EULOGY FOR MY FATHER

            I will miss my father.

            Two things I will miss are his handshake and his smile, and I suspect that others will remember them as well.  Both were engaging.  His handshake was firm and engaging; his smile was friendly and engaging, with a hint of mischief.  Never a confident speaker, Dad communicated much with his handshake and smile, and both were genuine - they continued through the very last days of his life, when because of weakness and delirium, deceit would not have been possible.

            Dad smiled at us - we who loved him - to the very end.  I think his last purposeful communication with me was a smile.  I was sitting by his bedside on the Friday evening before his death, singing softly to him, and he smiled at me.  It was no longer his smile of old, but the twinkling light was still in his eyes.  I know those who were there remember his big, expansive smile when we finally had his breathing tube removed on Thursday before moving him to palliative care.  And nurses commented that they don’t usually see smiles like his in the ICU or in the final days of an illness like his.

             But his last communication may also have been a handshake.  Dad was in the hospital for pneumonia the last two-and-a-half weeks of his life.  But the pneumonia proved too much for his body to handle, and even after the course of antibiotics quelled the original infection, he was not able to breathe for long unaided.  He died on a Sunday morning of respiratory failure. 

            In the hospital, doctors and nurses ask patients to squeeze their fingers as a neurological test and sign of alertness.  Whenever he could, Dad would give them a mighty firm squeeze.  Even when his strength had ebbed such that he could not even adjust his position in bed, his grip remained firm, and  sometimes doctors had trouble extricating their fingers from his hand.  I think he was showing off a little.  When we moved him to palliative care, my mother, my sister and I took turns holding both of his hands.  He held ours in return, keeping that communion with us and keeping hold of Mom’s hand when she would try to get up for a moment. 

            In his last hours when he could no longer hold our hands, we continued to hold his.  And when he died on Sunday morning, his hand was in mine.  That was a comfort to me and I hope it was a comfort to him as well.

            I will also miss Dad’s voice and some of the little things he would say.  He had a rich and pleasant speaking voice, even though he was not confident as a speaker.  He also had a nice singing voice.  I still remember how he sounded when I was little and from my bedroom at night I would hear him singing Danny Boy at the piano.  But I don’t remember him playing or singing at all in later years.

            Whenever I was staying at the house in my adult years, we had a nightly ritual.  When he and Mom were coming upstairs for bed he would call up to me, asking “Are you coming down?”  He wanted to know whether or not he should leave a light on for me.  I would answer “yes” and he would reply, “Okay!”  I will forever remember his Okay.  In his last year, after his stroke, his voice was less vibrant than it had been, but every now and then his okay would come through as strong and rich as it ever did, and he sounded again like my dad of old.  By then time we were leaving a light on downstairs regardless – for safety at night – but our ritual remained.

            One friend of mine from my youth remembers the distinctive way Dad would answer the telephone.  And perhaps others who used to call the house remember his “mmmm yello!”

            I will miss other rituals as well.  When I see beers in the refrigerator it is a stabbing reminder that I will never share another beer with my dad.  The last beer we drank together was the English pub draft, Boddington’s.  It was his first time tasting Boddington’s and he said he loved it.  In his last year, I took to buying beers that I thought he would like to try: Warsteiner Verum and Dunkel, pub draft and regular stout Guinness, and other hearty varieties.  He said of all of them that he thought they might be his favorite.  I regret not taking more time to drink beers with him in his last months.  Often he would catch me about to leave the house, or else it would be in the evening when Mom didn’t like him drinking beer because of his incontinence problems, stemming from treatments for prostate cancer.  But now, with no opportunity to share that ritual again, I regret not taking every opportunity I had.

            Beer drinking was probably our oldest ritual together, stretching back to when I was a small boy and we were living on Coventry Road in Shaker Heights.  Back then he would often drink Genesee beer, a lower-priced brew made in upstate New York. He would pour the beer from can to mug and also pour a small amount for me into a Dixie cup.  The cup was almost entirely foam, which was fine by me since the foam was what I was interested in.  I loved the taste and the texture and it felt like a special treat (and a grown-up thing) to share with my dad.  To this day, I love the taste of Genesee.

             When I was younger, it was a family joke that strangers would offer beer to Dad wherever he went.  Two particular times stand out in my mind; they may be the only two times, or they may be the most memorable of many times – I don’t know which.  But either way, it seems that Dad would not say no if offered.

            One of these times occurred when I was very young and we were walking in what I remember as Shenandoah National Park.  It might have actually been a place in Ohio, since I would have been very young when we lived near Shenandoah to have formed such a clear memory.  But wherever or whenever it was, we passed a small group of what were - to my young mind - hippies.  They asked my dad if he wanted a beer, and of course he said yes.  I remember looking back and seeing him accept and begin to drink a can from one of the young men.

            The other memorable occasion occurred in Boston the night after Dad ran the Boston marathon.  That night we went to the No Name seafood restaurant, and I remember it to be loud and crowded, and that people from another table bought beer for Dad.  Perhaps he looked like he had probably just run the marathon – he certainly had the build of a runner.  Or maybe, as we used to say about him, he just looked like someone who needed a beer.

            Appreciating nature and running are two family traditions that have firmly taken root in me.  When I was young, as a family we spent a good amount of time visiting nature by camping and hiking.  When we lived in the DC area, we would go to Shenandoah National Park, with its beautiful Skyline Drive, and the Great Smokey Mountains.  In Ohio we would go to places like Nelson Ledges and Virginia Kendall in what is now the Cuyahoga Valley National Park.  We also took vacations every summer to my mother’s family farm in Northern Wisconsin.  I loved walking and running through the corn fields and pastures of those farm acres, often with my Uncle Jim’s dog.  Sometimes we would travel through Michigan and camp with the car camper in the beautiful forests of northern Michigan and the Upper Peninsula.  And twice we went to wilderness summits put on in the Rocky Mountains and the Appalachian mountains.

