Keepin' It Real with Cam Marston: Recent Episodes
Cam Marston
Weekly observations on travel, work, parenting, and life as it goes on around me. Currently airing Fridays on Alabama Public Radio.
On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam Marston seems to think writers are a good bit like Labrador retrievers - they can't not chase the stick. And writer can't not tell a story.
I stepped into the Mobile Literary Festival back in April not knowing what to expect. What I found surprised me and, ultimately, inspired me. Here’s what happened.
But first - I used to own labrador retrievers. I learned they could never not chase the stick. Or the socks. Or the pinecone. Whenever I tossed something, they had to go after it. They couldn’t control themselves. It was who they were. It was in their bones.
What I found at the Mobile Literary Festival was kind of the same – these people could not NOT tell a story. They had to write the stories that they witnessed or that were forming in their heads. They had to write. Few of the people made any real money from their writing. Maybe enough for a meal once a month or a load of groceries. Most of them did it for the joy of the hobby and the joy of commiserating with their fellow writers about the challenges of writing and telling their stories. I loved these people. I got the same feeling sitting with these writers as I do when I stand at the finish line of a long road race and watch people who have no God-given running talent push themselves over the finish line. They do it out of desire, deep perseverance, and guts. They just want to do it. And I loved ‘em. They inspired me.
To celebrate these writers, I pitched an idea to Alabama Public Radio. “Let’s create a space,” I said, “where Alabama based writers can have their voices heard. And I want to feature the ones that aren’t famous. The ones who, like a labrador retriever, can’t not tell their stories.” They agreed to give it a try. So on Wednesday, July 9th at 7:30pm, we’re launching this thing. It will be a thirty-minute segment of one writer reading his or her work. Maybe it’s original for the broadcast, maybe it’s a chapter of a book they’ve written or are working on. Who knows. It’ll be writers reading their own stuff.
John Nielsen. Remember his name. He’ll be one of the first ones. His story is called Angels of Fire in the Kudzu Realm. It’s awesome. Jodie Cain Smith will read from her newest book. She uses her theater training to really really read her story well. Rob Herndon has been working on a book for years and will read Chapter Two. You’re going to love his characters. And Lynn Oldshue has been telling people’s stories for years. She met a bunch of folks who were roaming around the docks getting a peek at the US United States which is tied up here in Mobile. She tells their stories. And the writers inspired me so much that I give fiction a shot for the first time since my creative writing class back in college. I loved it but it was harder than I remember. But I loved it.
Put it on your calendar – July 9th at 7:30pm. We’re calling it the Alabama Writer’s Wednesday Night Showcase. It’s new. It’s different. And I don’t think there’s anything like it anywhere out there. This will be fun.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
On this week's Keepin It Real, is Cam talking to his plants? Talking to himself. Both? And what's the message?
I use this commentary quite a bit as therapy. If I’m trying to work something out, I’ve learned that writing about it then speaking it helps in some way or another. One of the most recent themes that regular listeners may recognize is this transition into whatever the next chapter of my life will be. Every morning, the mirror reflects the changes taking place on the outside and I wonder when the change will impact the inner parts of me.
My mother used to get up in the mornings, get her coffee, and in her robe go out onto her back patio and check on her plants. I remember her bending over them and touching some of them and then talking to them a bit. Maybe she’d clip a flower whose bloom had faded and offer some encouragement to the plant to send her another flower. I thought it was ridiculous up until a few weeks ago when I realized I was now doing it, too. A coffee, a step onto the patio, a visit to my orchids that, people tell me, should be inside but sure appear happier outside. My one-year-old potted lemon tree that is putting on so much growth but, as yet, no lemons. I give it a short motivational speech – you can do it lemon tree. I see your potential. You have what it takes. You’re a good-looking tree and I can tell your lemons will be great. Focus. Stay the course. I’ll take care of you.
Then on to the staghorn fern that hangs at the corner of the patio that’s doing so well. I gently touch the fronds and compliment the fern on such strong and green shoots.
My last visit every morning is to my oncidium orchid, better known as a dancing lady orchid. That orchid and I have been together a long time. It grows well. It appears happy. I changed its soil earlier in the spring and put it back in the same pot and gave it a good bit of orchid food. It quickly put on big new leaves and it continues to show, from all I can see on the outside, that it’s happy. But it hasn’t bloomed in a long while. I check every day for a tiny bloom spike to show me that it’s truly happy and wants to express its joy, but nothing.
And I say to it, “You have everything I know how to give you for you to thrive. But it’s like you’re waiting for something more, some big out side force to identify that there’s something inside of you that you need to take that next big leap forward to express your joy. You’re waiting for something to excite you and tease you into blooming again, for you to give the world what you know is in there, aching to come out and share. But you’re not sure what’s in there and how to get it out. When you were younger and smaller, getting you to bloom wasn’t hard. Today, though, I can see that inside you, something missing.” And I take my coffee back inside, and sit quietly for a while, realizing what I’ve just said.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
Saturday afternoon, Cam was on the eastern shore of Mobile Bay. On this week's Keepin' It Real, he tells us how he got there.
I was reminded about fear on Saturday. And, strangely, it was exactly what I had hoped for.
Last July, I decided it was time to test myself. I had been comfortable for too long. It was time to be afraid again. Not the fear that comes danger and helplessness or the fear of someone saying Boo, but the fear that comes from gathering the wits and the strength to get yourself out of a tough situation. In my experience, that’s the fear the makes you feel alive.
So I decided to attempt paddling on a stand up paddleboard the full way across Mobile Bay. Just me, all by myself, on the open water. I have a sort of phobia about being in the open water. It’s not a crippling phobia but it’s there. At night in bed when I thought about the paddling alone across the bay, that fear of being alone, in the middle of the water on my board kept me from getting to sleep. I’d have to face this fear head on to meet my goal.
I calculated that the crossing should take me about four hours. The bay is just shy of eleven miles wide where I wanted to cross. I set about training with the goal of being able to paddle a solid three hours, hoping that adrenaline during the crossing would give me the additional hour I needed to complete it.
What started last July came to fruition this past Saturday. The weather was good but not great. When I pushed away from the shore just north of the mouth of Dog River, the wind was blowing out of the north about 11 mph. To head east toward my target, I had to paddle hard northeast and get blown south. Two hours after starting I was in the middle of the bay struggling to keep my mind from ambushing me. I was in the open water, there was no one anywhere near me, and if I needed help I’d have to call on my cell phone for someone to launch their boat and come find me. Fear was percolating. I was no longer facing it, I was in it.
My estimate of four hours was badly off, perhaps due to not factoring the cross wind into my training. My arms ached, my legs were trembling with fatigue, and my right lat was seizing into cramps. The eastern shore of Mobile Bay didn’t seem to be getting any closer. I was focusing on keeping my thoughts from getting out of control and finding energy for another stroke. Then another. Then another.
Five hours and twenty minutes after launching I touched the eastern shore of Mobile Bay. I was exhausted and could only sit for twenty minutes before attempting to stand. I made it, though. I did it.
Every so often it’s important to remind yourself that you can do hard things. That you can face fear and get through it. And to know you have completed something that you will never ever, ever, try to do again.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.
On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam Marston stands at the register at a coffee shop and what comes out of his mouth is a complete surprise to him.
Last week I bought a coffee and a T-Shirt at a coffee shop. And at that awkward moment when the person at the register spins the pad around for me to sign and enter a tip amount, I asked the guy “How much should I tip you for this?” I’ve never asked that question before. The moment I thought about asking it was after I had said it.
Tipping has gotten out of hand. A few weeks back at a hotel in Colorado, every transaction at the hotel automatically included a 25% tip and then space on the bill to add more. At the hotel coffee shop, I’d buy a coffee, they’d hand me an empty cup and point me to the coffee pots across the way, and then ask for a tip. Then ask me to “round up” for some sort of something, adding more money to the transaction. You and I are paying a lot more for what we used to get and then doing the work ourselves. More and more people want you and me to add money to our transactions for doing their job. I know I sound old and curmudgeonly but, dang it, it’s getting out of hand.
That’s why this transaction at the coffee shop stood out. “How much should I tip you for this?” I asked. The guy said, “Nothing. I’ve done my job. I poured you a coffee and rung you up in the register. You don’t even want a bag for your T Shirt. There is no tip necessary.”
I wept.
I tell people that if I order food or drink standing up I don’t tip. You shouldn’t tip for service if you’re standing. That’s what I say. That’s my rule. However, follow me around you’d see that I seldom obey my own rule. That awkward moment when the person at the register is waiting for you to add your tip so they can complete the transaction. They’re watching and I give in nearly every time. I’m weak.
Similarly, my wife and I recently changed homeowners insurance. I then got an email to download their contractor’s app and a page of instructions about how to use their app to take photos and videos of my house so they can confirm the insurance quote. In addition to downloading the app, it would require complex passwords, two-step authentications, and, likely headaches and time on the phone with their service team. Though branding it as a simple tool that wouldn’t take much time, they were asking me to do their job. I simply replied to the email that I’m not going to do it. That’s their job, that’s what I’m paying them for. I could sense the eye-rolls on the other side and they said they’d send out a representative to collect the information. A small win.
If you agree with me, if you’re frustrated about paying more and more for what you’re getting and doing their job along the way, let me hear from you. Send me a donation and I’ll continue to beat this drum on our behalf. And don’t forget to round up.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
This week Cam offers some insight to new college graduates on some basic workplace skills that will make them effective in their workplace. He’s advised his clients for over twenty years on these things, maybe he should have something worthwhile to say.
My daughter graduated from college in May. After 20+ years advising companies and 7+ years interviewing workplace leaders on my What’s Working with Cam Marston radio show and podcast, I realized I should have some useful advice for her—and others—stepping into the next chapter. This is lesson number one called Wisdom is more important than Smarts. You can follow the upcoming lesson on my Linkedin page.
Last week, after giving a speech in Atlanta, a young man approached me with a familiar question: “How do I deal with my Gen Z employee who’s been here a year and now wants a leadership role—or else he’s leaving?”
I’ve heard this one for about ten years. First, it was Millennials asking this of Gen X leaders. Now, it’s Gen Z asking it of Millennials.
So, what’s changed?
We raised our kids in a culture of constant praise and reward. We applauded nearly everything. They didn’t ask for it—we gave it to them, believing it was the right thing to do. But it created expectations: follow the rules, don’t mess up, and a reward will come.
And while that may work in classrooms and sports, the workplace plays by different rules. Competence may get you in the game, but leadership requires wisdom.
Wisdom isn’t knowing how to do the job. It’s knowing when, where, why, and with whom. It’s built over time—by watching people, seeing how decisions ripple through teams, and understanding the bigger picture.
Can wisdom be accelerated? Maybe—but only through pain and loss. A job falling apart. A serious illness. Hard-earned experience. And nobody wants that path.
Wisdom teaches restraint:
- What not to say
- What not to email
- What not to escalate
- What attention not to attract
Wisdom also teaches self-awareness:
- What do I do well?
- What energizes me?
- Where am I weak?
- What kind of feedback helps me improve?
Even the smartest new hire with the highest GPA won’t have those answers yet. Because wisdom requires time. There is no shortcut. No cheat code.
In fact, the moment someone says, “I’ve been here a year; I’m ready to lead,” they reveal the very lack of wisdom that disqualifies them.
So, for my daughter—and others in her shoes—here’s what I’d say:
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Focus on what you’re learning. Beyond task lists, study people and power dynamics.
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What makes leaders effective and likable?
- Who persuades without authority—and how?
- Who’s trusted? Who’s not? Why?
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What subtle behaviors win or lose influence?
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Build relationships. Meet people inside and outside your org. Listen deeply. Ask “why” a lot. And speak less—questions build more respect than fast answers.
And finally: stop counting the days.
Keep your head up. Watch closely. Learn quickly. Adjust often. Wisdom sneaks in when you least expect it—and that’s what turns a worker into a leader.
I’m Cam Marston an I’m just trying to keep it real.
On this week's Keepin It Real, lots of people celebrated last week. Cam was one of them. It was a case of determination unwavering belief that was finally rewarded.
So, after six years, Blaine finally got the call.
I remember during the pandemic my wife and I rode our children’s bikes down the center of the street late one evening to our friend’s house for a cocktail. It was strange to have no traffic at that hour. At their house we sat outside and chatted for a while. Blaine was home and he and his sister stood in the back yard playing an improvised game hitting ping pong balls with a dowel across the yard. They’d toss it and smack it. I marveled at how hard it must be to hit such a tiny ball with a tinier bat but they both did, repeatedly. Having fun with each other while they were sent home from school, waiting for the pandemic to ease so they could return to their worlds. I hoped they wouldn’t ask me to take a swing. I would never have made contact.
Blaine was a solid player in high school. Then an even better player in college. Then he stood out in single a, then double a, and now in triple a. At each level, he figured out how to succeed, winning awards along the way. And whenever he was at home visiting his parents and friends, he was a nice guy. We like him. Everyone does. That was clear at his wedding. He has a deep support system. And Blaine finally got the call.
Along the way, Blaine had developed an army of supporters. Coaches, teachers, parents, pastors, friends, neighbors, church congregations. We’d each invested a small piece of our hearts along the way, and each of us harbored a silent hope that that this young man’s determination would pay off. He never wavered. We saw something enviable in him. It wasn’t only his remarkable baseball talent. It was his belief in himself.
Thursday, a cancelled flight stranded my wife and me in Colorado. We tried to make the best of it. Today is a great day, my wife said, because the experts say that just saying that can change your attitude. So, we sat with a drink, determined that it was a great day. I heard her gasp as she looked into her phone. Blaine’s mom and dad had checked out of their beach hotel in Florida after just a few hours and were driving home to catch a flight. Blaine was playing that night in Arlington and then on Tuesday in Boston. They would be there. No questions, because Blaine finally got the call.
My wife and Blaine’s mom spoke. Her eyes got wet. Blaine’s mom and dad were busting it down I-10, vacation abandoned. After hundreds and hundreds of games and countless more practices and dues paying, Blaine finally got the call. He had never wavered. He was headed to the majors. My wife and I toasted Blaine and his family, now both of our eyes wet, on this great day. Because Blaine finally got the call. And in a way, we all did.
Good luck, Blaine. Win or lose, we got your back. All of us. Count on it.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.
On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam wonders if we have what it takes any more. If the thumbs up button is as far as we'll go or as much as we'll do.
David Brooks wrote a column in the New York Times last week calling for a, quote “comprehensive national civic uprising.” There are well over four thousand comments with most being something along the lines of “Yes. It’s about time. Someone should do something.” Brooks’ says the Trump administration has gone too far, that we are indeed in a constitutional crisis, and it’s time to act.
But, I wonder, do we have what it takes to act? Or have we gotten used to saying “yeah, that’s a problem but it’s someone else’s problem, not mine” and maybe hit the thumbs up button.
I’m going to change the subject. I’ve had some tense conversations with my Christian friends when I tell them that it’s much easier to worship than to be a practitioner of their faith. Worshipping Jesus is easy. We go to church. We pray before meals. We ask for blessings in his name. Maybe wear a crucifix. That’s worshipping. It’s public. Visible. And, frankly, easy compared to what he actually asked us to do. “Don’t bother with worshiping me,” he essentially said. “Follow me.” Do what I do. Behave the way I behave. Luke, Chapter Six, “Why do you call me Lord, Lord and not do what I tell you?” There many similar versus throughout the New Testament.
But do any of us have what it takes to do what he told us? Few. Very few. Because that’s hard and, today, puts us at odds with what’s happening in our nation. “I’m good with the Lord. I went to Church on Easter.” Well how about that guy who was sent mistakenly to prison in El Salvador? We say, “Yea. That’s awful. He shouldn’t have been caught up in whatever he was caught up with. I’ll pray for him.” And that’s it.
But if we were truly practitioners, not simply worshippers, what would we do to help he imprisoned, he poor, the neglected? We’d do something active with our feet, not simply bring our hands together and mention the poor guy over grace before dinner. Does this nation today, supposedly packed with Christians, have what it takes to act Christ-like anymore? Or are we all so fat and content that we let abuses fly and we’ll simply click the thumbs-up and offer our BS thoughts and prayers?
I’m disgusted by what’s happening out there. I’m disgusted by the way so many of the Universities and law firms, supposedly bastions established to spread open thinking and to uphold democracy, are rolling over like puppies on the teat. There are protesters, but I’m disgusted by how many of us – me included – are watching and not practicing our faith.
We were once a proud nation who pitied the banana republics run by bullies with no character and integrity. We would act to protect the weak, the poor, the vulnerable. Whether you agreed with or not, we knew this country would act. Now, we don’t even act on it inside our own borders.
