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The Second Third, Week 14: Not Giving a Damn

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

Blogger’s Note: Yes, yes…most of you know, but occasionally I get a new visitor. So in case you’re that guy or gal, the whole idea behind these “Second Third” posts can be found here.

My father’s machinist-mentor Chuck used to have a slogan hanging on the wall of his shop, and to this day, Dad continues to quote it: Old age and treachery will overcome youth and skill. As you might guess, not being particularly skillful, I spent most of my youth thoroughly overcome by the treacherous old fellow.

Dad genuinely has different abilities and interests than me — that’s part of it — not to mention vastly more experience. But as I’ve become a father myself and watched my own children gaze in wide wonder at my courage, skill, knowledge, and strength, I find things that used to be a struggle come easier to me. In this respect, life in my Second Third is vastly more enjoyable that the previous 35 years — and I believe I know why.

See, when I was a kid, I was worried about million different things: screwing up, failing, disappointing myself, letting others down, looking stupid, getting hurt, hurting someone else, you name it. As the young samurai says in The Last Samurai, “Too many mind.” I was so wound up about about everything, so lacking in self-confidence, that I couldn’t accomplish anything without a messing up. My worries were often self-fulfilling prophecies.

My friend Father Tyler made a similar observation when he turned 30 last month: “[T]he pride which so hobbled my willingness to try then has been tempered. At thirty (especially as a professed celibate) it is much easier to not give a damn about how foolish one appears.”

I am not a professed celibate, but I can relate. I’m still not graceful, not mechanically inclined, etc. — but I can do many things I never used to simply because I’m no longer so tightly wound about them. Because I’m more secure in myself than I used to be, I can work within my limitations, ask questions, and be more patient — and it pays off more often than not.* In my Second Third, many** of the things that used to stress me and hold me back simply don’t concern me anymore. And as Fr. Tyler so aptly concluded, “To not give a damn, I am coming to understand, is one of the richest graces of full-fledged adulthood.”
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*Of course, being 6’3″ and about 240 helps, too, at least in terms of striking fear in children, and intimidation, like treachery, goes a long way in overcoming youthful prowess. And if I force it — and I do from time to time — I still fall flat.

**Not quite all…but I’m working on it.

The Second Third, Week 13 (Belated): Overcommit

/ J. Thorp / 3 Comments

Blogger’s Note: The whole idea behind these “Second Third” posts can be found here.

So I should technically be writing Week 14 of this series, which proved to be far more interesting in my head than it appears on screen. This is last week’s entry — exactly a week late and, ironically enough, about the tendency I have to overcommit myself.

Several natural but unfortunate tendencies contribute to my inclination to promise more than I can deliver:

  • First, I tend toward optimism: I can do it, things will work out, stars will align, etc.
  • Second, I’m horrible at estimating the time a thing will take.
  • Third, I tend to expand into the space I’m given, leaving no room for error or delay.
  • Fourth, I like what I like, and when I like it, I want to be involved. I say yes more than I ought, and don’t like to back down. Enthusiasm + pride + a touch of the martyr = unrealistic deadlines and self-imposed misery.
  • Fifth, I’m no manager. I like to do more than to delegate and direct, and filling someone in on a project (and then relinquishing control) nearly always seems waaaaay more difficult and time-consuming that just doing it myself.

Multiply these tendencies across multiple projects and decisions per day, and you can see A) why I’m a week late on this post and have blogged almost nothing besides these “weekly” Second Third posts since I promised to do them; B) why, when I look more than a few hours ahead on any given day, I feel nauseous; and C) why I’ve yet to teach my children any number of things I already knew how to do when I was their age.

This cannot stand. No is such a clear and easy word; I must pronounce it more frequently. I can’t blow my Second Third on ill-considered obligations I take on myself.

The Second Third, Week 12 (Belated): Get It In Writing

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

Blogger’s Note: The whole idea behind these “Second Third” posts can be found here.

Since high school at least — maybe even prior to that — I’ve wanted to write, if not for a living, than at least for kicks and a few extra bucks. I went to college thinking I wanted to teach biology, but a year of chemistry and lab alongside my first English class (a creative non-fiction course) tweaked my thinking. I felt like I could write, felt like I should write…and by sophomore year, I figured I would write if I could find a way to make a go of it.

A poetry professor, when he learned I hoped to be a writer, advised that I not major in English (Yale didn’t have journalism), insisting that those who hire writers would see someone who know composition or literature and little else. He said I should choose a major that permitted me to take a little bit of everything, so I would emerge a well-rounded thinker. I chose anthropology, focused on human evolution, and took science courses, history courses, you name it.