            Both my parents were runners as far back as I remember, but especially my father.  And me, too.  Like my sister, I began my running life by running with our parents, and the tradition started so far back that I don’t remember I time when I didn’t run.  Running was something that my parents began in the 1960s, when they were in their late 30s or early 40s.  Dad became a pretty good age group runner in local road races, taking many firsts in his age group.  He had a few nemeses who were about his age, including Jess Belle, the owner of the Bonnie Belle cosmetics company, who sponsored a serious of road races for women only.  Mom has a number of age group trophies – which were bells of various sizes – from those races.

            One highlight of my youth running career was being youngest finisher at age eight of the Cleveland Heart-a-thon half marathon.  Dad was instrumental in encouraging and helping me do that.  My whole family had initially signed up, but one by one they backed out due to injury or lack of training.  But I still wanted to run, and to test my readiness my dad took me out for a 12-mile run to be sure I was fit enough.

            The highlight of my dad’s running career was the Boston marathon, which he qualified for and ran when he was 50 years old.  It was a big deal for us driving to Boston and watching him finish the race.  It was a cool and rainy day, and I remember the Japanese drummers who set up an elaborate traditional drum arrangement, and would play their drums whenever a Japanese runner approached the finish.  Dad’s official time was about 3:05, but I have no doubt that he really ran under three hours that day.  Those were the days before chip timing.  Nowadays every runner has a magnetic chip which records when they cross the start and finish lines and so gives a true individualized time.  But Dad did not have that advantage and it surely took him at least 10 or even 20 minutes just to get to the starting line, so his true time was undoubtedly under three hours, which is very respectable for a man in his fifties.

            In 2010 we took our last trip together as a family when we traveled again to Boston for the marathon.  My dad got to see his daughter and a granddaughter run the marathon, and our family got to relive old memories from our trip to Boston so many years ago.

            As an adult, I combined these two loves instilled by my father and mother – running and nature when I began trail running while living in Northern California.  My dad had a chance to see me run a 50-mile race and also the 100-mile Western States 100.

            I loved hearing my dad tell how he got his start in running.  He and my mom read Kenneth Cooper’s first book, Aerobics.  This book heralded the start of the running and fitness boom that really took off in the early 1970s with the first New York City Marathon and the world-class exploits of Frank Shorter in the Munich Olympics, and his duels in New York and Boston with fellow legend Bill Rodgers.  Kenneth Cooper recommended running in place at home as one way to start an aerobic fitness program.  I’m not sure why he promoted running in place, but perhaps it was because it was unusual at that time to see regular people out running on the streets.  At any rate, my father began running in place in the basement.  One day after he had built up his endurance a bit, he tried running on a track and  - as he would say - he never ran in the basement again.  One day some time later, he and his running partners tried running on the streets and sidewalks, and they never went back to the track.  (That’s not strictly true, because in Cleveland during the winters we would run at the Jewish Community Center’s indoor track.  But in the summers, Dad ran almost exclusively on the streets and sidewalks, and I often ran with him.)  I later extended this evolution when I tried running on trails, and never wanted to run on roads again. 

            Lately I have begun teaching clinics about running form, and I use my father as an example.  His running style was very distinctive, with a high knee lift, upright posture and rhythmic cadence carried through his entire body.  Actually, his form was about perfect by current standards.  I have wondered if his style came in part from his months running in place before he ventured to the track.  Running in place encourages good running habits, and as a form drill is part of the curriculum of the clinics.  I always talk about my father and use him as an example for the benefits of running in place.

            I think my dad and I shared a passion a deeper than running and enjoying nature.  We both have a passion for moving through and exploring the land.  When I run, especially on trials, I take a great pleasure in moving through the land, following its contours, experiencing the life and shape and nature of its trees, grasses shrubs and animals; imbibing the rhythm and the feel of the land which is underneath me and all around me.  I love the mountains, the hills, the forests and the prairies alike, and delight in moving through them all.  My dad and I also shared a love for what he called “lonesome landscapes.” I may have developed this through some sort of osmosis from my father, for I don’t think we spent much time together in such places.  He developed this affinity in the years that he lived as a child in Oklahoma, western Kansas, and South Dakota.  In later days, we both loved a video of the stark landscapes of Iceland.  And I have loved both running and driving through the landscape in South Dakota, Wyoming, Nebraska, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas.

            Dad was a great and prolific driver.  He loved to drive, and I inherited his passion and technique for long distance driving. Like me, he enjoyed seeing new places, even if only driving through them, a passion he perhaps developed taking long car trips with his mother when he was a young man.  Driving is another way to move through the land, and dad loved it as do I.  As a young man, he would drive from Western Kansas into the Rocky Mountains in Colorado.  His sister remembers how he was always wanting to go to the mountains, and she later realized that it was so he could drive on the curvy mountain roadways.  I believe he enjoyed the technical aspects and also the joy of feeling the rhythms and the contours of the land.  In our drives to Florida and South Carolina he would speak with admiration about the highways through the Appalachian Mountains.  And I feel the same joy whether driving cross country or driving on the country roads in Eastern Ohio. 

            Driving is about the only thing that I do efficiently, and I learned this from Dad.  Get on the road early and drive steadily, taking few breaks.  Dad would always bypass as many rest stops as the gas tank would allow, often worrying my mother as the gas gauge would drop down to (and sometimes past) zero.  I do the same.

            I can remember when I was young, my father describing himself as a pessimist.  He would tell us to be pessimistic and to expect and plan for the worst.  He said that people of his generation learned this lesson during the Great Depression, because they learned that nothing is certain.  He also said to hope for the best, but I seem to remember the emphasis on the expect the worst side of the equation.

            But now I know that Dad was not really a pessimist.  He was a dreamer.        He titled his memoir  Reflections of a Life: A Memoir of Dreams and Striving.  Dreams were a central part of Dad’s life from childhood right through the end of his life.  He wrote in his memoir: “I think dreams can be with us all of our days.”  And while dreams can “torment and tantalize” us, they also give our lives hope and meaning.  Poverty is insidious if it robs a person of hope, but even wealth does not guarantee hope and meaning in one’s life.  It is dreams, be they large or small, that make life worth living.