We are a nation supposedly full of Christians who, despite what our Christ asked of us, feel contented to only worship and not practice our faith. Prove me wrong. Please!
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
On this week's Keepin' It Real, Cam tells us that based on a series of recent events, he has two people he'd like offer up as potentially superb spies.
My twins are high school juniors, and prom was last Saturday night. The event went something like this:
For my son: He brought his Joseph Banks suit downstairs about noon. It looked like it had been in a pile on the floor since he last wore it in March. There was a button-down shirt with it. My wife took the clothes and began steaming the wrinkles out. She asked “What flowers did you get your date.” A blank look. “Go to Publix and get some flowers. We’ll make something.” He returned with one hydrangea. My wife quietly returned to Publix and came home with an assortment of flowers and began making a bouquet. My son borrowed my dress shoes.
For my daughter: She called her older sister earlier in the week and asked if she could return from college and help her with her hair for prom. Saturday, early afternoon, for about an hour, the two sat in front of a mirror and pre-prepped her hair. My prom-bound daughter left the house, hair in giant rollers, for the next stop in her pre-prom prep tour at someone’s house. There she would follow her sister’s instructions on getting the hair to the next step. Her dress was hermetically sealed in a bag to be opened only when put on. Walking to her car she carried an assortment of bags including make-up, clothes, hair dryers, and miscellaneous things I couldn’t ID. And a Stanley cup in her hand, of course.
My son and his buddies stood together for pictures in a yard where they collected before prom. Parents quickly snapped photos before the boys wandered off. They looked disinterested and annoyed by the photos.
My daughter and her friends, now fully primped, posed in front of a fountain downtown, while one of their friend’s mothers, a photographer, posed the girls individually, then in pairs, then as a group. Per the photos, the girls appeared happy to comply. The next day, parents were sent a link to a website where we could review and download the photos we liked.
At prom the boys sat on the stage, from what we heard, looking over the sight and largely talking amongst themselves. The girls stood in front of the DJ and danced. There may have been some co-mingled dancing toward the 10pm hour, but those details remain shrouded. The DJ, they said, was good.
From there, my son went to a friend’s house for a late meal cooked by parents, and they slept on sofas and mattresses in a den. He arrived home about noon the next day.
My daughter was treated to a night in a hotel for a friend’s birthday where she shared a room with three friends. They gabbed until late, discussing the particulars of the evening. She arrived home about the same time as my son. Both looked tired.
Dinner Sunday night, my wife and I asked, “How was prom?”
“Good,” they both replied.
“Tell us about it. What happened?”
“Nothin’.”
“Nothing? Really?”
“Nope. Nothin’. Just prom.”
After all that, we get “Nothin. Just prom.” Tight lipped, no details, close to the vest, tell us nothing. They should work for the CIA. Maybe they do.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.
On today's Keepin' it Real, Cam reports on a writer's conference he attended last weekend where a good part of the conversation was about using AI. All the writers, Cam reports, choose to not use it, preferring to remain "pure."
I attended a writers' conference last Saturday. Writers are a curious breed, convinced their unique perspective on describing something as mundane as a sunset is groundbreaking and essential. I love them. But they’re weird.
This year, though, a frequent topic was artificial intelligence – how do writers use it, if at all. Speaker after speaker claimed they don’t use the stuff, choosing instead to remain “pure.”
Huh, I thought. I wonder if mathematicians once dismissed calculators because they weren’t pure. Or cooks refused kitchen blenders because electrified blending wasn’t pure. Or the ancient Chinese dismissed matches because fire made from flint and steel was somehow more pure.
"AI just doesn't have a soul," the authors seemed to be saying "It can't experience love, loss, or regret." True enough, but then again, neither does my toaster, and it still reliably performs its job every morning without any existential angst. Plus, it doesn't complain when I burn the toast.
Truth be told, I wanted to agree with the speakers wholeheartedly. Part of me wanted to stand triumphantly on my chair, fist raised high, shouting, "Yes! AI can’t possibly write the way we can! Its unpure." But as I sat listening, I couldn’t help remembering countless times when I've stared helplessly at a blinking cursor on an empty screen, desperately begging for inspiration to appear. More often than not, what I ended up writing was about was mindless junk that I needed to fill a page and make a deadline. Maybe a dash of AI could have given my writer's block exactly the jump-start it needed.
Yet could an AI authentically capture the awkward silence after a joke falls embarrassingly flat—something I've personally experienced far too often—or perfectly describe the unique blend of ego and insecurity that simmered quietly throughout the conference room? Could it mimic the quiet desperation of writers jockeying for the attention and the validation of their peers?
The honest truth is, I don't know. And frankly, I'm not sure these writers at the conference really knew either. Perhaps they're right, and artificial intelligence will always lack that elusive "human touch." But who can say for sure? Maybe someday, an AI will pen a poem so profoundly moving that we'll all toss our beloved notebooks aside and question every choice we've ever made.
STOP. FULL STOP.
Everything you’ve just heard was written this morning by ChatGPT using the following prompt:
Write a 450-word commentary based on my Keepin' it Real commentaries for Alabama Public Radio, written in my voice. In it, discuss a writer's conference I attended last week and how many writers felt that AI could never replace the sound of the true creative's voice. Make it humorous and poke a bit of fun at the writers who said this.
And folks, I can promise you this is the first time I’ve used AI in any of my 300+ commentaries. And I pledge to you going forward, I intend to Keep It Real.
Cam and his wife were at a wedding reception last week. It was beautiful. One conversation, though, has stuck with him.
My wife and I stood with a young man at a wedding Saturday night as he lamented the lack of turkeys to hunt at his camp. There were no gobblers, he said, and he was a bit down in the mouth about it. “Why,” my wife asked.
“In the spring,” he said, “the hens move to a different place where they like the environment for nesting. The gobblers follow. And wherever those hens go, it’s not on our property. I wish there were something about our place that the hens liked but every spring they move away, and the gobblers go with them.”
“Sounds a lot like the bars I used to go to in college,” I said. No reaction.
Then my wife joined in. “How about making your place more romantic. Some mood lighting in the woods and you can play Sade and Lou Rawls. That’ll make the hens want to stick around. Make it so romantic they can’t bring themselves to leave.” And she began singing You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine and doing a little shoulder dance. She and I laughed at the idea. It was funny! Both of us were imagining two turkeys doing a sensual dance around each other in the middle of the woods to Lou Rawls or Sade under some soft lights. We were wiping tears from our eyes. It was hysterical and we kept the joke going. It was good stuff!
The young man’s expression was, well…he was either pitying us, worried for us, or worried for himself. He thought none of it was funny. He didn’t get the joke. He looked awkward because he felt awkward. Two people standing in front of him mopping tears from their eyes to something that he knew flew way over his head. Lou Rawls? Sade? Who were they? Should he offer us a nervous, sympathetic laugh? Should he excuse himself and quickly get lost in the crowd? The poor young man stood there uncomfortably, not knowing what to do. We stopped laughing and an awkward silence hung.
It was the age gap. It reared its ugly head and stared all of us in the face. Was the key to getting the joke knowing who Sade and Lou Rawls is? Was the key to getting the joke hearing the song in your head and picturing the turkeys dancing? Was the joke something only old people like and when I was in my twenties would have felt sad for me, too. Does humor, like wine, age and change its complexity? And then, like wine, go bad.
I could chalk the whole incident up to my wife and my shared odd sense of humor. I’m not gonna do that. I could chalk it up to our humor having gone bad. That’s not it. I’m going to chalk it up to kids these days. Imagine two turkeys dancing in the woods to this music and try not to smile. Try I dare you. You can’t not smile. It was funny!
I worry about the future of our nation.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
It's been a long week for Cam. He's going to get paid one hundred dollars for two days of work that he is required by law to perform. He didn't enjoy it but it wasn't because of the low pay.
In grade school I never wanted to be the one to pick teams. I was afraid of hurting someone’s feelings. It’s ridiculous, I know. I like to get along. I like to see people succeed. I’ve never wanted to be the arbiter of someone’s else’s happiness. That responsibility scares me.
Monday morning, I was selected as a jury member for a federal trial. It was my first time doing this. I was one of eleven others who would decide the fate of the parties in front of me. And I was nervous. The judge told us that while his title was judge, we were being asked to be “judges of the truth.” I know myself and my flaws all too well. Amongst other things, I can be terribly gullible. I’m not sure I’m qualified to be a judge of the truth. However, by nine o’clock Monday morning, my fellow jurors and I were evaluating arguments.
What I saw didn’t help me become less nervous. The solemnity of the proceedings can most closely be related to a religious service. Lots of quiet. Lots of honorifics amongst staff and colleagues. Lots of silence as the parties gathered to whisper, like priests at an altar. Whenever my jury colleagues and I entered or exited the courtroom, everyone stood. It all signaled that this was serious stuff. And as the details of the case became clear, I realized that we, the jury, would render a decision that could eventually lead to the ruin of either of these parties.
Desperation appears in the courtroom. To get a win, both parties will bring up things from each other’s past that are deeply regrettable but clearly documented. Anything a witness had hoped was lost to time is now back, being wagged in front of the jury, attorneys painfully drawing out the story and the explanation. People at their weakest. If the judge felt the content was prudent, it was discussed. If not, he firmly shut it down. Embarrassment and shame were left out of his decision to let the content be aired or not. No one was berated but the questioning was, well, very thorough.
Fortunately for us the decision was an easy one and the jury was of one mind shortly after we began deliberating. Neither plaintiff nor defendant appeared surprised. We were thanked and dismissed. I don’t know what happened after that. Both parties stood as we walked out. No TV like celebrations or hugs and kisses between the victorious attorneys and their client. It was simply over. In a few weeks I’m to receive payment of one hundred dollars for two days of my time and a decision that may well lead to ruin of the losing party.
I did my service. I had to. I would have broken the law had I not. The verdict was easy, thankfully. But I was uncomfortable the whole time. Doing my best to track the arguments and be a “judge of the truth.” I’ve seen a trial now and I can honestly say I hope I never have to be the judge of someone else’s future ever again.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just Trying to Keep it Real.
On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam Marston shares what exhausts him and how a good conversation is hard to find.
It was 1,000 one-minute conversations. A collection of people who all were within a degree, maybe a half a degree, of separation. Hardly a meaningful chat and as the event wore on, the meaningfulness of the chats dwindled further. For so little conversation, it was exhausting. I think maybe that conversations that skim along the veneer of content are more taxing than digging into content. I don’t know. But when I left, I was completely spent.
I’m like so many other people claiming that technology has impacted today’s youth’s ability to communicate. I bemoan their addicted behaviors when it comes to their phones. Technology has impacted their ability to talk, I say, or to hold a conversation, or to make eye contact. Today’s technology has made them only interested in what everyone else is doing or saying, unable to engage with what’s happening right here, right now, right in front of them. However, my own behavior at this event wasn’t much different than the complaints I make about them. I can imagine how I looked, flitting from person to person, hardly engaging anyone, only looking for what’s next and who else was there. The event was spectacular. I was the problem.
Not long ago I read about a couple who were invited to a dinner party. They normally decline these invitations because they abhor small talk; it wears them out. The host, however, insisted and the couple begrudgingly showed up, fake smiles pasted on their faces. Once the final guests arrived and all were seated for dinner, the host asked a bombshell question: “How do each of you deal with your marital conflicts?” After a moment of stunned silence, the couples began sharing their stories and their tactics and their lessons learned. There was no small talk to be had. It was an immediate deep dive into meaningful content. The reluctant couple had said to each other they’d stay until it was acceptable to leave. They had their departure excuse rehearsed. However, they ended up staying until well after midnight and left energized by the conversations, not depleted.
I had lunch with a guy a while back. I had shared a book I enjoyed with him weeks before. When he and I sat down, I asked him what he felt his purpose in life were, which was a major element of the book. When his tone changed and he began subtly mocking me thinking I didn’t notice, I realized I had rushed things. It was too soon for that question. Was it too soon in our lunch? Too soon in our friendship? I don’t know. We both hurried the lunch to a close and he’s avoided me ever since. I was searching for meaningful content and assumed he’d join me. He was having none of it and none of me. It’s too bad, too. He’s an interesting guy.
Like most people my age, I’m old enough now that I know a good number of people. I wanted that at one point and, well, here I am. However, at my age, I’m old enough now to realize that I want to know, truly know, many, many fewer.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
On today's Keeping It Real, Cam recounts his birthday week which has some unexpected surges of happiness.
Happiness is fleeting. It never lasts and I’m not sure it’s supposed to. It’s different than joy and contentment and pleasantness. Happiness bubbles up from an unexpected place and last such a short time. And when it arrives, it sometimes brings tears. Living in constant happiness would render us nearly helpless. It immobilizes you. Living in joy and contentment is great with, hopefully, unexpected surges of happiness from time to time that render us speechless.
For my fifty-sixth birthday earlier this week, the good Lord sent me several surges of happiness. I’m old enough now, and wise enough, to know what they are when I feel them and to do my best to live in them for the moments they’re with me. To document them in my head, to let them imprint on my brain, and to know that they’ll end and to cherish their memories.
The first one came when a small team of which I was a member successfully executed the opening an event. It was better, I think, than what we had expected. I looked over a large crowd who acknowledged our efforts with a celebratory cheer that lasted and lasted as some of the people we had worked to recognize where indeed recognized the way my team and I had hoped. I looked at my teammate and our grins were, well, enormous. Our celebratory hug was spontaneous, genuine, and heartfelt.
Then I watched as one of my children entertained her friends from Oxford who had never seen a Mardi Gras parade or a Mardi Gras ball. They were overwhelmed. My daughter took such great pride in introducing her friends to her traditions and her roots and her friends soaked it all in. They ate it all up. They showed immense gratitude to my daughter in all the experiences they had and all the memories they received. I was happy when I saw my daughter beaming with pride. Her friends had seen and truly appreciated what she was so proud of.
And then there’s the moment that brought the tears. It was a friend of my late mother’s who looked at my daughter and immediately saw her. Saw my mother. She said it was in her face and her joyfulness. I confess I had never seen it. My daughter’s only ever looked like my daughter but when I looked through my mother’s friend’s eyes, I saw it. As I stood with my mother’s friend, she began tearing up at the memory of my mother which had suddenly surged back. When I saw the tears and looked at my daughter through her eyes, I felt a surge of sadness, of ache, and, there in it all, was happiness. Happiness that my mother was so loved. My mother died three years ago on Wednesday. And for my birthday I was reminded that my mother was gone only if I let her be. I was reminded that I can keep her with me. Her memory is one I have access to. One I can control. One I can choose. And rather than feel sadness at her untimely loss, I can choose happiness that I remember her. And I did. And I felt it.
I’m Cam Marston, just trying to keep it real.
On this week's Keepin' It Real, Cam explains the Ft Lauderdale accord and how it's telling him that it's time to move on.
My wife and I will be empty nesters in eighteen months. If all goes according to plan, in that time our youngest two will graduate and head to college and if looking back is anything like looking ahead, these next eighteen months will fly by.
If you’re a regular listener, you know that my wife and I have four kids. We purchased this house with a family of six in mind. With only two kids left at home, it’s already a lot of space and in eighteen months it will be much larger than we need. So today, just now, in fact, a realtor left. We wanted her to tell us what buying and selling a home looks like today since we’ve not done it in nearly twenty years. What part of our house will new buyers like and how can we accent it. What parts will buyers not like and how can we shore them up. We got from her a list of ten documents we need to find that will help in the sale of the house. And we have eighteen months or so to get all this done.
This all stems from my wife and I drawing up a Reverse Bucket List in a Ft Lauderdale hotel room in December. It’s an idea I got from Arthur Brooks’ book called From Strength to Strength. A bucket list is what you want to do and what you want to get that will excite you; that’ll make you happy. A Reverse Bucket List is what you want to get rid of or what you will never do again that will make you happy. At the top of my Reverse Bucket List was yardwork. It also included paying for homeowner’s insurance on rooms and bathrooms and spaces now infrequently used with two children gone. My Reverse Bucket List included clutter and stuff.
My wife and I agreed to the gist of the list and we agreed we’d begin slowly working through the list. We’ve termed the list and our agreement to work through it the Ft Lauderdale Accord. Since then, we’ve reference how any decisions we need to make jibe with the Ft Lauderdale Accord. The result has been a slow-moving process of beginning to downsize, to throw stuff away, and the most recent aspect of the Ft Lauderdale Accord was today’s meeting with the realtor.
