Cumulative powers

I believe in the cumulative power of actions, whether positive or negative. The more consistently you do something, the more experienced and efficient you become at that activity. It can be a consistent activity like exercise, for example, where the muscles grow and fat melts, gradually but surely.

On the other end of the spectrum, we can talk about snacking every night and leaving crumbs all over the floor and counters, you sloppy bastard. Over time, those crumbs build up, calories accumulate, love handles jiggle and stairs take your breath away.

Exercise and weight gain aside, we see the cumulative power of actions in the workplace and our personal lives. It goes without saying that the more you put into your marriage or personal relationships, the more you gain as a participant.

I was thinking the other day about a professional hurdle at my last job - management. That's something they don't teach in journalism school. I had my share of failures in that department, and those failures added up to a master class.

Management requires a cumulative approach. Day by day, you shape the staff to follow your direction. Most of the time, they already know the road map. Managers must connect with staff on a deeper level, and it can be done without being all buddy-buddy. Employees who are not in charge will always look for the person in charge. They want to follow a leader and will be receptive to a leader's vision if trusted to follow autonomously.

In simpler terms: Either you're on the bus, or your not. If everyone's on the bus, then you're golden. In order to get everyone on the bus, a manager must accumulate trust and compliance over a period of time. Think of each interaction with the staff as a coin in a jar. How long before the jar is full - and it's time for another?

Legend of the Potted Meat

An example of potted meat.

What you are about to read is true and may contain subject matter for a mature audience. This story is about Brian and Eric, two Indiana college students who smeared food all over each other.

Shortly after I moved into the house on Jefferson Street, my grandmother sent a package full of snacks and cookies. And on some random night when the munchies struck, we mined the box for leftovers. We found a pack of microwave popcorn and a few cans of potted meat.

What is potted meat? Some people spread this shit on crackers. I hadn't met anyone who ate it until I met Brian and Eric. At one point, Brian squeezed the can and slurped a chunk of potted meat that had risen up like a muffin made of Spam.

Next thing you know, they were flinging this slime at each other. There was potted meat on their faces, the floor, the chairs, the walls, everywhere. We clutched our torsos in laughter when Eric dashed downstairs to the showers. His towel was stolen, so he covered up with a couch cushion as he headed back upstairs in front of a hall full of women. When he entered his room, Eric was pelted with a fresh glob of potted meat.

For the next year or so, they found reminders of this potted meat splatterfest - flecks and chunks of dried processed animal guts beneath the couch cushions, for example, or stuck to a lamp.

In the years since they covered each other in potted meat, Brian and Eric have grown to become productive members of society. Brian teaches gifted children and Eric leads a charity. They married awesome women.

For me, they redefined potted meat.

I tell this tale of a trivial moment because this trivial moment captures the spirit of those times as I see them. We remember the potted meat fight not just for its novelty, but for the essence of brotherhood and the atmosphere of self-discovery that inspired the fun.

We also remember Eric's muscular pecs and six-pack abs, along with Brian's footlong ponytail and rock-hard gluteal region. But that's a "true" story for another time...

Born on Father's Day

I was born June 17, 1978, which was also Father's Day.

My father was, and has been, absent from my life. I have fleeting memories of good times, and I shudder at thoughts of the rough times.

My father and I never bonded. He was a military man who was always gone. For a while, he was stationed in West Germany. As a kid, I found two photos of him, and in both, he wore those classic green combat fatigues. In one photo, he stood in the woods, stoic but young, a helmet on his head. In the other, he guarded the East-West Germany border, the Deutschland colors striped on a pole next to my father's folded arms.

Speaking of his arms, there was a U.S. Marine globe tattooed in green on his left forearm. All these years later, and I still remember watching the tattoo ripple on his forearm while he tightened his bootlaces.

I don't want to make my father sound like a hero. My parents' marriage ended about 10 years after I came along. With my father out of the house, our domestic turmoil was much more tolerable. Lost in the storm was a chance to mend and bond anew. Our estrangement makes sense. I am at peace about it.

About 10 years ago, I contacted him after an eight-year silence. I had last seen him at my high school graduation. We met in the gym after everyone had tossed their caps and left to party. I paid a speeding ticket with the money he gave me. Eventually, in my mid-twenties, I wanted to know more about the past. I had questions about the man who contributed half my DNA.

For a while, I felt relief and clarity - it felt like finding a flashlight in a dark room. I finally saw both sides of the story of my parents' marriage.

And for those readers whose parents stayed married, please know that the children of divorce wanted what you had. I specifically remember a short-lived fling my mother had with an Italian guy who was struggling in his own marriage. Euphoric over the sight of them holding hands on a post-dinner walk, my sister and I bought them cards about love and weddings - or maybe it was for Valentine's Day? Doesn't matter now. For a few months, we learned what a healthy a family unit felt like. Everyone was safe, and everyone belonged.

When my first son was born in 2006, I called and shared the news with my father. We even visited his trailer for a few hours during a winter visit a few months later. He gave us a bottle of Knob Creek, wrapped with a bow.

In those first months of parenthood, the volume of life was cranked to 11. During that time, I wondered how my father could have been so absent when I was head over heels in love with my child, my wife and my life. It's one thing to get married, but when you reproduce, you create a family. That child feels like your own flesh and blood. The child is the part of you that lives on.

I closed the door on my father, not out of hatred, but for the sake of closure. Nothing unpleasant took place, and I harbor no hatred. As a wise man said, the opposite of love isn't hatred - it's indifference. I decided that building a relationship wasn't worth the energy.

In 2014, I am a father of two boys, ages 7 and 3. All I wanted for Father's Day was to hang out with my lovely wife and our two "B's." I got to sleep in. We walked to the coffee shop for a cinnamon roll coated in silk-sweet icing. We played games at a mini-arcade and won a bunch of cheap toys that broke by day's end. We ate pho noodles for lunch and pancakes for dinner before wrapping up with the daily bedtime rituals.

At the end of this wonderful day, I am heavy-hearted and introspective, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. Nagging at my attention is the thought of knowing my father is out there, and wondering whether he's thinking about me. Every day is Father's Day in my house. Why wasn't it the same with him?