            Dad chased his biggest dreams through writing.  At my father’s funeral mass, the priest remarked that in the roughly twenty years he was pastor at my parents’ church he could not remember ever hearing my father speak.  Dad did not consider himself an effective speaker, especially public speaking.  I suspect he was better than he believed himself to be.  He did have a nice speaking voice, and his genuineness must surely have enhanced his lectures to his business students at Cleveland State University.  Be that as it may, it was not through speaking, but through writing that he primarily and most powerfully engaged with the world.  And it was through writing that he achieved his greatest successes.

            Dad dreamed of making a lasting impact on the world, and he strove to do this through his writing.  As a young professor of business in 1972 he wrote his first book, an introductory marketing textbook titled Marketing: Management and Social Change.  He tried to introduce a strong sense of ethics, compassion, and what today would be called sustainability into business education.  He discussed respect and compassion to workers and customers, race relations, and respect and service to the environment.  Unfortunately, this first book did not sell well, and it was discontinued after its first printing. 

            But Dad continued to pursue his dream.  He went on to author many successful books and teaching manuals, with his forte being manuals employing the case study method.  And he imbued these books with his sense of ethics and fairness.  And many years after his first book, he finally had the opportunity to publish a book about business ethics.  Dad’s academic writing was his major contribution to the business world, as several of his books went through many editions and were translated into many languages.  And they provided a lucrative income for our family.  Even if he was not able to affect business to the extent that he initially dreamed, he kept his dream alive through his writing.  One professor who used Dad’s Marketing Mistakes and Successes book through many editions over fifteen years wrote:

Attesting to Bob's almost magical writing ability, it's about the only case book I've ever been able to get my students to read!  It's a unique book that allowed his creativity and subtle humor to show through.  I feel I've gotten to know him through the years from the multiple editions of this book.  While many other academic authors seem to try to impress readers and often write in an esoteric tone, I always found Bob's books to be written in a straightforward and understandable way while still being rich with insights.  Over the years, many students have commented on this.   He truly will be missed.

            Dad discusses in his memoir how as a child he dreamed of great athletic exploits.  For a skinny kid with a heart murmur (he wrote) this was not a likely dream, but as an adult he found success and satisfaction as a distance runner and local road race participant.  And he also saw modest success and much joy and satisfaction as a handicap golfer.  Dad began golfing as a young man, a pastime that I think he learned from his father.  He and my mother golfed together before they married, and his success with writing enabled him to join the Shaker Country Club, where my parents golfed for many years and my father sometimes won club championships in the category of middling-handicapped members.  Dad taught my sister and me how to golf, too.  It was an activity that I enjoyed very much – there is a satisfying feeling of ease and grace in hitting a perfect golf shot.  Unfortunately, such moments are few and far between for many golfers, including myself.  I would usually get at only one or two of them in any round of golf I played.  I have not become a prolific golfer as an adult, and I occasionally feel some regret about this, as I would like to have shared this more with my father, but I think this is outweighed by the great success he had in instilling a running tradition in to his family.

            Dad’s earliest successes (in school) came through writing, as did his greatest career achievements as an adult.  But his earliest failure also came through writing.  No matter how many dog stories he wrote for his parents he never convinced them to get a family dog.  Some of his last failures also came through writing.  After retiring from teaching, Dad sought to achieve his dream of writing a best-selling novel that would touch the hearts of many.  And while he completed three novels, he never found a publisher and so never an audience for his novels.  His crowning achievement as a writer, though, may be the memoir that he completed in his 83^rd year, shortly before the stroke that would rob him of the ability to write any more.  The memoir is, naturally, a treasure for my sister and I, and I hope for the next generations of our family.  But I think it is also a touching and entertaining literary achievement that can be enjoyed by anyone.  I have posted the memoir on-line and hope that as many as possible will read and enjoy it.

  
            Dad dreamed of things big and small to the end of his days.  Even after his stroke, Dad continued to dream.  Immediately after his stroke he was unable to drive, and he was incensed when he failed a driving competency test a few months after the stroke.  And so he dreamed of driving again.  He never did drive again, but the dream was not a failure because it motivated him to continue his rehab and to regain more of his speech and coordination than he likely would have otherwise.

            And even though he could not drive any more, he continued to have automotive dreams. He had his mind set on buying a new car, perhaps another Lexus or other luxury car.  He never succeeded in this dream either.  Mom (and me) thought it an unwise and unnecessary expense.  But it gave him something to look for, and we spent several pleasant afternoons together visiting dealers and test driving cars.  In the end, Dad felt contented with the fine care that he had bought himself at his retirement.

            And Dad continued to have other dreams.  Dreams of another trip to Greenbrier Resort in West Virginia, and perhaps trips to further places that he had never visited.  Dreams of more beers with his son, and of cookies from his wife.  (Dad was an inveterate cookie monster.)  Dreams of getting off his blood pressure and blood thinner medicines.  And dreams of seeing more of the deer that increasingly populated the yards near our home. 

            After his stroke, Dad would sometimes have trouble finding the words to express himself. Often he would find a suitable synonym, but sometimes not.  Usually his family could understand what he meant, even if his words were wrong.  One winter day he was unable to find the right word for a fawn laying in the snow in the back yard.  The word that came out was carcass.  And from then on he always used the word carcass when he meant deer.  He would ask if I saw any carcasses in the yard.  We knew what he meant.  And he surely loved those carcasses.

            He wrote: “[D]reams do not have to be of heroic proportions, but only of help and compassion toward others, of guidance and inspiration for those who follow, with this perhaps done by example.” 

I believe that my father achieved these things through his books, including his memoir, and most of all by the example of how he lived his life.

            Dad may not have achieved all of his grand and small dreams in exactly the ways he first envisioned, but in pursuit of his dreams he created a rich and successful life.  Dreams of athletic exploits turned into a healthy 40-year lifestyle of healthy exercise and the creation of family memories and traditions.  Running no doubt contributed to the excellent health he enjoyed until just before his death.  Pursuing his dream of transforming the teaching of business led to a successful career with many books translated into many languages, which have impacted business education in modest ways, and also created a secure and comfortable environment for his family to grow in.

            At the end of his memoir Dad wrote about his final dream: “I can only hope that the trace I leave may be read by one who follows me, some empathic and compassionate soul.  But I’ll probably never know.”  I know that he has - at least in the person of me - and I hope in the hearts of others as well.

