Month: April 2013

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How the Worst was Won

Thank you, Forbes. It’s always fun to start the day by being told your job stinks.

For those who missed it, Forbes just put out its annual list of the worst jobs in America. You know the sort I mean: the jobs with either low pay, or high stress, or no future, or a work environment that goes beyond the challenging.

Jobs like the infantry, where people, you know, shoot at you from time to time.

Or working on an oil rig, where the hours are long and family often distant.

But the job that rated the worst of all – below the chancy life of an actor, the injury risk of a lumberjack or a roofer, or the downsizings of the post office – was newspaper reporter.

Really?

Seriously?

There must be some mistake. I mean, sure, the pay is nothing to write home about. Sure, there’s enough long hours and deadline pressure to make coffee a viable tax write-off. And yeah, a lot of papers have been closing down, laying off, or thinning out. But still, that’s no reason to ….

Hmmm.

I hate to admit it, but they may have a point.

From a coldly clinical point of view, this is not the line of work that every parent dreams their child will someday pursue. Doctor? Sure. Lawyer? Why not? Teacher? Of course. Ink-stained wretch? Keep the room furnished, they may be moving back into it soon.

It’s folly. It’s absurd. It’s crazy. It’s ridiculous.

And I wouldn’t do anything else in the world.

I’ve wanted to be a reporter since the eighth grade, ever since the day in Ms. Shopland’s Spanish class where I couldn’t find the word “author” in my glossary for an exercise, but could find “journalist.” And despite every pothole I’ve mentioned above – and quite a few I haven’t! — I’ve never seriously regretted the choice.

To be a reporter is to be a storyteller, with the chance to meet intriguing people and relate interesting situations.

To be a reporter is to be a translator, making the complexities of a government, or a process, or a problem understandable to the average person.

To be a reporter is to be part of a heritage, measured out in crinkled headlines. It means being part of a profession so necessary, it’s cited in the Constitution; or being the first one to hear what’s happened; or seeing people at their best and worst, and remembering that they too are humans with a story worth telling.

It means diving into the pool of words, immersing yourself in the beauties of English. Even if it means arguing endlessly with an editor over using“cement” or “concrete” in a sentence.

And for me, it means doing what I love.

And really, that’s the important part, isn’t it?

We’ve all taken jobs because we had to. Life goes on, and it demands food on the table and a roof over the head. But to do what you love, to do a job you know you can do well and delight in the doing of – that is heaven and earth with a fistful of rainbow sprinkles on top.

It may even keep you alive and alert, as well as happy. There’s been more than one study out there showing that high job satisfaction is good for your body and good for your mind. And really, it’s just more fun to be around someone who enjoys what they do. Even if it’s not the glamorous or “practical” choice.

The science fiction author Spider Robinson once wrote about coming to a crossroads in his life: should he take the plunge and try to write full-time, or chuck it in and concentrate on his less enjoyable but more secure day job? His editor at the time, Ben Bova, gave it a week of thought before finally telling him “Spider, no one can pay you enough money to do what you don’t want to do.”

Words of wisdom.

Oh, the job that Spider walked away from?

Newspaper reporter.

 

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Lost in Boston

They’re painful. Uncomfortable. Three words that I’ve hated saying for years.

No, not “Tulowitzki’s injured again.”

Try instead “I don’t know.”

As a little kid, I hated saying it to my sister Leslie. So much so that when she asked a question, I would make something up rather than admit I didn’t know the answer.

I still hate saying it now, as a journalist. Though at least my efforts to avoid the deadly phrase now involve frantic phone calls and pushed deadlines rather than outright fiction.

“I don’t know.” Hard words to admit to.

But really, no other words will do this week.

Not after Boston.

***

Like a lot of people, I was in the middle of my work day when the Boston Marathon bombs went off. I’d just finished chatting with an organizer about Longmont’s “hackathon” — a fun story, one that made you feel good – when I glanced at my laptop and saw the news.

Boom. Boom.

Stunned.

Over the first few hours it felt, not like 9/11, but like the old Olympic bombing in Atlanta. It was a similar venue, a similar scale. And with no one racing forward to take the credit, it had a similar, desperate search for answers.

What really happened? Who would do this? And why?