In a very short amount of time, the house downsizing idea has taken hold for me. I walk through the house looking at cabinets and closets and drawers wondering what’s in ‘em and how much of it can we get rid of. Should I put a coat of paint on anything? Should suck it up and get the yard show-ready and drop sod on the places I know it will eventually die because its died four or five times already?
My mind is fixed on what’s next. I’m already gone. And I’m now wondering if staying here another eighteen months is too long.
Regardless, my inner knower is erasing all doubt that it’s definitely time to move on.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
On today's Keepin It Real, Cam reports back about his most memorable event on his recent trip to Brazil. He traveled a long way to come back with this...
Cachaca is a Brazilian alcohol that was first made by the slaves the Portuguese brought to Brazil. It’s sugar cane based. Very sweet. And like gumbo, red beans and rice, jazz music, and the Mississippi delta blues among other things, it was what the poor people created due to a lack of resources and that the wealthy people eventually wanted. Crazy how that works so predictably. It’s like clockwork.
Anyway, my wife and I were enjoying our first cocktail made of cachaca by the pool last week in a small coastal community north of Sao Paulo called Paraty. However, we struggled to enjoy the drink.
And I’m certain you can relate to what happened. It’s become a meme - There was someone in an environment too small for their voice, talking too loudly. It was loud people having private conversations on the phone in small spaces. Loud Zoom calls in coffee shops. You’ve witnessed this. In our case it was a British couple lying in lounge chairs by the pool on speakerphone with their daughter talking about finding her an apartment in London. The father, to be heard, raised his voice to nearly a yell so the phone would hear him from three feet away. Well, my wife and I heard him, neighbors living next to the hotel heard him, the birds in the trees on the coast heard him, the shop owner across town, people in the next city over and the Uruguayans 1000 miles to the south also heard him. We didn’t want to, but we learned a lot about this family and their dysfunctional and helpless daughter. Our relaxing drink tasted like cachaca, lime, and disgust.
Around the pool were two other couples. We met and stood talking in the pool. They were really nice. One couple had been traveling since January 1st. They were recently retired and described retirement as having three distinct phases – Go Time, Slow Time, and then, No Time. Go Time is travel. Slow Time too old to travel and now you sit around the house. No Time is travel back and forth to your final doctor appointments. They retired early to have a longer Go Time and were doing it up right.
They were telling us about how they planned their extensive trips then, and I promise I’m not making this up, the British man got into the pool and began swimming laps right through middle of us three couples and another guy who had joined us. We stood there in water up to our waists in disbelief. He kicked right through us, splashing us, no more than a foot or two away as he came by. I’d never seen anything like it. Was it aggressive? Or was it just plain clueless?
Anyway, the three different couples plus the one guy decided not to move. And he kept swimming. We’d pause our chat as he swam through. It’s sad that after traveling about 18 hours to get to a place way off my radar and another 18 hours to get back home, the only story I have from my trip is about a British man in our pool.
Which makes me want to drink lots of cachaca.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
Today on Keepin' It Real, Cam looses focus and finds his mind wandering about an upcoming trip instead of focusing on what need to be done.
My day today will be spent studying Brazilian demographics. And I know what you’re thinking: How did I get so lucky? I mean, come on, most of us have to work but you get to spend your day studying Brazilian demographics. How is that fair?
Friday, my wife and I leave for a week in Brazil. I’ve been invited to speak at a conference next week in Sao Paulo. These types of invitations are rare for me. While at a conference in November, a young man approached me and said, “Can you do that same speech in February in Brazil?” “Sure,” I said. “No problem. Easy.” Well, it’s not easy. Which leads me to today, carefully studying and incorporating the Brazilian data to replace my US data that I used in November.
Much of the data is very similar. Young women are outperforming young men in education. Women are having first babies older and having babies into older age. People are getting married at older ages. Household sizes are falling. Life-spans are increasing, meaning Brazilians will be in retirement longer. There are worrying trends in whether the Brazilian federal system will be able to support retirees long-term, much like there are new rumblings here about whether our social security system will be able to fund payments in the future. All familiar stuff.
Up until recently, I would have said their political climate was very volatile with their in and out of favor populist president Jair Bolsonaro but, his ascendance and the turmoil it created looks very similar to what we’re seeing here. Even his presidential portrait is of him in some combination of a scowl and a frown, much like Trump’s presidential portrait that was released a few weeks ago.
My comments will be translated into Portuguese as I speak, meaning I need to go slow so the translators can keep up. I find it difficult to pace myself like this. My words will need to be carefully chosen. When normally I can explain something well-enough with a paragraph, I need to now do it in a sentence. Writing these commentaries each week have helped me as a speaker – writing has taught me to be more precise in speaking.
And as much as I’m excited to work with my Brazilian client, my wife and I are leaving for Brazil early to enjoy a short trip to a seaside community that will include a drive to a bunch of waterfalls and a tour of the coastline by water. Beaches, waterfalls, plus a trip a distillery that makes something like rum but is not rum. And, truth be told, I’ve spent more time looking into the waterfalls, the coastline, and rum but not rum than I have looking into Brazilian demographics. Focused preparation has been a problem. I’m even looking repeatedly at the weather forecasts for the seaside community – all poor uses of time considering the prep work that is still needed. I’m a champion at finding things to do that are not urgent and finding ways to justify doing them. Like this commentary.
And, with that truth-bomb announced, I will now put this away and get back to Brazilian demographics.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.
On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam reacts to a text from a friend about the hopelessness she feels today as a result of the new presidential administration. There are two sides to this, Cam says. And the healing must begin within. But it won't be easy.
There are those of you listening right now filled with anxiety and rage. You can’t believe our nation is full of people who care so little for truth, honesty, and compassion. You can’t believe that you know people, lots of people, who are willing to abandon truth, honesty, and compassion to win. This is not how you were taught to live as a child. These are not the lessons of Aesop’s fables. There is nothing in the New Testament that says this is Ok.
However, there are others of you out there equally mystified. “How can you not want this?” you’re asking. How can you not see that our future, both each of us individually and as a nation, will be better? We’re returning to dominance. We’re getting rid of the cheaters and the thieves who have slipped in and are stealing opportunity from you and me. We’re making them pay. We’re righting wrongs. This is what this nation is about. This is who we are. We’ve strayed and we’re now, finally, returning to who we should be. How can you not see this?
No argument from either of you will win. No data will convince either of you of anything. No clever wording. No quoting the constitution. No biblical chapter or verse. Deadlocked. Both sides deadlocked. Anxiety and rage. Both sides.
Dr Carl Rogers was an American Psychologist who, in 1982, was listed as the most influential psychotherapist in history. Of his many accomplishments, there is one practice of his that I’m using – well, that I’m trying to use – in my interactions with others. It’s called Unconditional Positive Regard. It’s a framework for listening and helping even with those whose opinions are diametrically opposite our own. It’s a learned discipline and it’s not easy.
Unconditional Positive Regard assumes that this person in front of each of us has worth, this person in front of us can grow, they can change, they’re eager to learn, they’re curious, they are a person of value. Unconditional Positive Regard. You can see how this powerful outlook can benefit a therapist in their interactions with patients. You can see how someone hoping to pull the best out of another person, who still has hope for the other person, could and perhaps SHOULD engage them with a mindset of unconditional positive regard.
It's hard, though. It’s very hard. Especially when what some of you have seen of others brings this quote to mind: “When you worship power, compassion and mercy will look like sins.” To many of you that’s what it looks like out there today. It’s obvious to say, but compassion is not a sin. Mercy is not a sin. None of us should ever hold back on either. And perhaps for all of you listening right now filled with anxiety and rage, holding each other in unconditional positive regard might be step one in healing…ourselves.
I’m Cam Marston, just trying to keep it real.
Tuesday, Cam watched as a 130 year old weather record was shattered. He took it all in, savoring it as best as he could.
It’s strange looking out there right now. Maybe even eerie. I keep looking again to make sure my eyes aren’t fooling me. The top of the neighbor’s magnolia tree is getting small touches of early sunlight and those big, deep green leaves are holding snow. It’s beautiful. And I can’t stop turning to look again and again.
How could this week’s commentary be about anything but the weather? So often the meteorologists in my part of the world hype of the incoming storm that turns out to be a big nothing-burger. I panic and put the family in the duck-and-cover position in the bathtub and nothing ends up happening. “Abundance of caution” they always say. This storm they got right. In fact, one of the TV weathermen kept saying the storm “outperformed” – that it did more than they predicted which is opposite of what usually happens.
Mobile, Alabama officially received seven and a half inches of snow yesterday. What in many parts of the world would equate to a “so, what?” moment was a record-breaking snowfall, breaking a 130-year-old record. Yesterday I tended to the fire and kept turning to look outside. I had two client Zoom calls and both interrupted to ask if that was rain outside the window behind me. “No,” I said, “It’s snow. And we here in Mobile, Alabama hardly know how to behave.”
And we don’t. The roads were largely empty. It reminded me of the teeth of the pandemic when we all stayed home for days. My wife and I finally went outside late in the afternoon and walked down the middle of the busy street not far from our house. Our dog stepped outside and immediately turned around and dove back under the couch – she would have none of the snow. And the birdfeeder seemed extra active as little birds who live comfortably in our warm sub-tropical climate had to keep eating more and more to fuel themselves and stay warm.
I learned that being snowed-in lends itself to grazing all day long. Just a little snack here and there and then here again and maybe a little bit more of this and just one more bite of that. I had to make myself stop. And the temptation to open a thick, bold bottle of red wine was overwhelming. Had I made eye contact with a bottle of red-wine I would have caved, but I maintained my Dry January discipline and had a couple of NA beers, instead.
I’ve read recently about savoring. Savoring is wanting to know something. To experience it. There is no time pressure to savoring. No pressure for more. No greed. Savoring is an attitude of spirit. It’s a life of spirit. And it’s the opposite of craving, which is an attitude of greed, control and sensation.
Yesterday’s snowfall and this morning’s sunrise is an experience I’ll savor. I’ll likely never see anything like this again here on the upper lip of the Gulf Coast. I’ll stay sitting here in my coffee chair and taking it in, as the magnolia tree is mottled with brilliant white and deep green and is now ablaze in the sun.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
On this week's Keepin' it Real, Cam Marston's new effort has been a year in the making and it's finally ready. It's learning delivered the way it used to be and he's very excited for it.
Here’s a story for you:
An old man lowered his clay jug every day at the well. He did it by hand with the jug attached to a rope. He was very careful to not let the jug bump the edge of the well which was made of stone or else the jug may break. A young man saw all this and proposed a wheel built over the center of the well with a rope that would lower the jug straight down every time. It would be easier and faster. All he had to do was crank the wheel up and down. The old man listened to the young man’s idea and said, “No, thank you. Without the work of lowering and raising the jug, I’m not sure the water would taste as good.”
Over one year ago I begin surveying clients and colleagues and having lunches and Zoom meetings with them to discuss a new two and half day workshop I was developing on communication skills. Their reply was unanimous: these skills a desperately needed in our workplace. I asked a lot of questions, have written, rewritten and rewritten the course over and over again and the program launched this past Wednesday.
Could the program be delivered remotely? Yes. Could it be pre-recorded and done online at the leisure of the participant? Yes, I think so. Could it be shorted to one day? Or maybe half a day? After all, people are busy. Probably. But none of that’s going to happen.
There is a saying in the addict recovery world: What do you do when the very thing that is destroying you is what gets you through the day. For the addict it is drugs. For many of us today, though, it’s urgency. It’s more and more. It’s busyness. Its Fear of Missing Out. It’s the dopamine hit of the flashing or buzzing phone. And I’m as guilty of it as the next guy.
So in an effort to make a difference with the people who began with me Wednesday, I’ve created a program that slows the pace of learning. It’s not cramming. It’s learning. It’s savoring new knowledge. It’s dialogue, discussion, eye-contact, and thoughtful progression through learning and relearning skills that, per my colleagues, are desperately needed in their workplace.
No PowerPoint. No Audio or Video. Instead it will be flip charts, instruction, dialogue, and practice. Even pencils and not pens. It’s the hard, slow, deliberate work that creates results and will lead to a more fulfilling and successful workplace for my participants. It’s in a sense, retro learning the way it used to be done back in the day before all these tools we’ve created made things, what, quicker, better, easier? Maybe all of those but what I’ve created will be – memorable and transformational.
To many of my participants, what’s old will be new again. It’s been a year in the making. And we could get to end of the program much quicker than two-and-a-half days but, like the old man lowering the jug by hand every day, the water simply wouldn’t taste as good.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam has found infinite inspiration for commentaries for years and years to come.
I sat quietly this morning and was ready to admit it’s time to quit Keepin’ It Real. I’ve lost my creativity. My energy around writing insightful and truthful things about the world around me was gone. Seven – maybe eight! – years is a pretty good run. Maybe close to 350 or more original pieces – I should be proud of my work and unashamed to put these commentaries to bed. But then…
Scrolling through today’s headlines, I spotted a lifeline. Something that will allow me countless weeks of effortless content. It was hard to believe it was true, but… there it was.
Mark Zuckerberg was turning off the fact checking on his social media platforms. No longer would Facebook and Instagram work to fact-check people’s posts. They’d let the community of users do it, instead. The article went on to say it was his way of genuflecting to the Cheeto Jesus – our upcoming, return of the king, Commander in Chief. Trump dislikes facts and accuracy so Zuckerberg, to curry favor with him, was ending any reliance on it in his giant megaphone of social media. Wow. If the age of Enlightenment wasn’t already dead, it is dead dead dead now.
I’ve always been a fan of the expression “never let the truth get in the way of a good story” and I embrace a good, exaggerated story whether it be my own or someone else. However, today the expression is “never let the truth get in the way of anything.” And what a giant hall pass this offers me in these commentaries. Why tell the truth when our highest elected official avoids it, and his minions support it.
So, with that, I’m redoing my biography. You may know me as a commentator for Alabama Public radio who lives in Mobile married with four teenaged children. That was who I was during the days when truth mattered. Now I’m a world-famous commentator who offers sage wisdom and insight and has been feted by the Nobel Prize committees and has turned down Pulitzer Prizes because they weren’t prestigious enough. Sounds good. My four children are the best kids in any environment they ever enter – academics, athletics, needlepoint – you name it they’re the best out of everyone. My previous work was as an astronaut, but it bored me, a lion tamer but the smell of the lions got to me, and, of course out of tribute to George Costanza, I am both an architect and a marine biologist. I’ve built a woodshed once and tossed a fish back into the Gulf, which in this era of non-truth, is sufficient enough to give myself those titles, regardless of what anyone says because those people are jealous liars who are out to get me.
My resume and my CV will change by this afternoon and will include the words Adonis, Guggenheim, and National Book Award. I’ll call the bank and tell them the balance I see online isn’t correct, my truth says it is much higher, and they better change it or I’ll sue because the bank has a personal vendetta against me.
And my truth says that it’s not the Gulf of Mexico nor the Gulf of America. It’s the Gulf of Cam. It, in fact, has always been.
Tell me it's not true. I dare you.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just tyring to Keep it Real.
On Keepin It Real this week, Cam Marston makes some observations on this odd stretch of the calendar between Christmas and New Years.
This is a strange time of year every year. Kinda a liminal space between two big holidays. My instinct says I need to be working but the buzz of my email – a reflection of how busy my work world is – is so quiet. It’s hard to get anyone to make decisions right now. Beginning around December 18th, we enter the “let’s circle back on this next year” stretch of the calendar. We go from opening small talk with “So, are you ready for Christmas?” to ending it with “Let’s circle back next year.” I’m as guilty of it as the next guy.
My father turns eighty-eight today. He’s turned his pickle-ball crowd onto these commentaries. So, to those of you playing pickleball today at the Via Health Center on Dauphin Street in Mobile, wish my father a Happy Birthday. He will probably try to waive you off, but I know he’ll be flattered to hear from you.
One of the most remarkable things in my world today is the activity of my eight-eight-year-old father. He plays pickleball at least four days a week. He’s made a whole new friend group there. Last year they convinced him to get a bike, and when they don’t play pickleball, they’ll often gather downtown and ride together for a few hours, staying away from the hills, and stopping some place for lunch or a beer. Many of them are twenty years younger than my father. They like him. They call to check in on him. They invite him to join them when they schedule things.
It’s wonderful for him and it’s wonderful for my brothers and me to know that since my mother’s passing a few years ago, my father has found an outlet. I saw recently that one of the primary ways to determine how long you’ll live is your measure of activity. Said another way, you don’t get old and stop moving, you get old when you stop moving. Dad’s still moving. He can still split firewood with an axe, still keep up with the youngsters on his bike, and still play pickleball several times a week. My daughter calls him to play when she’s home from college and they make a morning of it together at the Via Health Center.