            My father gave so much to me through the years.  A comfortable and secure home full of love in which to grow. He was a positive role model.  And a writer of dreams.  But the greatest gift from my dad – and his greatest achievement - was also something touched upon by the priest at his funeral mass.  After remarking that he had never heard my father speak, he also said that my father never missed a Sunday mass.  My father was always there. 

            And so he was for my mother, my sister, and me.  My parents had their 50^th anniversary a month before he died, and their marriage was a true loving partnership.  They shared running, golf, religion, and a commitment to health.  They were physically together for most all of the days in their 50 years together, and shared a lifestyle of commitment to one another and their children.  And they supported each other throughout.  For his family, Dad was always there.  For me, he was always there. 

            And so Dad’s spirit will always be alive in my heart.

            Always.

Chapter 1: The Early Years up to Des Moines

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REFLECTIONS OF A LIFE, Chapter 17: Reflections at the Sunset

Chapter 17

Reflections at the Sunset

At the sunset of my life, it seems fitting to ponder the makeup of my life, the fulfillment or lack thereof of my dreams, what has guided me even if only subconsciously, what I have learned or think I have learned that is worth passing on, and whatever philosophy or perspective I may have gained.

Aim High— Do not underestimate what you can accomplish. -- A major goal or philosophy of my life has been to make the most of modest talents.  Academia seemed to best offer that possibility, and maximizing my writing ability was an enduring goal.  Could I have done better?  I don't think it was from lack of trying, and perhaps this should be satisfaction enough.  But somehow it doesn’t seem to be.  If I had gotten into academia sooner, and had more years to develop my writing, and particularly my fiction-writing skills, maybe I would have achieved more.  If I had pursued a career in medicine, would I have made a bigger contribution?  Perhaps.  But I’m not sure the quality of life would have been as good.

            The business world offered few possibilities beyond providing income to have a decent lifestyle for an uncertain future.  At one time working for large firms meant security, but in the last few decades such assurances faded as firms downsized and merged and outsourced and showed no loyalty or compassion to their employees.  What has also bothered me about the world of business has been the near universal selfishness that permeates it, with admittedly a few exceptions.  Is this what I wanted with my life?  I pondered such in my early adult years, and decided it wasn't.  This led me to pursue academics where perhaps I could make a difference in guiding young minds, and writing articles and books that might show better ways toward customer and employee relations, and even environmental and community concerns.  I'm not sure my efforts in teaching and writing have had much impact.  But maybe they have, more than I know.   

The search for serenity and tranquillity. -- Increasingly in my later years, I have sought the peaceful life.  This has influenced my social life, my preferences for entertainment, my attitude toward other people, my health, and my religion and approach to God.  When I was younger, I never had such concerns, and doubt many young people do.  At stake, however, is what should be the priorities in our lives as they relate to our personal desired quality of life.

           

Entertainment preferences. -- I prefer soft music, such as the sweet ballads of my youth, and detest rock and roll.  I do like some classical music, but others bore me.  I have never been a fan of opera, and still remember how I fell asleep in an opera I had taken Dorothy to in our courting days when I was trying to impress her.  An evening listening to an orchestra playing unfamiliar music, and trying to sustain interest at the sight of the musicians plying their talents, is mostly a bore.  So I guess I have developed little aptitude for culture.   Even most stage plays leave me unimpressed, and in my opinion compare poorly with the better movies.             

 

            Increasingly as I have grown older I shun parties if I can avoid them—sometimes   obligations compel attending, but I rarely enjoy the noise and efforts to make conversation.  A quiet evening at home with Dorothy, reading a good book, watching TV, listening to good music, or trying to write, is more to my liking and more conducive to the serenity and tranquillity I seek.

         

Attitudes toward other people. -- I try to be friendly and to look pleasant, i.e., no frowning or scowling.  (Sometimes with my golf game that was not possible.)  I believe I am a humble man, tolerant, empathetic, rather patient, liking most people—all nice traits.  However, some people turn me off, and I do my best to minimize contact with the loud voiced, the egocentric, the arrogant, those who flaunt their wealth and station in life.  Such people include many politicians, entertainers and sports stars, the rich and famous, or those who think they are.  As I’ve gotten older, I know I would not easily tolerate aggressive and domineering bosses.  In academia I have been able to avoid such situations since department chairmen and even deans and higher administrators usually hold their positions with the consent of the faculty, and not in the boss/subordinate relationship of government or the business world.  If I had stayed in business, I surely would have sought to be an entrepreneur.  Whether I would have been economically successful in this, with only limited funds to invest, is uncertain.

            The role of God and religion. -- Both Dorothy and I were raised as Roman Catholics, and reared our children in this faith.  We have been diligent churchgoers, though I think Dorothy’s faith is stronger than mine.  I seem to feel closer to God not in the environment of ritual and humanity but in the quietness of peaceful surroundings.

            As one grows older, awareness of the unknown lurking in the future has to occupy the mind on occasion.  Especially is this true when one has health problems, or knows of close friends who have or who have recently passed away—one’s mortality becomes more real.

            I think not to have faith in a just and compassionate God, in the gentle Jesus, and in the resurrection of the body and life everlasting, would indeed make one’s twilight years bleak and even despairing.  So, I often pray for a deeper and enduring faith.  I find comfort in realizing that even the atheist has faith—he has faith that there is no God.  Far better to have faith that there is a God and hopefully a better life awaiting, where we will join our departed loved ones.  What sustains me in this belief is that far wiser men than myself have firmly believed this through the ages.      

            I have read that we need to develop more closeness to God, that we should invite Him to come into our hearts, even to walk with us.  I’m not sure many people are able to achieve this.  I can remember only one instance when I did.  I had severely broken my shoulder and was in the early stages of recovery, still having considerable pain and an unknown rehab future.  Unable to run, I built myself up to walking miles on forested paths near home.  As I walked through these peaceful surroundings I kept inviting Jesus to come into my heart, to abide with me, to walk with me.  And suddenly one day I felt an umbrella of comfort and serenity come over me, and I could imagine myself walking in the embrace of the Lord.  Well, I’ve not been able to achieve this sense of closeness again, but I suspect most people of faith do experience such comfort on their death beds. 

