September 1, 2025
”How many times must the cannon balls fly…?” (Dylan)
Given the recent murderous slaughter of the Innocents, and our close connection to the leaders of the school, we express profound sympathy, outrage, and sadness.
Watchwords for all of us:
“When you pray, move your feet.”Good morning!Coming to you this morning from Without A Vision Consultancy’s summer headquarters in Starboard Cove, Maine.We marvel at the surreal sunrise just as California is getting tucked into bed the night before.It’s as early as the Feast of Labour can possibly be… and, in Canada, too. (BTW, we can see Canada from here!)The recipient of communication is, de facto, the best evaluator of its quality.
- Stop holding internal meetings to evaluate the effectiveness of your communication and ASK the recipients/ listeners/ readers/ watchers to tell you; they will if they trust you.
- And if they don’t, well there’s a problem to tackle that is probably linked somehow to communication.
- Tackle it if you dare, because you must.
- To ensure that their companies engage effectively with stakeholders, CEOs must set communication standards, embody the organization’s culture and purpose, and speak up in moments that matter most. (Gleischman, Etc., et al.)
- Tell a story!
- I’ve probably had 100 or more coaches, mentors, bosses, and advisors give me that advice over the years.
- And, I know they’re right, absolutely correct.
- My dominant left brain usually takes me in the direction of logic… and rarely is that the best approach when trying to convey a message.
- Never is it the best approach when wanting to connect with people.
- Tell a story!
- If I’m firing on all cylinders, and often I’m not, I’ll remember to tell a story before it’s too late and I’ve missed the boat — or the train out of the station.
- Or, as I heard the expression the other day, “that horse has done left the barn!”
- I was born the son of sharecroppers — at what is now known as the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota.
- I guess it was known as the Mayo Clinic then, too, but when I tried getting an appointment recently to treat my failing back, the fact of my birth there didn’t hold sway.
- Our little farm — or, more accurately, the 160 acres we sharecropped — was located about 12 miles to the northeast of Rochester, on the border between Wabasha and Olmsted Counties.
- Our hovel without plumbing was situated half in each County.
- I had an older brother who had been born in California shortly after the war — and then five younger siblings.
- My Dad — and consequently my Mom, much against her wishes — was persuaded to come back to Minnesota when his uncle died suddenly at a young age.
- The acreage of poor soil and run-down buildings continued to be owned by my Dad’s aunt, and she directed what, when, where, and how things would happen.
- I suppose the why was because she said so… and probably because my Dad’s domineering Mom and Dad were just one mile beyond the big wooded hill on an adjoining (much bigger/ better) farm.
- On that ancestral farm is where my Dad was born and raised along with four siblings, he was the oldest.
- My Mom’s family was nomadic during the 1930s but by the end of the war had settled in Oakland, California.
- We had 27 dairy cows; it had been 25 for a number of years, but I remember my Dad squeezing-in two more at one point.
- We had electricity, but no running water, no indoor plumbing. Water for the livestock had to be carried after it was pumped from the well.
- In the winter — and it really did get to 40-below-zero sometimes — we got up early to kindle a fire in a special firebox that would melt the ice on the cow tank so the cows could drink.
- No water, no milk, dead cows. We needed water for the chickens, too. Winter was brutal.
- We had a 1946 rusted-out Dodge pickup which was used to haul the milk and eggs to town — and to haul back whatever needed hauling back.
- When we kids would sometimes ride along, Roy the egg man would give us a nickel which we would use to buy ice cream at the grocery store — or maybe save it.
- On Sundays, children would be stacked on laps two and three deep as seven or more of us were hauled to church in the narrow cab meant for two.
- I didn’t connect finances to the onerous daily chores on the farm until I was much older.
- I cringe now to think of the many times I broke eggs or spilled milk or accidentally hoed-out the small corn plants instead of the weeds.
- I was driving tractor at about age 5 because it was the norm and because my Dad needed me; I much preferred to be in the kitchen with Mom, but I was expected to be outdoors.
- At a very young age my punishments included not being allowed to bake cookies.
- I was a poor excuse for a farm labourer; my heart was never in it.
- I was lousy at it because my mind wandered and all of a sudden I would be the reason for something bad happening.
- I drove the tractor on the hay baler, for example, while my Dad caught the hay bales and stacked them on the trailing wagon.
- All of a sudden I would hear him yelling because I was headed for the ditch.
- He would jump off the wagon, run up to the tractor, get everything realigned, give me a scolding, and then stack a few more bales of alfalfa before it would all happen again.
- Among the skills you acquired while driving tractor was the development of a unique wave.
- There was a hard and fast rule, I don’t know if it still exists, that you were to wave to anyone traveling by on the nearby dusty gravel road.
- The same rule held if you were on that road and met someone going the other way.
- Those were a bit trickier because the combined approaching speed of both vehicles might have been ~ 50+ MPH.
- There was an exact moment to begin your wave — not too soon, not too late… and you didn’t wait for the other person.
- Your wave could be as subtle as raising your little finger off the steering wheel, or something grander involving your whole arm; each person was unique.
- My Mom was the unappreciated hero of our agrarian survival because she kept the hovel as best she could, cooked meals, baked, processed the garden produce, did the laundry, cared for the children, and much more.
- Hanging wash on the line in knee-deep snow during the below-zero winter months was nothing short of heroic.
- She did not drive and thus was relegated to a life of being a near-prisoner on the farm.
- She was able to visit her own family only two or three times throughout her years of unhappy exile in Minnesota.
- On Labour Day 1967, 18 years after responding to the familial call of duty, my parents called sharecropping quits and moved two miles into town.
- A few days later my youngest sister was born; I think the math on that is 58 years ago.
- My Dad milked his last cow that Monday morning, by afternoon the cows had all been sold at auction to new owners and fancier barns, and we had eaten our last fresh egg.
- By 4:00 AM on Tuesday morning Dad started the back-breaking work of making cheese at the local cooperative.
- He became a world class cheesemaker, though he was never recognized or compensated accordingly.
- My Mom — and the rest of us — got running water, indoor plumbing, and a reprieve from riding the scary bus to school.
- My brother got sent to Viet Nam.