I graduated and began looking for work as a writer. Everyone seemed to want experience, or an English or Journalism degree. I applied for obit writer in the Rapid City Journal. No dice. I sold housewares and luggage at Younkers department store in Sioux Falls, and began to think about teaching again. We learned we were pregnant, moved to Michigan, and I took temporary work installing fixtures in a new Kaybee Toys store outside Detroit. The new manager saw potential and offered me full-time work when it opened. Instead we moved in with my folks and kept looking.

Finally I got an interview with The Pioneer, a six-day-a-week newspaper where I grew up. The editor told me later they were looking for someone with experience or a journalism major, but wanted to know what a Yale grad was doing applying to their little paper. I showed them some writing samples, and they agreed to “test” me — have me come to a city commission meeting with the editor and write a story, not for publication, of course; her story would be for paper. We went to the meeting; I wrote the story — not as fast as she would’ve liked, and I didn’t know AP Style, but the story was solid. She actually agreed to run it and pay me as a freelancer for several weeks while the reporter I was replacing wound down his remaining time at the paper.

I’ve worked as a writer ever since, which is a victory. In my time at The Pioneer, I served as a reporter, editorial writer, columnist, copy editor, night editor/paginator, weekly editor, assistant managing editor, and occasional photographer. (We all took our own photos.) After that, I went to work for Ferris State University, initially as a three-quarter-time, multi-purpose writer: alumni magazine articles, fundraising pieces, letters…until my boss decided, after a couple of rewrites by her marketing firm, that the new Ferris view book needed a different voice, relatively young but well informed. She turned the entire piece over to me, an amazing amount of unwarranted trust. It came off well, and they hired me as full-time media relations manager. From there: corporate marketing, writing sales material, direct-mail copy, and web content for FedEx, Cargill, Sherwin Williams, and RSM McGladrey. Then back to campus at the University of Minnesota, first as a “strategic writer” (a multipurpose position like my first stop at Ferris) and ever since, as presidential communications officer and speechwriter. I’ve even done a little freelancing in my free time, for neighborhood newspapers and international martial arts publications. I’m a kung fu writer!

It’s been a good career, encompassing nearly every kind of professional writing you can imagine outside of fiction and poetry. Unfortunately, there lies the problem.

You see, I’ve dabbled in poetry for years, and have more than one novel started…but as a father of four with a full-time job, I barely find time enough to spend with my wife, let alone hole up again and write fiction. In this regard, in fact, I sometimes wish I’d taken the Kaybee job: At the end of a long day writing, the last thing I want to come home to is more writing. Get up, battle traffic, write, review, revise, review, revise, battle traffic, eat, crash, repeat. My kids used to say I was a writer, until they asked me to show them something I’ve written. It wasn’t a book. They were underwhelmed.

Grrr.

In my Second Third, however, things are looking up. My infinitely patient writer friends continue to prod and cajole me. And I’ve lined up a new position, working on a few bigger publishing projects. I’m looking at a much more flexible schedule in the short term and the ability to work remotely. Less time on the road and in the office. Less time shopping content to multiple reviewers. More time to read and write — and the ability to carve out blocks of time to work on my own stuff.

Y’know how smokers are told to never quit quitting. Rest assured I’ll never stop starting — but it’s about time I finished, don’t you think?

The Second Third, Week 11: Number-Crunched

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

Blogger’s Note: The whole idea behind these “Second Third” posts can be found here.

First, let me say that when I launched this Second Thirds thing, it wasn’t supposed to become the only thing I’m writing here. That’s not the intent, and I will get better about posting more.

On a somewhat related point, ever been so busy you get nauseous if you look more than a few hours ahead? Most of today I couldn’t remember what day of the week it was; I’m still not sure what day of the month it is; and I told people in my noon meetings that we needed to get started so I could get to my 11 o’clock appointment on time.

Which brings me to the point here: I’m terrible with numbers.

I was a good student in school, and math was no exception. Of course, my junior-high math teacher Mr. Thurston pointed out from time to time that my sister did better on timed tests than I did. But that’s no surprise, really: speed has never been a strength of mine, to the point that, when I was firming up my schedule for senior year of high school, I chose Physics over Typing — never mind my writing aspirations.

I’m a Word Guy, but now I fear it’s become a crutch. Jodi balances the checkbook and pays the bills. Jodi manages the calendar and orders the food. What do I do? I write eight-page Christmas letters. I haven’t had an actual math class since high school — I skated by with a couple of lab science courses. I’m a Word Guy.

The thing is, now I’m clueless. It’s not doing math that’s the problem anymore; I can’t remember numbers. Even ballpark numbers. Oh, I’m still the man of the house, and can throw a figure out there like it’s the Gospel, but increasingly my number are not grounded in anything resembling fact.