REFLECTIONS OF A LIFE, Chapter 16: Checking Out Old Memories

Chapter 16

Checking Out Old Memories

            In the summer of my 78^th year, I had a yearning to revisit the places of my youth.  I suspect this is a natural urge for some people, and is encouraged by high school and college reunions.  I tried to analyze my reasons for contemplating such pilgrimages, but they seemed hidden in the deep recesses of ancient memories.  Maybe they come from wanting to imagine again what it was like to be young, to salvage the long-ago feelings and perceptions. More likely, it reflects a curiosity to see the changes wrought in over fifty years and how the realities might differ from the memories.

            Three places were most prominent in my youthful memories.  I had lived on the high plains of western Kansas at a very impressionable age, going to the 2^nd and 3^rd grades in Norton, and in later summers, visiting my dad and his family for one or two weeks and learning to drive on the lonesome two-lane roads between his stores that usually culminated in a thrilling trip to Denver and the mountains that never failed to tantalize me—with me doing most of the driving.  Mountains still so affect me—maybe some primordial magnetism—as does the treeless rolling land of big vistas of these western plains, be they Kansas, Nebraska, or Dakota.

            My mother and I left Kansas for South Dakota and I went to the 4^th grade in Watertown, in the northeastern part of the state.  This was still a treeless land but flatter than farther west, with a few lakes, but far colder and a land of the constant wind.

            Finally, my mother and I left Dakota for Des Moines, Iowa where we lived from the 5^th grade through college at Drake University.  After the barrenness of Kansas and Dakota, this seemed a promised land with trees and greenery, and a really big city in the eyes of a child.  This was to have the most memories and was the longest I had ever lived at one place, until decades later I grew deep roots in Shaker Heights.  Among the many memories were those of streetcars, brick streets, scampering squirrels, the time I won a kid’s fishing contest with a 16” sucker, the happy days at Drake University where I was one of the few youngsters amid the host of veterans just back from the War. 

            So, the second week of July Dorothy and I packed up the faithful Lexus and drove to Des Moines.  We could have made it in one day, but encountered massive highway construction south of Chicago, about the worst ever.  So we stopped at Iowa City, home of the University of Iowa, where I had participated at a week-long writers’ workshop ten years before.  We reached Des Moines by noon the next day, and found the city center beset with a colossal highway construction project.

            I tried to stimulate the old memories, to nourish them, to try to cherish them.  But in truth the memories were far better than the realization.  Downtown had grown seedy with the closing of the major department store a few years before.  Younkers had once covered a square block, but now was an abandoned hulk, a massive eyesore with no foreseeable solution, a conundrum, since even if razed would still be a gaping sore.  The restaurants and shops that it nourished were gone as well.  I know that many cities have lost major downtown department stores—they are prospering in the suburbs—but some were able to convert the buildings to offices or even apartments and condos.  Apparently not so in Des Moines.

            We drove past the neighborhoods where I had lived, and they were all slums now.  Well, this should have been no surprise.  In fifty years, these lower-middle class neighborhoods likely would have so deteriorated;  it would have been a surprise if they had not.  The city no longer has any brick streets, and no streetcars.  But the squirrels are still there—as they also are in Shaker.

 We drove past St. John’s Church and grade school to where I used to walk from our modest apartment.  The church is big, bigger than the bishop’s cathedral downtown.  It had been constructed in the optimism just before the Depression in the late 1920s.  As harsh economic conditions beset the land, the big windows were plain glass instead of the planned stained glass.  I had wondered if they had ever got their stained glass.  And they had, sometime in the years after I left.  But now the school is closed, and the church evidently has only a few masses.  It probably is too big to tear down, but seems only a backwater, far from the mainstream.

We drove past some of the grand avenues and boulevards I remembered from my youth.  Some of these mansions are still standing, but most are no longer single residences.  The heart of a once vibrant city has been diffused to the suburbs.

            Finally, we stopped at Drake University.  I wanted to donate some of my Mistakes books to the business school.  Drake, despite some new buildings seems to be tired as it sits on the edge of poor neighborhoods.  This is not uncommon for many old universities these days, as their neighborhoods have deteriorated around them, and their campuses have consequently become more internally oriented, with buildings supplying a protective shield from the external environment.  I did not get to meet the dean who was on vacation, but the staff were very cordial and even treated me as some sort of celebrity:  an old alumnus who had published all these books and is a professor emeritus at a distant university.  A few weeks later I got letters from the dean and from the department of alumni affairs.  I think they adopted some of my books.

REFLECTIONS OF A LIFE, Chapter 15: Thoughts on Personal Finance

Chapter 15

Thoughts on Personal Finance

            I would say that Dorothy and I have done far better financially than I would ever have expected.  While we are by no means wealthy, we have been able to reach our retirement years comfortable and without the financial worries that plague many people.  It has not always been so with us, for my income never was more than modest, only reaching the low six figures near the end of my academic career.  You do not go into teaching to get rich, even at the college level.  Admittedly, at the college level you have opportunities for much more supplemental income than teachers at other educational levels who must spend the bulk of their time with classroom duties.  Still, most of my colleagues at the universities I've been a part of have not well tapped the potential for supplemental income.

            I would like to tell you what I see as the secrets of our success, the principles that guided Dorothy and me through our lives.

            Embracing frugality. — People in our generation growing up before World War II have for the most part been branded by the Great Depression of the 1930s.  The harsh economic conditions instilled a mindset far different from that of our children and grandchildren growing up in much more affluent times.  We learned to husband our resources, be they a few pennies from a dime or quarter allowance (if, indeed, the family could even dole out allowances), or the few dollars we might earn as we got older from cutting grass, babysitting, delivering newspapers and the like.  I well remember getting 50 cents for a hot afternoon cutting a neighbor's lawn; this was almost a windfall as smaller lawns went for a quarter.  When I got my first job at seventeen as a soda jerk at Hines Cigar Store in downtown Des Moines, I felt affluent at getting 35 cents an hour—this sure beat cutting lawns and delivering papers.

            The lessons of forced frugality were all positive.  They taught us delayed gratification.  We became accustomed to saving up for major purchases, such as an air rifle, archery set, or bicycle.  In those days credit cards had not yet arrived, and we would not have qualified for one if they had.  But the patience imposed and the diligence in saving carried over to adulthood and a lifetime.