Right around the corner on the calendar is Twelfth Night, known more commonly as the Feast of the Epiphany. The traditional date is January 6th and it’s the official start of Mardi Gras down here on the coast. King Cakes begin appearing in bakeries, beads start showing up. Notable and respectable people forgive each other and are forgiven for acting like fools with the culmination being Mardi Gras day which, this year, is March 4th, and, as luck has it, is also my birthday. In years past when my birthday coincides with Mardi Gras Day, I’ve created quite a spectacle of myself. Those days are over though I will enjoy Mardi Gras day a little more this year because it’s my birthday and I will enjoy my birthday a little bit more because it’s Mardi Gras..
Enjoy this odd liminal time on the calendar. Soon enough the grind will start again, and these commentaries will return – hopefully – to meaningful and thoughtful content.
I’m Cam Marston just Trying to Keep it Real.
On Keepin' it Real this week, Cam takes us back to 1988 when he and his team lined up to upset the world order in an all out international rowing competition. It was one for the record books.
It was the spring of 1989 in Augusta, Georgia. I was a member of the Tulane University Rowing team and we were there to train for Spring Break. Crew teams from across the south and many of the elite crew teams from the northeast came to Augusta and this perfect stretch of the Savannah River to train during the week and race at the end of the week.
A call went out that the organizers were throwing together an unscheduled race at the end of race day. It was open to the first crews who could respond and would feature a race that none of us ever would ever forget.
Tulane scrambled to field a crew. I made it lineup, and sat in seat number six, a port-side rower. As our boat was backing down into the starting position I looked to my right. It was the Russian national team. They were in the US to train. We’d seem them practicing – their boat moved effortlessly and screamed down the river. Their powerful strokes appeared to make gaping holes in the water. We’d had sights of them on land and they were all about six feet four and 220 pounds. Cold, solid, hard looking. The Cold War was still on, and since birth, we’d been taught that these people were our enemy. To our left, in a boat on our starboard side, sat the British national team. They, too, were in Augusta to take advantage of the training. Beating the Brits would have been fine, but it was the Russians we wanted. The other five boats in the race were the elite Ivy crews. And there sat Tulane about to disrupt the rowing establishment and make the name for ourselves that we felt we deserved.
The starter worked to align the boats, backing some down, pushing some forward until all eight bows were aligned. It was quiet as these commands rang out. Sixty-four rowers sat with backs perfectly straight, leaning slightly forward, oar blades completely submerged, hands tight on the handle, looking forward, steely-eyed, waiting for the start, breathing. The starter finally had alignment and it happened fast. We heard, “Rowers sit ready. Ready! Row!” and we dug in for the first stroke.
We were tied with the Russians for maybe one one-hundredth of a second. By the time we had completed ten strokes they were half a boat length ahead. In another ten strokes we could no longer see them. All we saw was their fading puddles where their oars had torn holes in the water. Within twenty seconds our hopes for upending the world rowing order had vanished. It happened fast.
And we weren’t really upset at the outcome. Heck, we had just raced the Russians. How many of our rowing peers could claim anything like that? We were a club team, after all, not even varsity. But we did it. We tried. We tossed our hat in the ring and tried to give those commies a good whippin.’
So here’s to you and me throwing our hat into the ring for something for which we know we are completely outgunned in the new year. And doing it anyway. We got shellacked but, heck, I’ve been telling this story for thirty-six years. It was well worth it.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam Marston has just returned from a few days in Fort Lauderdale. It's a different world down there, Cam says. One that he might have envied at one point in his life.
My wife and I returned from Ft Lauderdale Saturday. We were there for a corporate event where I was giving a speech. My client generously offered an extra couple of nights in the host hotel and our room was on the 26thfloor overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. I watched the sun rise each morning as I sipped coffee and read. It began as a faint glow on the horizon to a disk coming out of the water. It was nice. My wife and I haven’t had a chance to do things like that recently. Now that the kids are older, we’re trying to take advantage of them. As we left to go on our trip, we told our kids to please not let us find the house in ashes when we returned. We felt that was reasonable. And it was in pretty good shape when we got home Saturday.
South Florida is quite different from South Alabama or, I suspect, most of Alabama. And I guess saying that is simply acknowledging the obvious. I counted five or six different Ferraris which I rarely see around here. I think they’re beautiful. There were lots of Bentleys. There was lots of jewelry on everyone. Lots of senior citizens on the boardwalk late in the afternoon walking together, riding bikes, sitting and visiting. Lot of accents. Lots of people speaking Spanish, and what I think was Russian. Guitar players up and down the boardwalk, busking and playing music they hoped would catch the senior’s attention.
My hope for my wife and my trip was to create not a bucket list for the two of us, but a reverse bucket list. Not a list the things we wanted or wanted to do. I wanted us to create list of the things we could do away with. What we could do to simplify. I’ve said it many times to my wife and kids – we could probably get rid of half of the things we’ve accumulated over the nearly twenty years in this house and never miss them. If you’ve lived in the same place for a while, you can probably relate. How and why did we get this stuff in the first place. And why do I have such a hard time getting rid of it.
I look at all those things those people in South Florida had, especially the beautiful cars, the jewelry, the magnificent beachfront homes and thought “Wow. That’s beautiful. I’m glad I don’t want it.” And that’s a 180 degree shift and about face from the way I once was – I wanted the stuff, the houses and the cars. Today what excites me is getting rid of the stuff I have. And m y wife is kinda there, too. It’s a part of our journey together of what we want for ourselves from here on out. And what we want will change. Likely many times.
Ironically, though, as I say this my wife and kids have asked for my Christmas list – more things I want which includes, partly to my shame, a top hat. Do I need a top hat? No. Do I want a top hat? Yes. In a few years will I wonder why I have it and why I struggle to give it away? Absolutely.
I think maybe I’ve identified the problem.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
On this week’s Keepin It Real, Cam hopes you have no regrets from Thanksgiving. And if you do, that you learn from them.
Well, how’d it go yesterday? Any family flare ups? Any thoughts you wish you’d kept to yourself? Thanksgiving gatherings are famous for finding people’s boiling points and the election having been just a few weeks ago, some are still gloating and others still licking their wounds. Any regrets from yesterday?
I heard Dan Pink speak last week at a conference in San Francisco. He’s a New York Times best-selling author and his most recent book is called The Power of Regret. I was invited to go backstage to meet him and he told me how he gathered data for the book. He personally read over 60,000 people’s regrets. He solicited them from across the world and people enthusiastically responded. It was almost a catharsis for many respondents, he said. Like people wanted to get their regrets off their chest. He had to cut off submissions he had so many.
Regrets tend to come in four categories, he said in his keynote speech. They’re either Foundation Regrets – where you’re sorry you didn’t do something long ago that would have changed your today – started saving money, read more, gone after the degree, or had a bad feeling about who you were marrying but decided to overlook it. Then there’s Boldness Regret – when you played it safe instead of taking a chance or times when you look back and wish you had spoken up about something. There’s Moral Regrets – You did the wrong thing and it haunts you, something that was very much out of your character. He told the story of a woman who, when she was nine, remembers bullying a girl on the school bus and that behavior has eaten her up ever since. And finally, there are Connection Regrets – when you should have reached out and, instead, let a relationship wither. Whenever you ask yourself “should I call? Should I visit? Should I send a note” the answer, Pink says, is always yes.
Pink also showed a slide that shows that regrets increase over time – the more time goes by, the more the regrets of our past haunt us. And our regrets of today sting worse when we make a poor decision right now. “I should have known I was going to regret this,” we say, kicking ourselves. That, Pink says, is our own wisdom, earned over years, trying to exert itself, but we ignore it.
So, any regrets from yesterday? Anyone important to you storm off in a huff? Or maybe, did you? Apologies always matter. They make you feel better when you apologize and genuinely accepting apologies is part of God’s magic for relationships.
My regrets? Well, I certainly regret the second helping at yesterday’s Thanksgiving meal. I regret the third helping worse. More seriously, I regret losing my temper a few times as a young father. Regardless of whether any of my kids remember it, I can’t forget it. I did the wrong thing and it haunts me. Since my stroke about eighteen months ago, though, I keep regrets in mind. I want to learn from the ones I have and prevent any more.
Something to think about as I fix a turkey sandwich for lunch today.
I’m Cam Marston, just trying to Keep it Real.
On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam Marston wants you to know he's NOT A CYNIC. But there are things this time of year that just kinda get to him...
‘Tis the season for pensive and sappy messages. I’m so sorry but it’s true. They’re appearing in TV commercials, in client and vendor emails. Letters received in the mail about the joys of the season and now’s the time to be grateful and all that. I hate being a cynic, but it all appears to be virtue signaling to me. The people I know sending these messages are savage businesspeople and it’s like times running out and they’re throwing a Hail Mary pass to make Santa’s good list. Maybe these people really are kind and generous and are thankful for their bountiful blessings, and the season is a gift meant for a deeper understanding of the commonalities of mankind and that the cockles of their heart swell with the love of the joy of the togetherness of their fellow man and the brotherhood of the love of the oneness of all of us…and all that. I can’t help but roll my eyes. I seriously doubt many of these people have heart cockles. I question whether some of them even have hearts. But man, this time of year, people eat this stuff up.
My father and I watched a lady on the local news early Sunday morning deliver such a message. Her message was about enjoying the season by simplifying it to the essentials. It’s a similar message that we all hear over this time of year. I was unmoved. My dad, though, was over the moon about it. He thought it was great. He repeated the message aloud several times, full of energy. Dad, I wanted to say, you hear this same message over and over again every year. There’s nothing new here. Instead, I kept quiet. The message made him feel good and I guess that matters for something.
‘Tis season for extras, though. Whoever you are, you can justify something a little bit extra this time of year. “It only comes around once a year, so why not just a little more?” we say. A little more to eat. An extra slice of pie or two. Maybe a whole extra pie. Fill the wine glass a little fuller than normal. Each time. An extra gift for someone and maybe an extra one for you, too. Leave the office a little early. And then a little earlier. And then earlier. Every day of the year only comes around once a year, but these are…different. These days are a part of the Christmas season which, per the displays at Lowes, begins mid-October, making the Christmas season nearly a quarter of the year.
Some, like my wife and kids, have no problems with this. What does it matter, they say, if we like the decorations and they make us happy? My position is that the shorter it is, the more intense and special it is. If your default mode is that it’s nearly always Christmas, what’s so special about it? At least that’s what I say to myself, sitting all alone, while what remains of the cockles of my heart burn to cinders.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
On the way home from Oxford Saturday, Cam and his family stopped at a service station which led to him thinking about what NOT to put on his Christmas list.
For years I had my children convinced I was allergic to cats. I told them the reason we couldn’t have a cat as a pet was that my head would explode in a fiery ball. They wanted a cat. They asked regularly and finally accepted that I was allergic.
I’m not allergic to cats. I’m not sure how they found out, but the cat-pet requests are back. Frankly, I want nothing more to do with anything that requires fuel or any sort of sustenance from me to operate, be that cars, boats, cats, birds whatever. My wife and I have four kids, too many cars, one dog, and share responsibility for a boat. And I’m weary of giving birth to, parenting, raising, collecting or owning creatures or things that need me.
Buckatuna, Mississippi is a nice stopping point between Oxford, Mississippi and Mobile. We stopped there coming home this past Sunday. We had five people in the car, and it was time for a fluid adjustment in some way for all of us. The ladies in the car needed a bathroom, and I needed something cold to drink to keep me awake for the final stretch of road and the boys just needed to walk around.
There at the door of the service station sat a cat. We noticed another and then another. My wife and kids went toward them using their kitten voices. There were a lot of them. Another car stopped and the driver got out, watching my wife and kids. “I want all of them,” my wife said. She is now the pro-pet cat camp. “All you gotta do is catch one,” the driver said, “But, be careful what you wish for. My daughter,” he told us, “came home with one and said ‘I rescued a cat!’ Well, I said, that’s your cat. You have to figure out how to feed it. Then she came home two months later with another. Two months after that, we suddenly had nine cats and my daughter was struggling to feed them all. Then one day I came home and there was a dead snake on my porch with its head gone. I found out that cats help clean up vermin in the yard. Rats, mice, and even snakes. They bite snake’s heads of and bring the body home as a gift. So now,” he said, “I’m feeding those cats.”
“So,” he said again, “be careful what you wish for.”
The holidays are on the horizon. Kids making lists for themselves. You, perhaps, making lists for your kids. I’ve begun the tradition of making lists, making copies, and leaving them in places around the house where I know they will be found. Toilet seats. Front seats of cars. I’ve even put them in cereal boxes. No one can claim they don’t know what to get me. Cats are not on the list. Neither are dogs or anything alive or inanimate needing food or fuel. As a child we had a pet rabbit that ate through the power cord of the deep freeze. It wasn’t until all the food was spoiled that we realized it.
Anyway, just like cats and that rabbit now’s the time of year to be careful what you wish for.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just Keepin’ It Real.
On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam tells us about some early morning attacks that are happening in his part of town. You'd be surprised at who is doing the attacking.
On the top of the Tangles Hair Salon on Bit and Spur Road in Mobile sits a hat and a headlamp with its light on. The headlamp is the type that an early morning jogger wears before the sun comes up. How it got up there is a heck of a story.
Dennison Crocker jogs before daylight nearly every morning. His headlamp lights the way. One dark morning near Bit and Spur Road, a giant thunk, thud, and whoosh caught Dennison off guard, and his hat and the light were gone. Something had hit him in the back of the head. His light was flying away and stopped on the roof of Tangles. The culprit: an owl. Likely a barred owl. They’re the ones known to attack.
But that was just the beginning. Weeks later he was jogging not far from the same spot when the owl hit him again. He was in the middle of the road and, bang. Dennison started swatting wildly in the air. Just then a car stopped and asked if he were ok – Dennison was, after all, wildly swinging his arms around in the air in the middle of the road before daylight early one weekday morning. He told the driver about the owl. The driver looked concerned for Dennison’s mental well-being and slowly drove away and, just then, the owl hit him again. The driver reversed back, seeing Dennison wildly swinging his arms again and offered to get him outta there. Dennison dove in and went straight home.
The owl has become quite a star around here. My new best friend, ChatGPT, says the owl is either protecting its nest or it thinks Dennison is poaching on its hunting ground. It’s probably the latter since it’s a bit early yet for owls to be nesting. So Dennison, per the owl, looks like a food supply threat. And, well, maybe he kinda does. Dennison’s a big solid guy and I’m guessing he’d need a lot of squirrels to fill up, leaving fewer for his owl friend. The owl is rightly concerned Dennison taking more than his share.
I learned about all this at my regular Thursday beer drinking session with my homies and it was Jay Stubbs who told Dennison’s story only because Jay told us HE has been attacked, too. Jay is an early morning walker and not far from Tangles where Dennison’s hat sits, Jay got hit by what he says felt like a broom over the back of his head. His hat flew off and all he saw was wings. Jay, too, looks like a food supply threat. Jay could pack in some squirrels.
Oddly, I’m on team owl. I don’t want anyone to get hurt, I don’t wany eyes gouged out, but I like it that in our terribly predictable world, we have to worry about an owl attacking. It makes me chuckle. Getting attacked by an owI is something you could never have predicted sitting on your couch New Year’s Day, making guesses about your upcoming year. It’s a wonderfully refreshing story of life’s randomness and unpredictability.
What’s the moral? It’s simply this – it’s against the normal order of nature for people to exercise before daylight. Even the owls know this.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
On this week's Keepin' It Real, Cam recalls a time when he was very much out of his element and was slightly afraid for his life.
About midway through the fourth quarter of Alabama’s loss to Vanderbilt, my son, who is a student at the University, sent me a text. It read, “Can I transfer?” I laughed.
As a Tulane student we were fond of saying that on Saturdays in the fall, the New Orleans Superdome hosted a cocktail party for students to mix and mingle in the stands. Occasionally we would look up and notice that a football game was going on in front of us, but we never let it distract us.
Then one weekend I visited friends in Tuscaloosa. Saturday morning, I asked about plans for the night. “It depends,” was the answer.
“On what?” I asked. “Whether we win or lose tonight.” “You mean the football game?”
“Of course!” they said.
“Well,” I suggested, “let’s assume we’re going to lose and make some fun plans anyway. That’s the way we do it at Tulane. And if we win, it’s a wonderful surprise.”