In Atlanta, our need for answers became so great that an innocent man got swept up in them. This time, the embarrassment came not from having the wrong name, but from having no name at all, as CNN jumped on rumors of an arrest – rumors that proved to be as solid as a campaign promise.

As I write this, a zillion theories compete for time. I have my own. If they were any more solid than the rest, I’d put them here.

After all, things are supposed to make sense. Aren’t they?

I don’t know.

***

Turn it around. What do we know?

We know people were hurt. Were killed.

We know that Boston is nearer than we ever imagined it could be.

We know that people need help. Need healing. Need peace.

Most of all, perhaps, we know that people are answering the call.

And how!

Whoever set the bombs, they’ve been outnumbered. From the first moments, there were people running toward the explosions, running to do what they could.

A Florida orthopedic surgeon, Dr. John Cowin, had been in the crowd to watch his daughter. He leaped a barrier at the race to tend the wounded.

A group of 20 active-duty soldiers, there to honor lost comrades, had just finished walking the course. They obliterated a fence and started hurrying to remove debris from victims.

A collection of runners who had just finished running a grueling 26 miles-and-change, immediately ran two more. Just far enough to reach the nearest hospital, and give blood.

I’m sure it doesn’t feel like a lot to them. It never does at the time. But that multitude of small moments, candle flame on candle flame, grows brilliant when gathered together. Almost blinding.

These are the ones who deserve to be remembered.

Not the givers of pain. But the fighters of it.

***

In time, there will be a name. I’m confident of that. In time, some of our questions will have answers. Not all. Never all. But maybe enough.

But that will happen in its time. Not with the speed of a CSI episode, but at the methodical pace that real police work finds. They, too, are lighting candles, though the wicks are slow to kindle.

I’m human. I want to learn more, too. What I don’t know still troubles me.

But what I do know – what I’ve seen, what I’ve heard – has provided more comfort than I could have expected.

They’re still hard words. But ultimately, powerless ones.

No. We don’t know. But we’re learning. And there’s a whole lot of people at our shoulder as we discover it together.

This, we know.

 

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Free Period

Leave it to Margaret Thatcher to throw two worlds into a tizzy on her death.

Certain things happen when a famous person dies, and the former British prime minister was no exception. Long-prepared obituaries were hurried into print; long-readied speeches were given and commented on.

And in the universe of Twitter, the 140-character announcements flew around the world. One chosen “hashtag” got to the point, labeling the announcement “Now Thatcher is Dead.” Or, in Twitterese, #nowthatcherisdead.

All at once, the British found entertainment fans in mourning with them. You see, spaced differently, the post could also be read: Now That Cher is Dead.

What a difference one period makes.

Cher isn’t dead, of course. (At least, not so anyone can tell.) And the error, I suppose, can pass into the history of great publishing errors, along with the misprinted Bible that declared “Thou shalt commit adultery,” or the dictionary that accidentally coined the word “Dord” for density, when it meant that density could be abbreviated as “D or d.”

But I think the tale of Cher’s fictional demise actually points to something important. Pauses mean something. However small.

I get reminded of that a lot with Missy.

Missy, for those of you who joined us late, is my wife’s young aunt, a developmentally disabled adult whom we began caring for two years ago. In that time, Heather and I have done a lot of things with her: a regular reading night, an occasional art night, trips to the bowling alley and the softball diamond, moments of listening to music at Missy-volume (i.e, loud enough to stun passing blue jays).

But there have also been plenty of days and nights when the agenda included – well, nothing in particular. When Missy simply sat in the window watching the world go by, or rocked in an armchair with her mind wandering, her hands absently busy with a puzzle ball.

A precious emptiness of time. Silent, and blessed.

Other reminders come now that I’ve started walking more again. When you’re walking just for the sake of walking, there’s not a lot to do but concentrate on the act itself and the surrounding neighborhood. (Well, there’s the iPod or smart phone option, but that way can lie traffic accidents and dates with open manholes.) Areas that had flickered by at 30 miles per hour now acquire texture and detail and barking dogs; a mind busy with a hundred frantic details has a chance to slow down and become aware of its contents – or maybe just to settle to peace and be.

We don’t do that a lot these days. If we ever did.