            A frugal lifestyle brought with it a shunning of extravagances.  We did not need the most expensive item to be happy; a more modest product usually would do just as well.  As I became an expert in marketing, my prejudices against buying the most expensive product were reinforced.  I knew with certainty that the most expensive brands, be they clothing, beer and liquor, shoes, appliances, even cars, were generally poor values for the money.  They carried by far the highest percentage profit margins for the manufacturers and for the vendors, so that even if the quality were a little better, it certainly was not enough better to be worth the high markup and price.  In my research studies I learned that the claims for the purity and health benefits of bottled water were a farce: this water that is more expensive than even beer and soft drinks is no better than tap water, and often less pure.  Marketing hype accounts for the delusion of consumers.

            A frugal lifestyle seeks the best value for the money.  When considering a purchase, whether a tangible product or a vacation and lodging, or a night out on the town.  I like to ask myself this question: are we likely to enjoy the product (or experience) enough to be worth the price?  Sometimes Dorothy and I disagree about the value of the experience.  For example, I find it hard to justify paying $150 to go to a play, which at best will be enjoyed only for a few hours, while if I don't like it, they ought to pay me for wasting my time.  But we sometimes still go to plays.

            We have practiced judicious frugality all our lives, and we have enjoyed the challenge of getting the most for our money in value and satisfaction.  We have not felt deprived if we didn't always stay at the grandest hotel or eat at the fanciest restaurant.  But the tangible results have been well worth it. 

            Be a knowledgeable investor. — I firmly believe that everyone should seek to be well versed in the basics of personal finance and investing, regardless of income and assets.  Ideally, this pursuit of knowledge should come as early in life as possible.  It can be an intriguing lifetime endeavor.  Books abound on personal finance and investing, while even high schools and adult education programs offer such classes.  As a person is able to accumulate more and more discretionary income (income beyond basic necessities), such knowledge becomes more important.  But it is also important in motivating saving so that you have something to invest.  Numerous research studies have found that those who are most irrational in their spending are not the very wealthy but the very poor.  Those so mired in hopeless poverty lack the motivation to even try to escape it. 

           

Be wary of financial advisers. — The alternative to developing reasonable knowledge is to leave this to someone else, to delegate these decisions perhaps to a banker or a financial adviser.  Unless a person has a very large estate, well into the millions, I do not think a financial adviser is necessary and may actually be injurious for those who are too trusting.  Even with a large estate it is better to seek advice on only limited matters, and not entrust much of the portfolio to these consultants.  The advice they give is seldom any better than your own judgment, if you have made a reasonable study of the subject.  They charge big fees to handle your investments and they tend to be biased toward options that give them more commissions, such as annuities and broker-dealing mutual funds.  Sometimes an estate can be decimated by financial "experts" who put your portfolio into risky speculative investments, or in the worst scenario be guilty of fraudulent actions.  Even under the best circumstances, the management fees for such advice and actions are considerable, and commission rates for frequent trades benefit only the broker.      

            Under no circumstances would I ever give any professionals free rein with my portfolio, to manage it as they see fit and without my approval of all decisions.  Of course, if you know nothing about investing then you are vulnerable to opportunistic brokers and consultants, just like a little old lady who is a patsy to be preyed upon. But even this little old lady can learn enough from books and other sources to have some savvy.

            I became hooked on investing in my twenties.  I had a poor-paying management-trainee job with Penney’s—they told us the job “has great future earnings, but you have to be patient.”  As I mentioned earlier, Virgil Meyer, a good friend and my age, was with Shell Oil Company working far less hours and making twice as much as me, and was investing steadily.  This spurred me to read everything I could about investing, even though with extreme frugality I was able to squirrel away only a few hundred dollars to invest every three or four months.

           

Invest for the long haul and don’t worry about short-term fluctuations. — Short-term traders seldom do as well as long-term investors.  The in-and-out buying and selling incurs heavy expense and tax consequences, and requires a time commitment incompatible with most job demands.  This doesn’t mean that you should never sell a losing investment, but patience may be better rewarded.

Vanguard Mutual Funds. — Mutual funds offer the best way to invest for the person new to the game or unable to devote a lot of time to investing.  But there is a great variety to choose from, with some much better than others in their return on your money.  I like the Vanguard family of funds because they charge the lowest expenses in the industry, and are very efficient, customer friendly, and ethical.  Furthermore, you buy these direct, not through a broker middleman.  I’ve even written up the Vanguard success story in several of my books.  These will give you a steady and growing income, more so than savings or money-market accounts, and without the risk of most individual stock investments.  Vanguard offers many funds, including corporate bond funds, tax-exempt funds, as well as many stock categories and balanced funds that include both stocks and bonds in their portfolios.

Diversify your investments. — As you accumulate more money to invest,

diversification becomes more and more important if you are not to subject yourself to unacceptable risks.  Let me explain why, and then talk more specifically about how to diversify.

            The opposite of diversification is to put all your “eggs in one basket.”  This would be akin to putting all your money on one number at the roulette table.  Of course, if your number comes up you win big, but the odds are so heavily against you as to be scary.  Mutual funds offer diversification, but one or two funds probably do not offer enough.  With the plethora of mutual funds today, choices are mind-boggling.  I find that with a good mutual fund family, such as Vanguard, more than one fund is still desirable if your portfolio is much over $25,000.  A money market fund gives you great liquidity for expected purchases or expenditures.  A stock fund is desirable, such as Vanguard’s Windsor and/or the 500 Index Fund, for long-term capital appreciation.  A balanced fund, such as Wellington or Wellesley, gives you a taste of both stocks and bonds.  As you have more money to invest, you may want to increase your investment income by buying some bond funds, such as High-Yield Corp, and maybe a Tax Exempt Fund.  As you acquire still more assets to invest, other investment opportunities may seem promising, such as Emerging Markets, or Small Cap Stocks.  As you become more knowledgeable about investing you may want to try your hand at buying some individual stocks, and closely following these stocks in the papers.  Still, beware of too much concentration, or on the other hand too much diversification that becomes difficult to pay adequate attention to.  Generally, half a dozen different investments would be sufficient for a $25,000 portfolio.  For a million-dollar portfolio, twenty might be the maximum.   