There was quiet look of incomprehension. Of disbelief. “I recognize your words,” their faces showed, “but I don’t understand what you’re saying.” I realized that I stood in a dangerous culture unfamiliar to me, and I’d best button my lip unless I said something that might bring me harm. Like standing with uncivilized tribe in the Amazon jungle where you don’t know the rules and a foolish move may cost you your life.
My son’s text brought that memory back.
Monday, I spoke with a friend who was in Nashville during the Vanderbilt game. He watched from a balcony on Broadway as the goal posts made their way down the street. The students were very well heeled. Lifting the goals posts over the cars and apologizing if their impromptu parade was inconveniencing drivers. Very kind. Very nice. Bear Bryant’s advice on what to do when you’re in the endzone – act like you’ve been there before – was lost on them. By-standers watched in delight and awe, like spotting Halley’s comet, returning after making its long loop around the sun. It was a lifetime event. He said even the police were in on it, blocking traffic and making way.
I have a friend who’s quit smoking except for the second half of Alabama games. He watches through the window, one cigarette after the other. Another who only watches alone in his small home office where he can’t be disturbed, and no one can be offended by his cursing. I have some who make everyone stand up and change places when something goes wrong on the field. As if new seats in the room will bring better luck.
Saturday I’ll be watching the Alabama Tennessee game with my father, my two brothers, my son and some nephews at a work weekend at my father’s camp in Clark County. I am a Tide fan, after all. But there will be no strange hocus pocus from us. Just my lucky Bama hat, my favorite Bama shirt, and my lucky Bama sock – just one sock. I tried wearing them both again during the Vanderbilt game. It’s my fault they lost. I’m sorry. I took the bad one off and burned it.
Roll Tide, ya’ll.
On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam Marston tells us about a bomb maker he met who sends the bombs he makes to his friends. Oddly enough, you and I should be happy he's doing it.
There’s a man on the outskirts of Mobile who spends a good part of his days making bombs. He uses items he finds around town and buys from retail stores. He then sends his bombs to his buddies to see if they can disarm them. It’s a game and, believe me, it’s a game you and I should be grateful they’re playing.
I’m participating in a seven-week course called the FBI Citizens Academy. For two hours each week about twenty of use hear how the FBI works, and we meet their agents. Last night we met the bomb guy. He stays sharp by creating bombs that he may encounter made by the bad guys. He tries to get in their heads by making bombs out the same materials they would. The bombs out there, he says, are getting more sophisticated as the items available to the public are getting more sophisticated. He mentioned light sensitive triggers, much like the light sensors on my flood lights that toggle their nighttime settings.
The closest parallel I’ve come up with is that the FBI is like a hospital emergency room. People go to the emergency room because something bad has happened. Similarly, the FBI doesn’t act because something good is happening, they react to bad threats, bad news and bad events. And, I learned last night, just like emergency rooms have busy seasons like Halloween and New Year’s Eve, the FBI gets busier around Christmas. A Christian holiday where people gather to celebrate their Christian faith is a dinner bell for some bad guys. Underground news begins percolating and rumors of attacks ramp up around the holidays. The FBI responds to all of it. Every one. And the bomb guy stands by, ready to diffuse the device, explode it safely, or worst-case scenario, examine the scene for evidence and ask witnesses many seemingly irrelevant questions including what color was the smoke – all of it helps to solve the puzzle and find the maker.
You and I live mostly unaware of complexity of the work of the bad guys. We live mostly unaware of the constant activity of the FBI. It’s white-collar crime. Violent crime. Sextortion. Terrorism. And much more. Add to that the sometimes brutal criticism from the public who knows nothing about their work yet feels superior enough to criticize, including our former – and perhaps future – commander in chief.
Keeping the team motivated must be difficult. They’re focused day and night on evil, malice, and destruction often without the support of the loudest voices in our communities and nation. But my takeaway is these are tough men and women who are compelled to serve. To simply serve. They’re givers in a land of takers. Every one of them.
Six weeks ago, our class began with this: The bad guys want to be bad. The good guys want to be good. The bad guys work very hard every day to be bad. The good guys work very hard every day to be good. And the bad guys only need to be bad once.
Before the class began, I was fond of the FBI. Six weeks later, I’m deeply grateful.
I’m Cam Marston, just trying to Keep it Real.
On this week's Keeping It Real, Cam Marston reacts to a book review about society and how we're raising kids. It's not the kids fault, Cam says, it's definitely the parents.
The Economist magazine reviewed a book called Infantilised: How Our Culture Killed Adulthood. The author, Keith Hayward, argues that western society is keeping kids less mature than previous generations. He tells of a young lady who insisted on spelling the word hamster with a P. When corrected repeatedly, she called her mom and put her on speakerphone to tell her boss not to be so mean.
That’s laughable, but I’ve heard similar things. I work with employers to help them manage, motivate, and recruit employees. I hear stories like this, though the ones usually shared with me are the extremes. Is it true we are keeping kids less mature? I think maybe we are.
Life stages are transition periods leading to a new phase of life. These transitions can happen quickly, like becoming a parent, or they can be a more drawn-out process, like moving into retirement. On the other side of the life stage – once it’s complete-, the person is usually changed. Their view of the world and their values have evolved through the life-stage.
I track several life stages using Census data. It clearly shows that today’s younger generations are going through the same life stages as previous generations but at much older ages. Average ages for first marriages have increased nearly year over year since 1970. Young adults living with parents has increased sharply since 2007. Average age of mother at first birth continues to climb.
One explanation, per the book’s reviewer, is that youth today continue their schooling longer. Therefore, they are dependent on parents, resist getting married and resist having children until older. Maybe. It does make sense. But my research shows that since the Renaissance, in times of affluence, parents work to keep their children younger longer. Parents facilitate, as one writer calls it, Peter-Pandemonium. And I can tell you where you can go witness first-hand it if you wish – high school sports.
I’ve seen parents demand more playing time for their children on the field or the court regardless of performance data. Parents lose it over a slight they feel their child received, regardless of team rules. Demanding the child not get what they’ve earned, but what the parents feel the child wants. The lengths they’ll go through, the bridges they’ll burn, the scene they’ll make is shocking. Oddly, the child seems to care the least, but the parents – wow.
There’s a story told by author Michael Lewis that sums this up. It’s about his high school baseball coach who was tough on kids. The alums, now adults, wanted to buy a plaque to honor this coach who, the alums agreed, shaped them into the men they are today through discipline and tough love. At the time the alums were raising money for the plaque, this very same coach was being attacked by current parents as being too mean and too hard. The current parents demanded his resignation. The same coach. The same coaching. Diametric opposite opinions of the effects of his methods.
To oversimplify it, Infantilised argues that kids today are soft. Maybe. But I promise you, they’re not nearly as soft as the parents. Just ask a high school coach.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam's family dog heard what he said to the vet. And she has something to say about it.
When I walked through the back door our dog, Lucy, looked at me as if to say “you and I have some unfinished business.”
Lucy had been feeling bad. She was lethargic and had thrown up in four or five places in the house. On the rugs, of course. I got to my hands and knees to try to clean them up. It was nasty. She definitely wasn’t herself and my wife, who Lucy seems to regard as The Kind One, took her to the vet. My wife texted that afternoon saying, “Please go pick up Lucy before the vet closes today.” Nothing more.
At the vet I told the lady that I’m here to pick up Lucy and I’m in a hurry to get downtown for a meeting tonight. In my experience veterinarians, as a rule, seldom operate with any sense of urgency. They’re in the warm, fluffy, cuddly business which does not lend itself to hurrying. To her credit she jumped into action and said, “that will be $800.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Say that again.”
“Eight-hundred dollars.” My expression must have concerned her.
“I’ll print the receipt,” she said, “so you can see what was done.”
The receipt was written in medical code. None of it made any sense to me. As if these Latin looking medical terms and abbreviations explained anything. What I did comprehend, though, was the long column of dollar figures running down the right side of the page.
Then I said what makes vet offices hate people like me. “You know I can get a new dog that’s not broken for this amount.” A moment of silence then, “Yes. I know.” She didn’t roll her eyes but she may as well have.
“For this amount I need to speak to my wife to make sure she’s aware of this and then speak to the vet to get an explanation of what was wrong and what we need to do. My wife is busy now and I don’t have time for the explanation today, I need to get downtown. Can you keep Lucy for the night and let my wife come get her and talk to the vet tomorrow.”
“Yes,” she said, dropping her eyes. She never looked at me again. I could tell she loathed me. Shouldn’t I want to bring my dog home to comfort her? How could I leave her in a crate at the vet? Eight hundred dollars vs the comfort of having Lucy home? And the opportunity to care for her? I’m a cruel and heartless human being. I’m the bane of mankind.
And that’s exactly what Lucy was thinking when I came home the next afternoon. She was still lethargic but there was anger in her eyes. “I heard your voice when you came to get me yesterday,” her look told me. “I thought I was coming home. You left me. The Kind One came and got me like I knew she would. I’ve been thinking about you. Remember those vomit spots you cleaned up the other day. They were nothing. I was just warming up.” And she was.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam Marston says he has a question for you. And he's curious if you have a question for him.
A story that lives in legend in my family is the day my mother interrupted a story about a boastful largemouth bass fisherman and my mother, in full innocence, asked “Who had the large mouth? The fish or the fisherman?” She had never heard of a largemouth bass. But, considering the context of the story, it was a legitimate question. The group fell silent and stared. Someone then explained to her about the species of fish.
While the story gets repeated because of the question, my memory of the story is her reaction after getting the explanation. She began laughing at herself. At how silly her question must have sounded. At how perfectly naïve she was. I love the memory. Laughing at herself, fully confident in herself and her innocence. No need to be embarrassed. Self-composed, self-confident, and self-aware.
I have inherited the questioning part of my mother. I ask a lot of questions. And I can’t exactly explain why I want to know these things other than just to know them. Do the answers make my life better? I don’t know. It certainly makes me happier to learn these things. Do I make my environment better by asking so many questions? I don’t know. Do I make the people who I ask questions of better? Yes, until a certain point.
I was asked to go to the back of the line at a tour of the Biltmore House in Asheville when the tour guide said we were in room number two of the twenty plus we were scheduled to see that day and were already an hour behind schedule. My questions were to blame. Today I’m participating in an academy hosted by the FBI and one of my fellow participants said we need to stop asking questions so the agent can get on with their slides. The comments weren’t targeted at me exactly, but I was asking a lot of questions.
I find incurious people boring. I’ve learned it’s the single characteristic that makes me interested or not interested in a person is are they curious about things. Plenty of people are not. Plenty of them. What they see and what they get and what they observe and what they hear is fine. No questions asked. They find me annoying that I want to know more.
However, at the same time I can’t imagine going through life not wanting to know. And, unfortunately, the more I feel I know, the more questions I ask. Further, I’ve never been reprimanded for asking a bad question. For too many questions, yes. For a bad question, no. People seem to like being asked.
I recently finished a great biography of Leonardo da Vinci. He was famous amongst his contemporaries for his insatiable curiously and many of his questions lead to breakthroughs in his artwork and his inventions. One note he made to himself was to learn about the tongue of woodpeckers. Such a seemingly random thought. But a question to which he wanted answer.
I think I would have liked him. I’d love to have sat with him. And asked some questions.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
On Keeping It Real this week, Cam reacts to Tuesday's presidential debate and shares something he's learned about himself in the recent years.
Trump got waxed Tuesday night. Wow, did he get waxed. I watched the debate not knowing what to expect but man, to me, he got crushed. Trump later proclaimed it his best debate performance ever. He was outgunned. In hindsight, he never stood a chance.
The pundits downplayed his shellacking. They emphasized some of the points he made but largely overlooked how badly he performed. Fox News was doing cartwheels to find something to like about it.
Now, per the stereotype of public radio listeners most of you should be pleased with the debate’s outcome. I was. I’m not much a fan of the current leader of the Democratic party but I have a very strong negative reaction to the Republican party’s leader. And his presence in the national spotlight over these many years has taught me something about myself that is increasingly becoming more and more clear.
A friend says he separates Trump’s actions from his bombast and the lies and the crazy insane ramblings. My friend makes decisions based on the actions of the person, not their words. He doesn’t allow himself to be distracted by the insane ramblings. That is how, my friends said, to evaluate Trump. Ignore his words, observe his actions.
I have a big problem with that. Your words are a part of your actions. In fact, your words are how you engage reality. Psychologist Dr Albert Ellis is considered one of the most preeminent psychologists to ever live, and his findings are that how we think and talk about situations influence our perceptions of reality and the emotions that follow.
Words create our world. Our reality. You can’t separate them from behavior. They’re the seeds of our emotions, the seeds of our behavior. Ignoring what someone says is just stupid. Even in the book of Matthew, Jesus says, “For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of.”
I knew a public speaker who had a brash, condescending, and overly simplistic view of selling. He offended people in his seminars as a part of his schtick. I was invited to his home as a part of a larger group and one of the friends pulled me aside and said, “He’s not really a jerk, he just acts that way.” No, he’s a jerk. If he acts like a jerk, he’s a jerk. If he’s regularly mean and cruel to people, then he’s mean and cruel. There are no asterisks or exceptions to this. In my world, in my reality, and in the study of solid psychologists, that’s not the way it works.
I can’t support someone who talks about people and things and events like Trump does and think that the way he talks and the words he uses don’t matter. Observe his actions, ignore his words? I’m incapable of separating the two. It’s not in my blood to do so, it’s not in my bones and, frankly, it’s not how reality works. His words define his reality and just like my words define mine and yours do yours. And his words, to me cannot be ignored. None of ours can. None of us.
And in both words and actions, Trump got waxed Tuesday night. He got waxed.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
Cam's back from his one month sabbatical and creating commentaries again. This one he simply calls Gettin' Lucky.
Dr Suchan Shenoy is one of the regulars at Restaurant Five in Tuscaloosa on Saturday mornings. I join the regulars when I’m in town visiting my son who is a sophomore at the University. Dr Shenoy is an OBGYN at the DCH Hospital there. He and I sat together and we made some small talk. I don’t know any of the regulars well, but I enjoy their company when I’m in town.
Dr Shenoy could relate to my situation. I was a new guy sitting amongst a group of old friends in their familiar place, not knowing exactly what to say or do. I don’t have any background with them and the conversation can run pretty slow and thin.
Dr Shenoy mentioned that when he’s at a party or an event and the content runs thin, he brings up some things he sees around the hospital. Odd baby names. Things new parents have done. Stuff like that. Lots of people can enjoy those stories. Lots of people find them interesting.
He mentioned that the maternity ward at the hospital had an unexpected surge of newborns in late July and early August. It was strange, he said, since it wasn’t a national trend or he would have heard about it. It appeared very local. DCH Hospital’s normal rate was one or two babies a week and suddenly the numbers had doubled for a few weeks. Almost out of the blue, there were babies everywhere. Very local. Very isolated.
We talked about how the hospital had managed the surge well. They were all hands-on deck for a little while. The surge in babies was, frankly, good for business and they knew it wouldn’t last but, for a few weeks, everyone was in motion caring for the babies, the mothers, and dealing with the families. It was odd he said, and he couldn’t figure out what had caused it.
Not content to let it go, Dr Shenoy reverted to an old equation he had learned in medical school that helped Drs back in the day estimate due dates. It’s called the Naegele Rule Calculator and it’s not much used anymore since the today’s computers are much easier to use and more accurate. However, using the Naegele Rule you can reverse the math and estimate a conception date. And the math zeroed in on November 25th. Late November last year.
Thanksgiving? Not likely. They would have noticed a surge in previous years if it were Thanksgiving and it wouldn’t have been isolated to the area. Then it occurred to him.
In the late afternoon of Saturday, November 25th last year, with 43 seconds left in the game, Alabama’s Jalen Milroe threw a bomb to the back left corner of the end-zone where it was caught by Isaiah Bond leading to Alabama’s extraordinary come from behind win. The surge in babies Dr Shenoy was seeing were conceived that night.
As Alabama fans taunted Auburn with “who’s your daddy” well, it became clear to Dr Shenoy that lots of daddies were made that night. Apparently, lots of people, including the Crimson Tide football team, got lucky.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
This week on Keepin' It Real, Cam gets a flashback memory to one of the low points of his early adulthood and why he should hold on to that memory to keep himself in check.
I listen to my commentaries from time to time and I can sound quite self-righteous. A bit “holier than thou.” And I don’t much care for it.
Perhaps you’re familiar with the expression “beware the reformed.” It means those that have returned from the brink of some excess tend to be evangelizers of their new ways. They’re the alcoholics, for example, who insufferably rail about the dangers of alcohol and preach abstinence. Former smokers who warn off smoking. Sinners, who have committed what they feel are above average sins in both volume and degree that now implore us to quickly turn to JeeeZuss.