The idea’s there, of course. Most major faiths teach the value of a day set aside for rest, or of time set apart for contemplation and meditation. More secular minds have noted the value of quiet in terms of their own, whether in noting the health problems that arise from too little sleep, or the economic value of vacation days and sick time in keeping an employee sharp and ready.

And yet, we continue to fill and fill and fill, as though laziness would send us to the principal’s office. Even our vacations are sometimes constant activity, a need to experience everything, lest something unique get away. (And that’s leaving aside the folks who bring their cell phones with them, of course.)

There’s nothing wrong with doing. There can be plenty that’s wonderful in discovering new things, or creating new accomplishments. I’m not arguing otherwise. But a life without pause, like sentences without a period, can run into chaos and confusion.

Even fields need to lie fallow for a while, to recover their strength.

It’s a hard habit to acquire. Frustrating, even, at times. Sitting back and watching Missy watch the world, it’s easy to think at first of the things I could be doing. And then, all at once, I realize 30 minutes has gone by, the things are still there – and both of us feel pretty good.

Maybe the old ad company hit on something when they talked about “the pause that refreshes.”

Take a moment to think about it. Take several. That’s what they’re there for.

If you like the idea, if you find it helps, pass it along. Take some time to share.

Just … don’t take the time to Cher instead.

The poor woman’s suffered enough as it is.

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My Rules, Your Rules

My fellow fans of the Colorado Rockies, rejoice. Our suffering is over.

That may sound nonsensical, like saying “Welcome the World Series champion Chicago Cubs.” But you see, I’ve found the way to end our early-season woes, now and into the future.

Are you ready? Here it is.

Every season, from Opening Day until May 15, we declare that runs against our relief pitchers don’t count.

You see, every Rockies fan knows that the three sure things in life are death, taxes and that our bullpen will blow a late-game lead. So we simply don’t let them. Let the opposition do what it can against our starters; once the relievers come in, their batters will be shut down to zero … by decree.

It’s simple. It’s effective. It’s …

What do you mean, illegal?

Well, no, the rule book doesn’t currently allow that. But don’t worry about that. If we don’t like the rules, we can simply ignore them.

Just ask the great state of North Carolina.

For those who missed it, two North Carolina legislators have introduced a bill that would let the state set an official religion. And to those with worries about that pesky First Amendment (and that equally inconvenient Fourteenth Amendment that applies its protections to the states), have no fear – the bill explicitly says the federal courts don’t get to decide what’s constitutional in North Carolina.

That’s right. If we don’t like the rules, we get to ignore them.

Mind you, declaring independence of federal authority used to be called secession, but I’m sure nothing could possibly go wrong with that. Right?

Now, to be fair, no one really expects the North Carolina bill to go anywhere. It’s a statement, sort of like pounding your shoe on the table, only less likely to leave an impression.

And yet, and yet … it’s always tempting to set aside the rules, isn’t it?

Note that I’m not talking about constitutional challenges in the courts. There’s a long and honored place for that. Any rule set can be re-interpreted over time, from theology to baseball, and fresh debates help keep the rules alive, by forcing us to consider what we mean by them.

But interpreting the rule book, even revising it, is a different thing from throwing it out all together. And there’s been a lot of states ready and willing to do just that.

Don’t like the mandated health insurance that the Supreme Court called constitutional? Go ahead, set it aside.

Federal laws on marijuana seem draconian? Repeal them locally and hope the feds don’t care enough to do anything.

Federal tariffs not to your liking? Go ahead and … whoops, that’s the South Carolina nullification crisis of 1832. My mistake. (I guess everything old really is new again.)

To be fair, the feds have the same temptation. It can be so easy to shortcut due process by just sticking a terror suspect in Guantanamo Bay, or to whistle at rules against unreasonable search and seizure while allowing a choice in airports between “virtual strip search” or actual groping. If thy rule offend thee, cut it off.

But it’s only when we agree on the rules that we really have a nation.

Again, I’m not saying the rules can never change. I’m sure we can all agree on many that should. But that’s the point – changing the rules requires agreement. Ignoring them requires a roll of masking tape to mark off your side of the room and a declaration that “I’m not listening to you!”

If we’re going to do that, we might as well call the ballgame. And frankly, I’m not willing to give up on the season yet.

But then, I’m a Rockies fan.

Call me an optimist.