REFLECTIONS OF A LIFE, Chapter 14: Writing in My Life

Chapter 14

      Writing in My Life     

           

            I have talked before about my lifelong love of writing.  Somehow, working with words—trying to arrange them for clarity, simplicity, and even inspirational overtones in my academic writing—has been intriguing, and amazingly several books have remained popular for over thirty years.

            Not all my writing efforts for academic books have been successful, however.  Basic textbooks in Introduction to Marketing, Retailing, Sales Management, and Marketing Research, for which I had high expectations, had mediocre sales, even though several went into 2nd and 3rd editions.  But the sales potential was never realized.  More recently I wrote Business Ethics: Mistakes and Successes that editors at Wiley had high expectations for, but this still had disappointing sales.

On the other hand, my supplemental Mistakes and Successes books for Management and Marketing have surprised everyone with their enduring popularity.  Students and professors seem to like the case studies about such businesses and some of the personalities involved, all written in hands-on, easy-to-read fashion, rather than the dry academic.  Various editions of these books have been translated into a number of languages, including Spanish, Russian, Chinese, Korean, Portuguese (for the Brazil market), Finnish, Arabic, Yiddish, Croatian, and Japanese.  The Japanese, in particular, have been keenly interested in these books, apparently eager to especially read about mistakes of U. S. firms.  It is the success of these nonfiction books that has sustained me in my dream of becoming a writer.

            But efforts at fiction have been acute disappointments.

            Fiction efforts. — I wrote my first fiction, dog stories, as a little boy, unpublished of course.  Years later, while acting manager of the Superior, Wisconsin Penney store, I wrote a short story that was published in Creative Wisconsin, a small literary journal.  It was about a young wife facing the loneliness of having her man away for long periods on Great Lakes ore ships.  “Those Who Wait,” written in 1960, is shown in its entirety in Appendix B.

            In the decades to come, I had little time to try fiction again.  Then about five years from retirement, the old dream to write novels became a passion.  I read everything I could about writing novels, joined several writing and critique groups, went to numerous writing conferences, and even a week-long writers' workshop at the University of Iowa.   I immersed myself in the quest to write publishable novels, and wanted to write stories that would touch the heart, stir emotions, that might even be memorable.  As I write this I have written, revised, and polished three novels.  The first, The Unforgotten, is a love story involving a handicapped woman:

               

She is the most beautiful woman Professor Tom Prentice has ever known, and he falls in love, even though Ginny Russo has muscular dystrophy. Because of her illness she will not consider marriage, but he maintains his love is undying, and eventually she consents.  Just before the wedding she gets much worse, and they break up. Some months later Tom tries to find her, berating himself for so willingly accepting this severing, but she has disappeared. Twenty-two years later, at their old dean's funeral he learns they both are remembered in the will. With his own marriage in shambles, now his memories of Ginny and his enduring love overwhelm him, and he determines to find her in whatever desperate straits she may be.  But his resolve is sorely tested.

Written from the male point of view, The Unforgotten bares the conflicts and emotions of falling in love with a severely handicapped person.

            The idea for this unusual love story came from a beautiful paraplegic I had in my class one semester.  I came to wonder if this lovely person would ever find love, and what might be the thoughts and emotions of the man who would truly love her.

            For the various revisions I sent out close to two hundred queries seeking any interest by literary agents and editors.  None were interested.  Finally in the spring of 2001, I found a local firm to print 100 copies of the manuscript and bind into a paperback  with no fancy cover.  In my naivete I thought such a book might stand out from all the other sensationalized covers.  Well, stand out it did, but not in any positive way.  Local libraries bought about 30 copies; I gave some away to friends and relatives, and was able to persuade a few local bookstores to stock them.  But the few books I have left can be a dubious legacy to those who follow me.  I had not expected to make any money on this venture into self-publishing, but the lack of interest exceeded my most pessimistic expectations.  What rubbed salt in the wounds was that the printer had done a poor job with the binding, and the pages loosened with any use at all.

            I found that self-publishing a novel is the kiss of death in getting any agent or publisher interest.  And no reviewers will give it any publicity.  So I attempted to repackage this first novel with a new title, Dare to Dream, and a three-page prologue that I polished and thought added to the emotional appeal of the book.  In queries I do not mention now that I had self-published, but sent what I thought was a dynamite query letter and prologue, see Appendix B, and was prepared to send a manuscript if there was any interest.  To date, no one has asked to see it.

            The second novel is historical, about the Civil War period, with the title Odyssey from Antietam:  A Medical Novel of the Civil War and Aftermath.  I have revised and polished this to the point where I thought it should appeal to anyone interested in the Civil War and early medicine, and in the struggle of one woman to break into a profession dominated by men.  Here is the publicity sheet:

The Power of Love Defies the Atrocities of War!  Antietam was the bloodiest single day of the Civil War and all of U.S. history.  Behind the battle were individuals who faced extreme danger while struggling to survive.  Could there possibly be love amid the hatred of war?   

Odyssey From Antietam is a story of struggle and prejudice, but also of discovery and pursuit of dreams.  Sarah, a Union battlefield nurse, discovers a God-given talent, and dreams of becoming a surgeon in a time when few women are even doctors, and none are surgeons.  The night after the battle she wanders the field looking for any wounded still left unattended, and finds Thad, a Confederate major, nearly dead under bodies on the most fiercely contested terrain of the battle, the Sunken Road, and saves his life.  He falls in love with her but recognizes the futility of it, he an enemy and a cripple.  With the War ended, Thad, now a professor at a small college, doggedly seeks to find Sarah and finally learns she is in Paris studying medicine.  But the bitterness of Reconstruction and the Franco-Prussian War make finding Sarah an impossible dream.  A crippled Negro girl who is a genius plays an important role in the mystery.

Richly-layered, with endearing characters, Antietam depicts the power of love.  It also resounds with the message, “Dream big—never give up.”  The book represents a rather different approach to the Civil War, the medical perspective.

