’t actually give it to me until decades later, for later-to-be-obvious reasons — both my mom and he were putting up a brave face to help compensate for the natural homesickness I would be feeling on my first days from the roost.
It is intensely personal, so despite the public life I’ve chosen for myself, most of my dad’s words will remain in the exclusive possession of his intended audience.
But I feel compelled to share his closing paragraph with my friends, because my father — whose poetic stylings far exceed anything I’ve written — so incredibly encapsulates my inner conflict in the days following my own first born’s first day of college. And for those of you who’ve gone through this rite of passage, perhaps you can identify with my dad’s words as well:
Please remember that we love you without reservation, and are here when you need us. We wish that you never have pain, but know you will, and hope that you can use our feelings for you to get past your own hurts and failures. You sure have helped us with ours.
While Lisa and I have tried hard, especially over the past few years, to prepare our daughter for independent life, there’s only so much that any two of us can do. It’s impossible to reconcile the desire to fully and completely protect your child from the harms of the world with the understanding that at some point, they need the freedom to make their own mistakes, seize their own triumphs.
And that’s the heart of my struggle. I’m so damn proud of what an extraordinary young woman my daughter has become, and so excited to see how she will continue to grow and flourish, given her newfound independence and the opportunity to study, learn, and make new relationships on a remarkable college campus. But she will always be the little girl I held in my arms; she will always be the fragile flower that I would sacrifice my life to protect.
Letting go is the most difficult thing I have ever done. But I know it is also the most important.
= = = = =
Read the rest of… John Y and The RP: Sending our First Borns to College
By John Y. Brown III, on Tue Aug 28, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
Life lessons. Remedial version.
This morning I was going through my routine at Starbucks:
1) Walk in;
2) say hello to the Barista;
3) order coffee and something to eat;
4) go to condiment bar to pour out 1/8th of my coffee to make room for the cream and sugar;
5) and walk back to car.
As a rule I try to keep all my daily processes to 5 steps or under to minimize chances of leaving out some critical step.
And that has worked well.
Until this morning.
I got to my car and realized I had failed to put in the cream and sugar. The lady in front of me had to re-scan her credit card while I was in mid-order. I made some joke to her about it and we both laughed. But that caused me to lose my mental place in my process chain. I confused step 4 for step 3.
At first I wasn’t sure what to do so I simply said an expletive to myself. After a few seconds it became clear that more needed to be done.
Then a flash a genius.
Obviously, it was too embarrassing to go back into the Starbucks. And as a rule (a second one), I hate to look foolish in front of Baristas or strangers with credit card problems.
So I drove across the street to Speedway and stealthily got a cup and put cream and Splenda in and tossed in a stirrer. I slinked back to my car as the cashier watched to see if I had stolen something. I held up my Starbucks coffee cup as I poured in the cream and Splenda and he finally looked away.
It tasted terrible.
And I learned yet again the important life lesson that it is better to “look foolish (at Starbucks) and be happy” than to “try to look cool but actually look really foolish (at Speedway) and be unhappy.”
By Lauren Mayer, on Tue Aug 28, 2012 at 11:00 AM ET
I realized long ago that I was way too thin-skinned for politics (having spent a college semester in DC as an intern for a liberal lobby – yeah, I am probably the only intern who never got hit on by anyone, much less politicans!)
But every now and then something happens to raise my hackles, so to speak. For a pro-choice, pro-marriage-equality, Jewish-mother-who-secretly-yearns-for-a-gay-son, the GOP platform is a real hackle-raiser. (And for a California resident, it’s also extremely frustrating – California is a reliably blue state so we’re totally written off in any major election, so without hundreds of millions of dollars to contribute, there’s not much I can do.)
But instead of developing an ulcer, I’ve channeled my energies into the following ditty:
I’ll be doing a new one every week during the run-up to the election, so I hope you enjoy!
By John Y. Brown III, on Mon Aug 27, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
Can you say this about your wireless carrier?
I figure that I spend at least 100 minutes a month “pretending” to be talking on my cell phone.
I’m not really talking to anyone but only pretending to in order to slip out of a crowded event or avoid talking to someone when I just don’t feel like talking.
And hoping that my phone doesn’t ring while pretending to be talking to a dead line.
And my wireless carrier doesn’t charge me a penny for this 100 hour monthly usage.
The importance of grandfathers—on Labor Day.
The RP and John Y. Brown, III 