My self-righteous tone and the warning to “beware the reformed” hit me between the eyes this week. A friend sent a photo of himself at a service station in Babb, Montana. It triggered a memory.
Babb is a very small town on the western edge of the Blackfoot Indian reservation and the eastern edge of Glacier National Park. In college I worked two summers in Glacier National Park and there was a bar in Babb called the Babb Bar. It is there that my name, so I’m told, was on a list posted on the wall. I never saw that list. It was a list of those the Babb Bar had banned for life.
It was the end of my second summer at Glacier. I was convinced I had become a cuckold by my then girlfriend. A confrontation with whom I imagined was her beau was brewing. Before I could control myself to have a calm conversations, I resorted to shouting and accusations. And, as was my case at that time, to prepare for the showdown I knew would occur that night, I guzzled a few too many long island iced teas. (And to my kids who might someday hear this – this is long, long before I even knew your mother existed.)
At the Babb bar that night, the alleged beau stepped out of the men’s room. I was on my way in. I exploded as soon I saw him. A shouting match, then my pitiful attempt to throw a punch. It was an airball. I missed him completely. However, the momentum of my punch, influenced by the many long island iced teas, carried me into him, then onto him, and we fell in a pile and began a shouting wrestling match on the nasty Babb Bar bathroom floor. We were both thrown out. As the instigator, my name was added to the Banned for Life list the next day.
My self-righteous tones in these commentaries need to be contrasted with the way I used to be. “Beware the reformed, Cam,” I tell myself, “Because you’ve become one of ‘em. Tone it down. You’re becoming an ass.”
Marcus Aurelius had a servant walk behind him during his triumphal processions. The servant was to repeatedly whisper “You will die someday.” It was meant to keep Aurelius humble. If the Babb Bar still exits and if you’re ever there and that list still exits, send me a photo. I’d like to print it and put it next to the chair where I write these commentaries each week. And work to rid myself of these self-righteous tones.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.
On this week's Keepin' it Real, Cam Marston wonders if we prefer entertainment to anything of substance. And frets over the consequences.
I hope everyone had a nice July Fourth holiday.
On July 4th, 1776, the Declaration of Independence was officially adopted and signed. It has proven to be one of the most influential documents in world history, generating demands for independence and self-rule across the world.
Eleven years later, in 1787, the US Constitution was created and was then ratified about a year later. The energy and enthusiasm and aspirations of these two documents propelled a new nation forward. They’re full of hope and ambition and the authors of the documents counted on the honor and integrity of this new nation’s leaders to fulfill what those documents stood for. The leaders, the documents, and the mood of our country at the time was hope fueled by the divine.
Let’s contrast that to what we witnessed two Thursday nights ago in the Biden Trump debate. Let’s consider for a moment what’s happened to us. From uplifting prose to child-like name calling. From sage and cogent observations about human nature to incoherent ramblings. From relying on the honor and integrity of leaders to spewing gobs of lies. From working through honest and principled disagreements to an unwillingness to even shake hands.
No one I know likes the candidate they’ll eventually vote for. No one I know thinks their candidate, regardless of their party, is capable or qualified. Everyone I know is voting for their guy to prevent the other guy from destroying the nation. What have we done to deserve this? It’s a serious question. What the hell have we done to deserve this?
I’ve heard many people say, “Is this the best we have to pick from?” but after the debate last week, that question became “This is the best we have to pick from!”. And, I’ll say it again, everyone I know, regardless of who they will eventually vote for, is saying that about their candidate. No one likes their options.
At dinner last Saturday night, a friend mused that he thinks our nation today likes entertainment more than anything that remotely feels like substance. When it comes to politics, we don’t want anyone to tell us the truth. We want to be entertained. So, we keep electing politicians that tell us what we want to hear, that entertain us.
Perhaps the debate last week will initiate a turning point. Perhaps now we’ll begin talking about substantive topics. When was the last time a politician even offered an opinion on our nation’s debt or deficit? When was the last time a politician addressed our nation’s addiction to entitlement spending? A trusted economist I interviewed on my radio show last week predicted that around the year 2030, our nation will fall into an economic depression that overshadows the Great Depression of the 1930s and it will largely driven by deficit spending, national debt, and runaway entitlement spending issues we’ve known about but refuse to acknowledge.
And if he’s right, and as these dark clouds gather, we sit and watch two of the nearly least capable people our nation has ever put forward feebly argue over why they should represent us as president. It’s gut-wrenching. And it’s not entertaining. Not at all.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.
The roost is full at Cam's house. And on this week's Keepin' It Real, Cam shares that it may never be this way ever again.
My wife and I had thought our summer would be quiet and a bit boring. Two of our four children would be living away and the other two would be at home but either working during the day, away at camp for a few weeks, or playing sports. Plans changed, though, and they’re all back home for the summer. Our house is packed. The roost is full. Our four kids are between the ages of twenty-one and seventeen and they’re all living at home until the fall when my two college aged children return to campus. In the meantime, we’re all together. Just like old times except, today, they’re all in the bodies of adults.
Our Costco run Saturday morning was $700. We could easily return tomorrow for another run. The food goes fast. The refrigerator goes from full to empty in just days. And even after packing the fridge, we heard the all-too frequent complaint – “there’s nothing to eat around here.” My wife calmed herself and took my children on a food tour standing in front of the refrigerator with the door open, pointing out the $700 worth of food we had just put in there. Pointing at items and explaining how simple it was to prepare and eat the food.
The trash cans are always loaded, too. Before the house was full, we’d take the trash to the outside cans a couple of times per week at most. Now it can be twice a day. The recycling is always overflowing, too, and needs to be taken outside every few days. We are running the dishwasher every night – it fills up every day whereas when previously it was run maybe once per week. The washer and dryer are in constant motion. And I spent ten hours cooking a nine-pound Boston Butt Saturday. Nine pounds of meat would usually last my house a week or so. It was nearly gone by the time dinner was over Saturday night.
Oddly, though, I see my children much less than I thought. Mainly because by the time I’m up and have left for the office, they’re still in bed. And when I get home later in the afternoon, they’re gone to work or with their friends. We hear them at night, though. They each come in and knock on our bedroom door to let us know they’re home.
It’s nice to have the roost full again. I wondered if it would ever happen. It’s easily conceivable that my college aged children could never have returned home ever again though my friends with older children say that is not likely to happen; like it or not, your kids are coming back, they say. But the thought of my kids not living at home anymore, I don’t know, kinda unsettles me. Makes me feel sad. Is that chapter of my life really over? I’m told I’ll miss the shoes all over the floor and the dishes in the sink someday. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. However, the Costco runs – I’ll definitely not miss those.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam is having a harder and harder time walking his dog due to his neighbor's dog that won't go away.
“Am I my brother’s keeper?” Cain asked this of God after his brother Abel went missing and God asked Cain, “Hey. Where’s Abel?” Cain claimed he didn’t know. Cain had killed Abel, by the way, and was trying to hide it.
How about this question – “Am I my brother’s dog’s keeper?”
I remember growing up in a neighborhood where everyone let their dogs run. There were few fenced in yards. No such things as invisible dog fences and fancy dog collars. The dog I got for Christmas as a teenager, a black lab we named Holly, mostly stayed in the yard, on the front porch, or by the back door. She had a small piece of left over carpet that she could sit and sleep on when she was allowed inside. It stayed next to the back door and Holly was not allowed to go anywhere else in the house. Outside she roamed a bit when she got older. She was one of many. There was Gumpy and Gidget and Daisy and Elizabeth and more all on our street. Holly was known by the neighbors and, well, tolerated, just like their dogs were by us and tolerated. Holly never caused problems – at least that’s the way I remember her.
The rules have changed. Today we fence dogs in. Or we put them behind invisible dog fences with collars that give dogs a series of warning beeps when they approach their boundaries. We don’t let them outside unsupervised. We only walk them on leashes, and we pick up their droppings with special poop bags and carry their poop in our pockets before we throw it away, which shocks me. We humans have created artificial intelligence, we regularly go to and from outer space, we have created the pyramids of Giza, a flawless sculpture of David, and radars that can see underground from outer space but we regularly carry dog poop in our pockets. We’re not as advanced as we think. But I digress.
So, back to the question, am I my brother’s dog’s keeper?
My neighbor’s dog wanders the neighborhood. The owner says the same thing – Oh. I’m sorry. She got out again. And again. And again. And again. The windowsills in the front of my house are destroyed. My dog goes nuts when she sees the other dog in our yard. And when the other dog comes up to our window our dog barks violently and claws at the window which has destroyed our sills. Their dog gets into our curbside recycling, spreading it all over the yard. Their dog follows us when we go on walks and we have to abandon our walks for fear of their dog getting into traffic.
The dog, of course, is just being a dog. It’s doing what dogs do. We’ve returned the dog to the owner many times but, I don’t know, the owner doesn’t seem to care about the hassles the dog causes.
So, am I my brother’s dog’s keeper? And if yes, for how much longer? And can I put the dog’s owners in a poop bag and throw them away?
I’m Cam Marston just trying to Keep It Real.
On this week's Keepin' It Real, Cam is board so he's thinking about paddling across the Pacific. Or planting a few ferns.
I’m bored. And that’s a problem. Somethings been nagging at me for a few weeks and I now know what it is – I’m bored. There’s little adventure in my world right now. Very little discovery. And when boredom sets in get panicky and a bit rash. Too often, I over compensate.
This morning I spent way too much time on the Molokai to Oahu web page. It’s a 32 mile stand up paddleboard race from the Hawaiian island of Molokai to the island of Oahu and it takes most paddleboard participants about seven hours to complete. The participants in the videos were all much much younger than me and loaded with muscles. I saw no participants that were middle aged plus men with beer bellies. Some participants spoke of the unbelievable color of the water in the center of the Ka’iwi channel which is crossed between Molokai and Oahu. I’m guessing that’s because the water in the channel is 2300 feet deep.
I think I want to do it. It’s a sure way to cure my boredom. The problem is that I don’t own a standup paddleboard and the few times I tried one I spent more time climbing back on than I did stand up paddling. I also have thalassophobia which is a deep fear of deep bodies of water. Whenever I’m in the ocean where I can’t see the bottom, I envision a giant toothy creature surging from the depths with its mouth open, headed my way. Man loses his edge when swimming in the ocean – it becomes an equal playing field between man and beast. However, training to paddle from one Hawaiian island to another would certainly resolve my boredom however crazy it sounds.
A more realistic and, frankly, a sad alternative to my boredom is yardwork. I hate it that I even mention that. What else says overweight, middle aged, thinning brown haired white guy than deciding working in the yard is a cure for boredom. My wife, my son, and I planted forty autumn ferns a few weekends ago in areas where no grass has grown for the past fifteen years. I didn’t much like planting them. My mood is generally sour when working in the yard, but I’ve slowly walked by and admired our planted ferns a dozen times or more sense then. I don’t like doing yard work. I like having done yard work. Another forty ferns would solve my boredom problem but that’s so dang sad.
So, I’m bored. And the ideas I’ve come up with for solving my boredom problem are either fanciful or pitiful. When I told my wife that I had figured out the cause of my melancholy and that it was boredom, she gave me an uneasy look. I’ve been here before and I usually do something stupid in times like this. And she’s right. And I’m sure I will.
Will it be to paddleboard across the ocean? Or gobs of ferns? Good lord. What’s wrong with me?
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam says we know we're all busy, very busy, but are we doing what it takes to flourish?
What does it take for a human to flourish? Such a simple question to understand but to answer, not so easy.
Listening to a podcast last weekend, this question arose between the host and his guest. The guest pointed out that, in his opinion, everything being promoted as valuable in our Western society today is detrimental to human flourishing. What is being promoted, he said, actually leads to loneliness. And he might be right.
So, what is being promoted out there? One immediately must turn to technology and, specifically, social media. Our consumption of social media is largely done alone. We may share things we like, but we consume 99% of our social media alone.
The accumulation and broadcasting of wealth is certainly being promoted. On social media. In the types of cars next to us on the road right now. Through our posts about the clothes, the toys, the trips we take. It all serves to boost and promote our ego and egos, unchecked, always elevate and separate. Always. Egos say, “I’m better, I’m different.” I’m above you. I’m away from you. More loneliness. I could go on.
So, if we want to flourish, what exactly should we want? If we want our children to flourish, what should we want for them? Unfortunately, most of us don’t know. We’re conditioned to say friends, health, meaningful and purposeful activities each day. It all sounds good. So look at you. Look at me. What are we doing to achieve this? What of our behaviors illustrate that we’re flourishing? For the vast majority of us, there’s not a lot to point to.
And we have the ability to heavily influence our kids. We want our kids to flourish so, we give them cell phones. We solve their problems. We let them stay home from school. Kids today spend less time interacting with each other. Increases in anxiety and loneliness. We want them to flourish but we don’t equip them or teach them how. And adults aren’t much different. We’re busy, though. So very busy. Flourishing? No. Busy. Yes. Very busy.
A small business colleague asked a simple but heretical question last night: “What’s wrong with not wanting more? What’s wrong with not wanting private equity to swoop in and buy me out because I like what I do, and I don’t want to stop? What’s wrong with not wanting a boat, a plane, a second house or whatever? What’s wrong with liking where I am? And why do I feel wrong for asking this?”
There’s nothing wrong with it. But it’s counter to our culture of more and more and busier and busier.
Everything needed for each of us to flourish is within our reach. Education. Art. Friends. Hobbies. Community.
Do you and I have what it takes to leave the mess we’ve created so that we can flourish?
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam Marston had a client breach a contract and he's trying to use lessons from Marcus Aurelius to keep himself from absolutely losing it.
I’m reading Marcus Aurelius’ book called Meditations written in about the year 175. They’re notes to himself about the thoughts he’s having and how he’s working to keep his head on straight. He’s writing to work things out. No audience in mind, just for him.
Throughout his writings several themes arise. First, he’s aware of the presence of death. The topic of dying is never far. Second, he has to keep reminding himself that he can’t control the behaviors of those around him, only himself. He controls his outlook on things and his attitude. He writes this over and over again. And third, his desire to do good. Always wanting to do good. For himself, for Rome, for the gods, for his troops. He’s consumed by doing good. Struggling to temper his reactions whenever bad things come his way. He’s focused on controlling his behavior. It's been a good read.
Aurelius had a number of people conspire against him while he was away on campaign. His plan was to return to Rome and forgive them. He died in route. It’s a very kind action in an era I often associate with ruthless and barbaric behavior.
I’ve recently had a client break a contract. Their behavior appeared willful and intentional but in hindsight, I’m hoping it wasn’t. It is a very large multi-national company. Every person I’ve met there seemed honest and genuine and sincere until this one thing has happened. A few weeks ago, I wanted to go to my small business colleagues and yell at the top of my lungs “Be careful. They’re not who they say they are. Don’t let the charm fool you. Be very, very careful.”
Now, not so much. My anger has diminished. I need to remedy the contract. I need to correct what’s happened. But goodness knows mounting a legal dispute would drain my small business. I’d go broke trying. Them? Hardly a blip on their radar.
So, how to proceed? What would my man, Marcus Aurelius, do? I think he’d remind himself that he can’t control the behavior of other people and his desire to do good and be kind should outweigh any anger, hostility and disappointment he feels. He needs to find the remedy without letting anger take hold. He may forgive them but he’d, rightly, never forget that it happened. And for me, right now, for what appeared like pre-meditated theft, forgiveness is a tall order.
It's amazing how unchanged our thoughts and emotions are in 2000 years. How the disciplines and thoughts and writings that a Roman emperor used to keep himself from losing it applies to me right now. I’d like to think that we’re kinder and more civil and sophisticated today. However, it’s simply not true. The virtues that Aurelius championed are as hard to bring forth in me today as they were to him 2000 years ago.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
On this week's Keepin' It Real, what was Cam doing today at 4:59am? Well, he wasn't getting out of bed. That we know for sure.
Most mornings I’m staring at the clock about 4:30 am waiting to get up. I won’t allow myself to get out of bed before 5am. Getting your day started at 5am means you’re aggressive. You’re eager to get going. Getting out of bed before 5am means you have a problem. They’re slight gradations. Minutes matter and 4:59am is a good bit different from 5am. I stare at the clock until it turns 5 when I feel like it’s ok to jump up and get the coffee started.