            I also sent out hundreds of queries for the various versions over the years, with no interest.  In 2005, I again resorted to self-publishing, this time with a print-on-demand publisher, Xlibris, that with the new computer technology could print any quantity, even one book, in an attractive package as good or better than traditional publishers, for a very modest $500, a basic price for a single book.  Additional copies add to the costs but are not unreasonable. Copyediting and any alteration fees also add to the costs, as do various marketing services.  I avoided these supplemental costs by doing the editing myself, and now have a book to be proud of.  I tried to stimulate sales in local bookstores through word-of-mouth publicity by students and friends to whom I gave copies with the wish that they read the book and if they like it, recommend it to their friends.  My hopes that such efforts would stimulate demand were not realized. 

            While I did not expect to make any money from this caper, I would be satisfied just to get some people to read it and maybe find how good it is.  Nearly a dozen people did praise it, even saying that they were profoundly moved.  But being self-published, I could get no publicity or reviews.  At this point, the only chance of having even modest success seemed to be if a major publisher would take on the project, and in my queries to literary agents I urged them to see the attractive book before summarily rejecting the query.  But no one would even sample it.  If I should have any success with repackaging the first novel, I will attempt something similar with this second one, changing the title to Journey From War, and making no mention of it being self published.

            I had thought my third novel, a thriller titled The Whistleblower, might find more interest and acceptance because of the current topic with its suspenseful plot of corporate corruption.  But results were the same—no agent or editor willing to even look at it.  The difficulty for an unknown author of getting a first novel published with the stigma of self-publishing, grows ever stronger and more elusive, with far less than one percent of unsolicited queries ever eliciting interest.

            I wrote the following personal essay to express my futility.  This was published in the newsletter of a local writing group.

Pursuit of a Dream

           

I have a dream to write stories that touch the heart, after years of writing the academic.  Seven years ago I began an odyssey of hope and striving to become a published novelist.

            Writing novels has brought a magic I never before experienced in decades of writing nonfiction.  I become engrossed with my major characters.  I live with them their worries, conflicts, frustrations and despairs, their dreams and hopes, their loves, and their triumphs.  As I walk in their shoes, time flees as a thief in the night.

            This dream of writing fiction tests the limits of perseverance, of persistence, steadfastness—all positive virtues.  But it is only a thin line to the negative: futile obsession, inability to recognize defeat, even neurotic casting of blame.  Tilting at windmills is nothing new.  The classic tale of Don Quixote trying to knock down windmills with his lance expresses this futility.

            My dream has been sorely tested by the reality of publishing today.  Many publishers, some sympathetic to mid-list (average) writers, have been taken over by big corporations preoccupied with the bottom line.  These have no room in their listings for unknown writers likely never destined for best sellers.  Something else also makes it harder for new writers to ever break in: while computers make writing easier and faster, this results in literary agents, editors, and publishers being deluged with manuscripts.

            In late September 2001, I attended a two-day writers conference in Columbus, Ohio.  Over 300 would-be writers were there—the largest attendance ever for this conference—and only three literary agents.  One woman told me she had two unpublished novels and I told her I had three, but had recently published one myself.  Later, another person told me she had seven, all unpublished.  I asked if she would ever write another one.  "Oh yes," she said.  "I live in hope."

            Still, the hope of non-celebrity authors with no publishing connections has to be dim indeed.  That evening, after the panel of agents finished their presentations, the wannabe writers lined up to make a pitch to the agents who amusedly gave each a few minutes and a sprig of encouragement.  I had thought with my finished book in hand, even though self-published, that an editor or agent would be willing to look at it.  But I was naive.  For example, one said, "Don't bother me with your book.  Send me a query letter.  We'll put it at the bottom of the pile and eventually get to it.  There's always a possibility we'll want to see more."

            I chanced upon the agent in the hallway the next morning and asked him what the odds were of such a query letter interesting him.  "Infinitesimal," he said.

            "One percent?" I asked.

            "Much less than that," he admitted.  Then he slightly relented.  "Do you think your book is great?"

            I solemnly told him I thought it was.

            "Well, send the query letter if you think it's a masterpiece, and we'll see."

            I wanted to ask him if he'd know a masterpiece if he saw one.  But I held my tongue.

            So what is the unknown writer, with no one to influence agents and editors in his or her behalf, to do?  For most, the result is closet manuscripts, maybe noble novels that are to be forever unread and relegated to storage where the yellowing pages, under the best scenario, in some future time may grab the attention of a grandchild or great grandchild, and be read.

            The saddest thing for any writer is to write what seems a wonderful and moving book, but to find no one but a few intimates willing to read it.  Books are meant to be read.  While the actual writing may at times be highly pleasurable, if the effort is not read it is all for naught.  It is similar to the minister who spends days preparing a magnificent sermon and then has to deliver it to a near-empty church.  Except the writer spends months and even years in the endeavor.

            Another recourse is self-publishing.  This is costly and almost never breaks even for novels, but may for nonfiction books of local interest, how to's, and topics for specific audiences.  Print-on-demand publishing has a place in the market for that writer who  would be satisfied to have a few dozen books published at a small total price, perhaps under a thousand dollars, but a high price per book, maybe $25 or $30 dollars for a paperback (or less if the author is willing to sell books at a loss). 

            After writing three novels, and enduring hundreds of rejections for the various revisions, rejections usually couched impersonally without even a signature--"this is not for us, but we wish you well"--I decided to publish one myself.

            I chose my first novel, The Unforgotten, which I have revised and refined for seven years.  This is a story of a man falling in love with a handicapped woman, and combines emotional conflict, suspense, mystery, and a search that seems hopeless.  One person told me it reminded her of Love Story by Eric Segal, written over thirty years ago, that was made into a movie with Ali McGraw and Ryan O'Neil; several others likened it to books of Nicholas Sparks.  Well, such brings some solace, except no reviewer will look at it since it is self-published.  The quest to find readers falls on sterile ground, destroying hope that word-of-mouth would bring a groundswell of demand.

            But how we cling to hope.  I still have a sliver of hope that something fortuitous will spur interest.

            Would I self-publish again, knowing what I do now?  I would, just to have something tangible to show for all my efforts, a legacy that may or may not be of interest to future generations.  But it leaves a trace, just in case.