Case in point: last weekend, a friend asked how many Christmas trees we sold at the KC Christmas Tree Lot. Without hesitation, I said, “We bought 700, and sold all but 10 — we made $5,000 after expenses.”

He’s a math guy. He said, “You sold almost 700 trees, and you only cleared $5,000 profit?” Then he politely added, “Well, with expenses, maybe…”

I thought a moment. I could tell that he could tell the math didn’t work. Where had 700 come from? I racked my brain. No idea. If we had sold 700 trees to make $5,000, we would have made just…not even…not very dang much per tree.

“Uh,” I said, “I’m wrong. We didn’t have 700 trees. I have no idea where that number came from.”

I looked it up later. Closer to 250 trees.

Anyone can forget a number. But I swear, my father-in-law can look at cattle jogging by and estimate the worth of a herd based on the latest price per pound. My dad once solved an engineering problem his mentor was convinced would force him to learn trig, apparently by using arithmetic and common sense. My kids can estimate better than I can, as can Jodi.

I wracked my brain on the way home from work tonight and realized I remember how to do fractions and percents. But it took some doing. I need to exercise my numerical mind. In my Second Third, I should probably take over the checkbook or something. But don’t tell Jodi.

The Second Third, Week 10: The Big Payback

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

Blogger’s Note: The whole idea behind these “Second Third” posts can be found here.

When I left home for Yale, my folks left a cushion of money in my checking account. I’m thinking there was $150 of their money, hidden beneath the zero balance, in case I ever was in trouble and needed to come home. I never counted it as mine, so there was always $150 difference between my balance and the bank’s. My folks trusted me not to piddle it away, and I didn’t let them down.

Instead, I collected my suitemates’ empties and turned them in for the deposit, cleaned our bathroom (shared by seven of us) in exchange for pizza at Yorkside, and worked 20 hours a week to pay my bills. When one of my suitemates ran out of spending money and called his mother to yell at her, I was shocked. And when my roommate bought a new stereo, I set my little Sony dual cassette player aside and listened to his music. Even synthpop and show tunes.

I think it was my sophomore year that I “graduated” to a Visa with a strict credit limit — $500, I think, just for emergencies, my folks said. Again, I walked the line: at Thanksgiving, I got a hand-me-down Apple IIsi computer from my sister, and when I needed to crank up the Soundgarden, I could always go next door to our common room. The rest of the time, the little Sony would suffice.

Junior year, however, I roomed with two new guys, both fairly private, with no common room and no common stereo. They were out a lot, and I wasn’t…so the stereo bug bit. I’d been listening to the same little Sony since the Christmas after Ghostbusters II came out — I remember because I got the boombox (I use the term loosely) and Bobby Brown’s Dance!…Ya Know It on cassette, together, as it were. (And as everybody knows, that cassette had remixes of, among other things, the GBII soundtrack single “All On Our Own”…) I had worn out two Soundgarden Badmotorfinger cassettes, and couldn’t get enough volume to startle the squirrels outside my window.

It was an audio emergency. I needed a stereo. I deserved a stereo. And I’d totally pay it off in a matter of a couple of months. J&R Audio catalog and a Visa. Done deal.

I loved that stereo. I still have it, actually — it serves as a makeshift “theater” system in our basement family room. Did I pay it off in a couple months? Probably. Did I demote the Visa back to emergency-only duties? Nope.

The love bug bit next. I met Jodi at Wall Drug one summer, and decided to get engaged the next. Did I have money the ring? Nope. Did I have money for a down payment? A little…

I drove the length of the state to Sioux Falls to buy the ring I knew she liked — and they looked sideways at the fact that I had no permanent address (a student P.O. Box in Connecticut or Wall Drug?) and only seasonal employment. Finally they relented and said they would finance, but I’d need to put more money down.

This was my one shot. I called Citibank. They bumped my credit limit. I left with the ring.

We may still be paying for that ring. We’ve been in debt of some form or another ever since, and although we’re slowly digging out, it’s hard. Our furnace is dying, and it makes sense to replace the A/C at the same time — but that’s a few thousand dollars we don’t have in hand, plus my car’s acting up. What to do, what to do…

When I bought my first car from my dad, I got a loan. It wasn’t a big loan, but it was big enough for me at the time. I remember Dad saying, “They’ll make it easy for you. They want to loan you the money — it’s how they make money. And they want to loan as much as you can possibly pay back, even if it takes awhile.”

Especially if it takes awhile.

We’re trying to be smarter, and we keep chip-chip-chipping away at our debt. I’m looking forward to the big payback here in my Second Third: eliminating bills, saving our money, paying cash whenever possible as we move forward, and letting the kids know in no uncertain terms that there is no such thing as an audio emergency…even if your roommate is rocking to Erasure.