Most of my friends are much the same. I sat at my kitchen table last Saturday night with two friends as we waited for the beef ribs to get to 203 degrees, which, according to one of my kitchen guests, is the magic temperature for beef ribs. Each of us talking about how early we get up and what we do in those early morning hours. It’s worth noting that none of us do anything much interesting at all at this time of day. We make busy. We putter around. Each thinking that our behavior at that hour must be fascinating to others and we can’t wait to tell them about it. It’s not. As different as we think we are, we’re all remarkably the same at that time of day.
Years back I saw that when I accomplished something at that time of day it set a precedent for getting stuff done throughout the day. If I could check something off my list first thing in the morning – even something small - then I was likely to accomplish more during the day. This is to avoid staring into my phone as my first action of the day which leads to a poor beginning to the day. So at night, I cue up my early morning project. It’s simple stuff – I fold laundry, empty the dishwasher, take trash to the street, change a lightbulb. Something small done with one eye on the coffee maker. Because when the coffee maker beeps that the coffee is ready, the projects stop, the coffee goes into my cup, and it’s go-time for the day. But, in that short amount of time the coffee is brewing, I’ve made progress on having a good day.
It’s unfair that the first fifteen minutes of each day has such great influence over the following sixteen hours. I’m more like a child protecting its pacifier than any sort of adult doing adult things. But I’ve learned, so goes my morning, so goes my day. A more mentally disciplined person would never allow that to happen – they can set a positive trajectory by shaping their thoughts anytime of the day. I, however, am vulnerable to those first fifteen minutes. It’s shocking and, frankly it disappoints me about myself.
Amazing how beholden we are to our routines, isn’t it? Amazing how we count on them like we do. I can choose to get out of my routine and enjoy it. But knock me out of my routine unwillingly and I struggle to keep my day from deteriorating. So I protect it. And any parent knows what I know about myself – you don’t mess with the pacifier.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
On this week's Keepin' It Real, Cam has seen much more of the healthcare world these days than he would like. His advice: Stay well.
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I’ve been given an up a close look at our health care system over the past several months. It’s been, well, disappointing. And this comes after hearing a remarkable speaker discuss the importance of customer service on company culture.
I made a reference several months ago to the pain I’ve had. It’s finally been diagnosed as polymyalgia rhumatica, or PMR. It showed up around February first and has been a part of every day since. It’s a sickness that can’t be confirmed through tests. Once they rule out everything else, it’s one of the ones that’s left.
I’ve dealt with some pain in my life. Cluster headaches. A blood clot in my lung. However, nothing day in and day out has been like this PMR pain. On a scale from one to ten it’s regularly an 8 in the morning dipping to a four or five in the afternoon and back to an 8 the next morning. I need help getting my shirt on and off. I can barely brush my teeth. Right now, I’m on a steroid that masks the pain and I pray that the pain ends before the prescription runs out.
Now, the heath care system. I’ve seen five different doctors to try to diagnose this. I’m guessing I’ve spent less than an hour total with all of them. Averaging, maybe, ten minutes each. They burst through the door, they ask a handful of questions, they order tests. It’s quick. I’ve spent lots of time with nurses and assistants and in waiting rooms. But the doctors are hard to come by.
One hospital wouldn’t let me speak to a doctor who I heard might can help. “Unless you’re a patient,” they said, “you can’t speak to him.” “Well, I might become a patient if he thinks he can help. I’ve seen others of his specialty, but I hear he knows more. “Sorry,” they said. So, I wrote him a letter to get him to call me. I got a voice mail from the office supervisor – “you can’t talk to him. Please call me back,” she said. And I tried, got an exhaustive phone tree, zero’d out and asked, “Can I leave a message for the supervisor?” “Sorry,” they said. “Her phone isn’t hooked up to the system.” Over and over. Round and round. There were some phone trees that never allowed me to speak with anyone. If I weren’t in pain already my experience with today’s health care system was getting me there.
Another – “before I can treat you further, I have to do some tests,” the doctor said. “Make an appointment on the way out.” “We don’t make appointments,” the front desk said. Annoyed. Staring at her phone. “Someone will call you.” A day later, “Our next available appointment is in July.” “So, I have to live in level 8 pain from early April to July?” “Sorry. That’s all I got. You want the appointment or not?”
The culture of healthcare today is painful. Don’t get sick, folks. Don’t get sick. If your sickness doesn’t kill you, finding the treatment just might.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.
Each spring Cam sits in his morning reading chair and see's a friend just outside the window. But Cam won't give him a name. He absolutely won't.
My lizard friend is back again. He shows up on the air conditioner every spring just outside the window. He stays there quite a while each morning, arriving about half an hour after sunrise. I sit each morning in my reading chair and keep an eye out for him. And suddenly, he’s there.
I grew up calling these things chameleons. Wikipedia, however, just told me he is a green anole and he is often mistakenly called a chameleon, likely started by pet shop owners who were selling them as something much more exotic than they are. Wikipedia also says his species is “secure”, meaning they are abundant.
My lizard friend is a male. He keeps pushing out his dewlap, his little red throat thingy that they show during mating season, hoping, I suppose to attract some babe lizard due to his remarkably colorful and large dewlap. He sits alone on the air conditioner flexing his dewlap in the hopes that some chick lizard will spot him and be taken with his masculinity and crawl on over for a big moment of lizard passion. At least that’s what I assume he’s doing. In this regard, my lizard friend isn’t too much different than many of the guys I see at the gym.
As a child we’d catch them and scare the girls. My braver friends would catch two and when the lizard tried to bite them, they’d let the lizard bite their earlobe and let it hang. The kids would walk inside with lizards hanging from each ear, find their mothers and say, “Mom. Look at me.” The mothers would see two lizards hanging from their son’s ears and freak out. “Get those lizards off your ears and get them out of my house!” We loved it. Scaring mothers with bugs and lizards was a big fun part of my childhood.
There’s a part of me that wants to name him, and the name Roscoe keeps coming to mind. However, once you give a name an animal it becomes much closer to being a pet. A friend owns a beef cattle farm and he’s talked to me about how he avoids naming any of his cattle. One may have a big mark on him that makes my friend want to call that cow Spot or Freckles or something, but he resists the urge. My friend knows that one day that cow will be in the cooler for sale, and having to say goodbye Spot or Freckles is, well… He knows not to name them.
Same is true for the lizard outside who might be Roscoe. He has lots of predators looking for him. Birds. Snakes. Larger lizards. I won’t name him because I may be watching him display one morning at the same time a blue jay or mockingbird sees him and suddenly Roscoe’s gone. So I won’t name him, the anonymous lizard who might otherwise be Roscoe. He’s trying so hard out there. Every morning, he and I say hello through the window and he gets to work while I read. He’s a good lizard, Roscoe is, but I won’t name him. I won’t.
I’m Cam Marston. Just trying to Keep It Real.
On this week's Keepin' It Real, Cam Marston takes a moment to observe the fingerprint of time. And wishes he hadn't.
Talking to a naked man is awkward. It’s just…awkward.
There are men that have come my gym at the same time every day for decades. And their work in the gym may have kept them alive but it has not kept them from aging. There is nothing firm on them. There’s nothing taut. Age plus gravity has left a sagging fingerprint. And talking to a naked man, especially one with some age on him, is, well, awkward. They’re standing there, towel over their shoulder, not around their waist. Is eye contact the right thing? Is no eye contact the right thing? I struggle with what to do.
My gym has a hot tub. It feels good to get in there and, as I say, boil my bones for about ten minutes. I wear shorts. It’s a moment of truth whenever a naked man approaches the hot tub and asks, “Mind if I join you?” I never say what I want to. There’s plenty of room in there for the both of us, but sharing a hot tub with a naked man is, well, awkward. How far do I stay away? My instinct is to push myself up against the furthest edge of the tub. However, too much aversion may be rude. So somewhere between the next county over and right next to him seems to be about right. Always looking up. Always looking out. Always looking away. No behavior or no eye contact to suggest that you’re happy he’s joined you.
I watched out of the corner of my eye as an old man walked across the crowded locker room, towel over his shoulder, toward the water cooler. The room parted like the Red Sea. Everyone scooting out of the way. Him talking the whole way about golf or politics or traffic, whatever. No one was listening after he starting moving. Everyone clearing out. Making a path. Don’t get too close. And, good lord, don’t touch him. Fully dressed I’d happily shake his hand or even hug him. In the locker room with only a towel over his shoulder, no contact at all.
Another tried talking to a younger man who was getting dressed. The older man, towel over his shoulder, couldn’t get the younger man’s full attention. It was clear that the younger man did not want a conversation with a naked old man, so older man began walking towards him. The younger man moved to avoid him and kept moving, like a slow moving chase. Once the older man got within a certain distance, the younger man moved again. Like the repulsion of two magnets. And it was funny as long as he didn’t want to talk to me.
The male body, especially after a certain age, is nothing people should want to look at. It’s nothing people should have to see. It becomes oddly misshapen and strangely bulbous. There are exceptions, of course, and they’re on the covers of magazines. But most of us – yes, me too – avoid full length mirrors until we’re dressed. We already can feel the fingerprint of time. There’s absolutely no reason to have to look at it.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
On this week's KIR, Cam Marston wonders if he could do the same thing for fifteen years and know, just know in his bones, that it would pay off.
I’ve just watched the documentary on Steve Martin called "Steve! A Documentary in Two Pieces." I’ve always liked Steve Martin.
What caught my attention the most is that he did his standup act for fifteen years. The vast majority of that time, his audiences were very small. In one video clip, he’s counting the number of people in the room during his act – there were fifteen people there. He got what he thought were big breaks that bombed, in one case opening for Anne Margaret in Las Vegas and after he finished his act all his belongings had been put in a box outside his dressing room.
However, the last stand-up comedy act he did was at the Nassau Coliseum outside New York City where he sold it out three nights in a row – 45,000 people each night. After the third night, he walked off the stage, never to do that act ever again. He was at the top of his game. It took him fifteen years to get there. And then he was done.
Question: Who of us have the will, the fortitude, to persevere for fifteen years – fifteen years - with the hope – actually, the confidence – that what we’re doing will ultimately pan out. When giving up or changing course is a very real option but we chose not to do it because our vision of what could be is so strong. I’m not sure I do. How many of us can see the need for a change, or see a change coming, and get out in front of it, remain confident amongst the failure and rejection, and never waver.
A number of times during the documentary Martin says that he did his act because he had few other options. The little money it brought in was all he had. Those interviewed, though, said he was waiting for society to catch up to his humor. Steve Martin changed standup and comedy and humor. He could see the change coming, but the vast majority of society wasn’t aware that a change was happening. Martin saw it coming, ever so slowly, so he kept going.
It's one thing to ID forthcoming changes in technology and how to get ahead of those changes to profit from new products – think Steve Jobs and the iPod – but what Steve Martin did was predict a change in the ethos of the United States following Vietnam. He had a hunch people would be different. And he kept at it. And, in time he was proven right.
What’s the moral of this story? Someone like that is out there amongst us right here and right now. Doing something we think is foolish, or that doesn’t seem funny, or saying something that doesn’t sound smart or goes against the grain of society. We ridicule them or cast them aside or, more likely, just ignore them. But they keep coming back. Perhaps, we should take a look.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam Marston hypothesizes on what a parenting podcast from him and his wife would sound like.
My wife and I sat together at the beach last week laughing as we retold stories and reminded ourselves of the humor of parenting. Especially as Gen X parents. We decided to compose a social media post together. The date was April first, and that date matters.
The post read the following: We are frequently asked how we’ve raised four perfect children. Here’s our response: We are excited to announce our new Parenting Podcast called Gen X Parenting Tools. Go check it out.
We listed some episode titles:
- Episode One: Building a Foundation: Hose water and neglect
- Episode Two: Who needs effective discipline? The effective use of ridicule and humiliation
- Episode Three: At the Heart of it All is Cynicism.
Lots of people, too many in fact, thought we were serious. Across the top of the post, it read Launching April First. We thought that would be a dead giveaway.
Several asked where they could find the podcast. One cheered enthusiastically, agreeing that we did have four perfect kids, and was excited to hear the show. Lots wrote in reply, “I can’t wait” or “I’ll listen.”
My guess is that we were too subtle. I had hoped people would add new episode titles like Episode Four: Serves You Right – Whatever Just Happened You Had it Coming. Or Episode Five: Maybe it Will Scar, Maybe it Won’t – Either Way Stop Crying.
One person understood quickly that it was a hoax and she wrote: As soon as I saw the line about your four perfect kids, I knew it was a joke. Well, we’re glad you got the joke but, ouch!
If my wife and I had a podcast on parenting the title would be “Here’s how to fail only about half the time, try not to get your kids to hate you, and hope you get lucky at parenting.” Today, I worry that our practice of making the kids run a lap around the house if they burped at the table at mealtime may have been too extreme. Are they somewhere now sharing their traumatized memories of running outside barefoot in the dark in their pajamas on cold nights? Screaming the whole way around the house “It was an accident. It was an accident.”
Our podcast would be full of situations where my wife and I didn’t know what to do and still don’t.
“Should we have allowed him to go to that concert?” “I don’t know. I’m not sure we did the right thing. I hope we didn’t mess him up. I guess time will tell.”
“Should we have made her change her clothes into something different before that event?” “I don’t know. I’m not sure we did the right thing. I hope we didn’t mess her up. I guess time will tell.”
My conclusion is that in parenting, just like in April Fools posts, there needs to be some self-deprecating humor, less subtlety, and a good bit of praying we didn’t mess it up and that it will all work out in the end.
However, that hose water thing – that may come back to haunt us.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam Marston has some observations about the NCAA tournament. The old guys are winning, and he likes that.
Someone in my family is not pleased right now. As I write this Wednesday, I don’t know who. Last night the North Carolina Tar Heels basketball team took on the Alabama Crimson Tide in the NCAA tournament. My wife is a Carolina grad. I was unaware people could like basketball that much until I met her. My son is a Freshman at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa. He was an avid sports fan moments after his birth. One of them lost last night and is not pleased. They’ll be picking at each other today until the loser says “Ok. That’s enough.”
My wife has commented all year about how this year’s basketball season is different. There were many more seniors playing than ever before. North Carolina’s standout forward, Armando Bacot, is twenty-four years old. It’s not only my wife that’s noticed it. Yesterday, while I was walking on the treadmill, my buddy Jimbo mentions how all the successful teams are all older. Then this morning, the daily newsletter I enjoy so much called Morning Brew mentions the same thing, going on to state that nearly 300 tournament players are in the fourth, fifth, or sixth years playing basketball. Covid rules allowed them to extend their eligibility and NIL money is keeping them playing in the college ranks whereas in the past they may have bolted for the big money of professional basketball.
This is in great contrast to the years of when the top basketball teams were loaded with “one and done” players. The top players would play one year in college then go on to bigger money. The teams loaded with one and done players this year have not fared as well. The University of Kentucky’s basketball roster has eight freshmen on it. Kentucky has been a perennial basketball powerhouse and a perennial one and done program, and they likely watched last night’s games at home on their couch just like I did after they lost in the first round.
Experience is proving to matter this year. Many of the teams that may have never have ever had a chance to make the NCAA tournament were present this year, fueled by upper-classmen. Many of them have already lost, but they were there. And many for the first time. And on some teams, fans are able to watch their players mature. Some players are staying on the same team throughout their college career. While it is true the transfer portals have spoiled much of this, there are places where the seniors have been at the same school the whole time. They’re rare, but they’re out there. And their fans adore them. They’ll cheer any player wearing their alma mater’s jersey, but they’ll adore the ones who have worn it four years or more.
So why does this make me feel kinda good? That the old kids are proving to be the winners? That the veterans are the difference makers? I suppose because it shows that wisdom and time and experience matter. And, as I get older, that keeps getting more and more important to me. And even though these veteran players are more than thirty years younger than me, I feel a kinship with them.
I’m Cam Marston and, old as I am, I’m just trying to keep it real.
On this week's Keepin' It Real, Cam is searching for a message and if he hears one, he WILL obey.
I think there is someone or something out there trying to send me a message. A few things have happened lately that seem, well, like there is a message coming or attached but I don’t know what it is.
First, storms rolled through a few months ago knocking out the power. Fortunately our house has a generator attached and it kept a few rooms running for a little while. My friends began texting about their power being out. I proudly texted a photo of my comfortable and well-lit kitchen that showed our generator working fine and then, boom, a lightning strike destroyed the generator.
Soon after I was telling someone I think the whole idea of “long covid” is bogus. There’s no such thing as “long covid” I said confidently. It’s a made-up sickness that people are using to stay out of work. Then I was hit with pains like I’ve never had before. They won’t go away. They’re in my shoulders and hips and are intense in the night and early morning. It’s been two months of constant pain. After determining it wasn’t arthritis and drawing 1000 gallons of blood, the Doctor told me I have post-viral myofascial syndrome. Otherwise known as long-covid. The pain might last for as long as six months, she said, Get used to it.
Then there are the clients who have contacted me asking for proposals. I ask thoughtful questions so I can better customize for them. They confirm they’re eager to get started soon. The call ends wonderfully. And I, foolishly, start counting my chickens. Then things get quiet. I follow up and they assure me they’re looking at it and we’ll get started soon and over and over and round and round. Ultimately, no decisions. I’d much rather a client say No, Thank you than never reply or never make a decision. Uncertainty, in this case, is worse than bad news.
So, like I said, I feel like someone or something is trying to get a message through to me. But what? Tell me. I need the sky to crack and open and a booming voice to come from it or a burning bush in the back yard telling me what to do. Or the phone to ring or the email to buzz or something. What’s the message?
After dealing with the pain from post-viral myofascial syndrome – I’m struggling to call it long covid - for two months, I’ll do anything to help with the pain. The most recent advice is that I fast for at least a day and three days would be better. During lengthy fasting, the body begins cleaning itself and eliminating anything unneeded, like a pesky virus causing pain in my hips and shoulders.
I’m writing this closing in on 48 hours of fasting. I’m a bit loopy. But if another 24 hours of fasting will help with the pain, I’ll do it. However, can’t be sure what my mental state will be 24 hours from now. I may be just loopy enough that…I finally hear a voice. And real or imaginary, I’ll do whatever it says.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
There's a grocery store Cam goes to when he's in a hurry. It's NOT the one closest to his house. That one is full of memories. Full of roots.
I saw him see me. He turned and headed my way.
“Cam,” he said. “How’s you mother?”
“Well,” I said. “She passed away two years ago.” I saw you at her funeral, I wanted to say. I remember talking to you.
“Oh. Yes. That’s right. I’m sorry. Well then, how’s your father?”
“Dad’s wonderful. He plays pickleball five, sometimes six days a week. Sometimes twice a day. He’s eighty-seven but I don’t think he knows it. He’s great.”
“Well, that’s wonderful. Please tell them both I said hello.”
“I, I sure will. Thanks.”
The grocery store closest to my house is the one I got to least often. The trip takes too long. At any moment of the day there is someone in there that wants to chat. Wants a short visit. In the middle of the day, when I go in to buy something quick for lunch, someone like this is likely there. Usually friends of my parents. They’re in no hurry. The grocery store I go to when I’m in a hurry is actually a bit further away. It’s quicker.
Conversations like this, with this older gentleman, while a bit comical and maybe a bit sad, mean something. “I know you,” he was saying. “I know your people. You and me, we’re connected. We fished when you were a young boy. Your dad and I hunted turkeys together.” As a young man, I wanted no part of this. I didn’t want to be reminded of myself as a boy. I wanted anonymity. I wanted a blank slate and to make my own way as a man. So, I left my hometown for two decades. Today, the opposite is now true. It’s become important to me. It’s a 180 degree about face. I like it, though a bit comical and a bit sad at times, I like it. It’s roots.
There’s something about old connections, about roots. About generations of pasts that intertwine. I once dismissed this as unimportant. I felt that these were silly things cherished by simple, small-minded people. I was a young man then. I was bullet proof and I knew it all. I’ve had a 180 degree about face. They’re important now more than ever as I look around at who I’ll grow old with, how we’re connected, and how my connections may show up in my kid’s worlds in some unknowable way in the future.
And I see one of my friend’s adult children in the grocery story. I knew him when he was a boy. I tossed him balls, maybe, or cooked him pancakes in his pajamas at my house on a Saturday morning. And I go to him and I say, “Hey. Tell me. How’s your father. I miss him. Please tell him I said Hello.”
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
On today's Keepin' It Real, Cam shares something he saw last weekend that made him feel a little bit better about things.
I'm in Starbucks. It's Saturday. It's Noon. I'm in Tuscaloosa at the corner of Bryant Drive and 8th Avenue. Sororities across the street disgorging young ladies for their morning cups of honey-dew latté with extra chai, extra vanilla essence and a dash of bumble bee eyelashes or something like that. Yoga pants as far as the eye can see. One girl wearing a T-shirt reading Don’t Date Frat Boys. Parents here for fraternity and sorority parent’s weekend. Dads wearing dad jeans and comfy shoes. Moms perfectly coifed wearing fancy sneakers.
My son’s fraternity threw a party here in Tuscaloosa last night. The party planners likely said, “Get a band old people will like.” The music was, indeed, for old people. Older than any of the parents there. As soon as I heard the first song, the count began – how many songs before Mustang Sally. It was seven. There’s not a band that plays under a tent on a lawn at a quote-unquote “old person party” that doesn’t play Mustang Sally within the first ten songs. They don’t exist. It’s as if everyone, including the band, just wants to get it out of the way. The same with Brick House and “let me hear you scream!”
The lead singer came on in the second set. Her energy moved a lot of old people to the dance floor. It became an old person’s careful shuffle, protecting aching knees, hips, and backs. Lots of moms and dads who never had dance moves or who had lost their dance moves decades ago packed the dance floor, shaking arrhythmically like dancing on a shaking fault line. Brightly colored wigs appeared. Confetti cannons. Parents shuffling together, ignoring their aches and pains. Advil will take care of tomorrow. I left for the bathroom and returned to find my wife in the front row. She waved me up. I pretended not to see, standing with my son who was rightly proud that his fraternity was entertaining so many people, so many old people, so well. It was a great time.
Look at who I now am, my son seemed to be saying, standing next to me. Look at these new friends. This new environment. These new people who know me and like me and search me out in the crowd to say hello. I shook dozens of hands. Tried to remember names. Tried to remember parent’s names. I’m a guest in his world. A new world that he’s forged for himself. Full of new people from far off places who were unknown to him just a short seven months ago. They now laugh together like old friends do. They share funny looks and make references to inside jokes.
As a parent you wonder how your children will turn out. What will influence who they are and who they’ll become. You try to raise them right, the way you think is best, but parenting is just a portion of it. There are so many factors. And you wonder. And you worry.
And then you see your child thriving in a good environment full of good people. An environment that he’s created for himself. And you smile a bit. And you worry a little less.
I’m Cam Marston, just trying to keep it real.
On this week's Keepin' It Real, Cam shares a story he's kept quiet for fourteen years. It's time to get it off his chest.
I’ve just boarded my flight. I’m headed home. Sitting here, a memory has resurfaced.
Many years ago, deplaning in Chicago, I took a call from a young man. He’d studied my work and asked me to mentor him. He wanted to travel and give speeches. He wanted me to refer him when I was too busy, and he’d pay me a commission. He loved my topic and said he could represent me well. I was deeply flattered. He charmed me.
A few months later, we sat at my dining room table for most of a day. I taught him my content. I shared my tips, my tricks, my tools of the trade. I had clients ready for him. I was busy. I needed help. He was eager to start. I was proud to help this ambitious young man launch.
My wife and I dropped him at the airport for his flight back home. He disappeared into the airport, and I asked my wife, “What did you think?” She paused. “I think he probably beats his wife,” she said.
“No. You got him all wrong,” I said. “Besides, he’s not married.”
“He’s the kind that would,” she said. “Be careful.” Something alarmed her.
Two years later, at the window of my Greenbrier hotel room, his business manager called. Their partnership had just ended over a money dispute. I learned that as he was sitting at my dining room table, he’d take breaks and call in disbelief that I was giving him all my content. He was sending lists of my customers, and the next day he began calling them saying “I can give you Cam Marston’s presentation much cheaper. I have all his materials.” He took many clients, never told me, never shared the commissions. It had been a part of his plan since my phone rang that day in Chicago. The business manager now wanted a pound of flesh after being cheated by him, too.
Today, he’s well known in the industry. He’s busy. I’m told he delivers a good presentation. And he should since it’s my content. If this story ended in justice, I’d tell you his absence of ethics caught up to him. But I don’t know that. I don’t know what’s happened to him. For years I’ve avoided hearing his name, and even today his name tastes like bile in my mouth.
I need to forgive him. It would release me from this anger I’ve held for so long. So, with great difficulty, here, now, today, I forgive you. You will probably never hear this, but I forgive you. I still ache to pound your face. If we ever meet again, you should be afraid. You made me feel used and stupid and embarrassed and cheated and you cost me some of my livelihood. You conned me out of my trust. I won’t ever forget it but, as of right now, I forgive you.
This commentary is not inspirational. This is not pretty. Forgiveness won’t help him but…I sure hope it helps me.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.
Cam's phone has been ringing. It's a lot of his small business friends and they're experiencing similar things. They're feeling pressure. They're feeling squeezed.
When an orange is squeezed, orange juice comes out. We know this. We know that sun and good soil and water and maybe some fertilizer help that orange develop that juice. We know the ingredients, we somewhat control the ingredients, and we know the goodness that comes from a squeezed orange. What happens, though, when you and I are squeezed? What happens when life puts pressure on you and me? What ingredients are we drawing on when we’re squeezed? And what results?
I read this question in Rick Ruben’s new book about creativity. He pulled it from an old school motivational speaker named Wayne Dyer. The metaphor’s been around the block a few times. But, it still resonates.
In the past two weeks, I’ve had four small business friends share that things aren’t going well for them right now. A fifth one chimed in this morning with the same report. Regardless of what the economists say – some say it’s great out there, others say it’s dire – for my five small business friends and me, we’re feeling squeezed. Pressure.
One friend desperately needs orders. And when these times happen, he must remember to do the thing that’s gotten him out of these pressures several times before. He has a beautiful piece of property, and he has to remember to sit comfortably and look out over the expanse – over the pasture and at the trees and the pond. That view provides inspiration and creativity. He has to remember to do it. Otherwise fear and worry will have him buzzing around thinking that busyness is the solution.
Another needs walk-in traffic to his store. And for him, busy hands set his mind to creatively solving his problems. He takes on big projects knowing that somewhere along the line something will trigger a solution to his problem. Busyness presents him a solution.
But the question comes back to what are the ingredients we’re putting into ourselves so that when we’re squeezed something positive comes out? Life’s going to squeeze you. For the vast majority of us, it has already, I’m sure. How are you preparing for the inevitable squeeze? Have I prepared appropriately for this squeeze? What are the ingredients I’m putting in? And what’s the pressure doing to them?
Time will tell. Assuming the squeeze ends at some point, I can then look back and evaluate. Right now, my effort includes a work ethic having me make lots of phone calls to interact with old colleagues and working to meet new ones. I’m forcing curiosity by asking them “what’s new?”, “what’s going on?”, “where’s your pain?” I’m working hard to keep a positive attitude about letting go of what’s always worked in favor of trying something new. I’m asking, “What do people want from me?” not stating “Here’s what people should want from me.” These success ingredients I’ve used before but I’m having to create new variations.
I’m working to embrace the struggle. To embrace the squeeze. Because, so often, this is where the good stuff happens. And I’m counting on it again.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
Mardi Gras ended Tuesday for Cam. Immediately following Mardi Gras is the beginning of Lent and Cam struggles with what sacrifices he should make.
Lent. I struggle with Lent every year. How much suffering is enough to prepare my soul for the Easter arrival of the Lord? Is there enough? Who knows. There’s always someone suffering more; someone taking it to the next level.
As a child it was ice cream. I gave up ice cream every year and dutifully reported it to my religion teacher as the assignment instructed. I love ice cream, vanilla especially. In fact, I’ve created an association called the Vanilla Ice Cream Eaters of America Social Aide and Pleasure Club. It’s known by its acronym: VICEA. Our motto is “It comes from Udder Space” and our logo shows a scoop of vanilla with Saturn rings around it and a Holstein cow walking across it. We’ve had a Facebook page since 2008 edited by Holt Stein. It has fifteen members.
However, I don’t eat vanilla like I used to. It’s gotten expensive. That plus my waist size. Giving up ice cream is, well, too easy. I love the stuff but giving it up wouldn’t equate to enough suffering.
A friend from long ago gave up everything containing wheat for lent. Everything. That’s a lot of stuff. She had to pay close attention to everything she ate. Anything with flour. All beer. Bunches of stuff. She was the same person who kept a bowl of peanut M&Ms at her front door and allowed herself one M&M per day. No more. I eat peanut M&Ms by the double fist full. If they’re in front of me, I eat them. I can’t stop. She had a degree of self-control that is unrelatable.
Another friend gave up alcohol a few years ago. However, he had devised a chart of “skip days” where he could drink. He explained all this over a beer during Lent, by the way. His skip days were quite frequent, and it appeared to the rest of us like they related to the days that he wanted a drink. I was not impressed with his Lenten suffering. Mainly because there wasn’t any.
The good book says we’re created in the image of the Lord. So, imagine hearing prayers saying “I’m planning to remember a big event in your life in about forty days. To prepare properly, I’m implementing things to temporarily remove joy from my life.” I’d say, “Wait. Pardon me? Say that again. Is that what I’m supposed to want from you?”
One year I tried to drink more water for lent. The health effects of more water and all that but it’s not the same. The gest of lent is giving up something you enjoy.
And I’m not sure what to think about it. All the hard-fast black and white rules that I learned as a child have faded into grey. I wish they hadn’t. I knew the rules, I followed the rules, and I counted on the rules to take care of me. It was easier following and never questioning. Now, I question. A lot. And, believe it or not, it’s made me a better follower.
However, I still don’t know what to do about lent.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
On this week's Keepin' it Real, Cam Marston has thoughts about this upcoming weekend. Mardi Gras is on us down here in Mobile, and that leads to some tough decisions.
Dry January ended last week. Dry January followed soaking wet, sodden to the bone December. I’ve never done Dry January before and after sodden December, I needed to give it a try. Aside from one small drink to celebrate my daughter’s twenty-first birthday, I drank no alcohol for thirty-one days. I’m not sure I’ve done that since I was a teen.
The net result? I lost nine pounds. I slept very well every night for a solid month. I was eager to get out of bed each morning. All in all, Dry January was a hit. And I was surprised and thrilled with how easy it was to do. I’m now struggling to decide if I ever want to go back? I’m pretty sure the answer is No. And, my friends, that’s huge.
Some of my favorite people are the guys I gather with every Thursday evening after work. We’ve done it weekly for ten years at the same table. We talk and we chat. We rib each other like guys are prone to do. And we have a beer or two.
In early January, I avoided those Thursday gatherings, afraid that seeing a cold beer would tempt me too much and I’d cave. And I might have. However, by late January I had developed confidence in my Dry January and I was joining my group and ordering a NA beer.
What I learned in Dry January is that I’m not nearly as funny as I thought I was back in December. And maybe even for a decade before that. For years I’ve laughed at my jokes until tears poured from my eyes. And my friends were hilarious, too. Well, in Dry January, nobody was funny. Especially me.
A different friend hasn’t had a drink in over ten years. I now feel embarrassed about the times I’ve been with him with a few beers in me and I realized he wasn’t laughing at what everyone else thought was hysterical. In Dry January, it became clear why.
And I’m not sure what’s gonna happen. This new me is fond of this new me. But I liked the old me, too. And as of today, we’re entering the teeth of the Mardi Gras celebration here in Mobile. Mardi Gras about silliness and revelry and I enjoy both of them and a drink always helps with both of them. It’s a quandary.
I know that creating a grand drinking strategy for Mardi Gras is foolish. Temptation is everywhere and I know myself well enough to know that I manage temptation poorly.
However, my uncle told me that he stopped smoking by telling himself that when he wanted a cigarette, if he still wanted one in ten minutes, he’d smoke one and not feel bad about it. Gradually he stopped wanting them at all. I’m going to adopt his strategy and call it “the ten-minute delay plan for an uncertain semi-reformed drinker.” If I want a drink, I’ll wait ten minutes. After ten minutes, If I still want one, I’ll get one. And won’t feel bad about it.
And if you spot me laughing hard with my friends, you’ll know what happened.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
What do you call it when your certain plans are suddenly upended? They're changed with no warning? You call it a God-stop. On this week's Keepin' It Real, Cam shares his experiences with them.
A friend told me a story about how he had applied for a job a long way from home. His potential new employer had said they were going to make a very attractive offer. My friend and his wife began discussing selling their home and moving their kids to a new school. It was certain to happen and then…it didn’t. The job offer never came. His calls to the new employer to get an answer or a simple explanation went unanswered. “I’ve been in business a long time,” he said, “and no one had ever disrespected me like that before.” He had already left his former employer and was now jobless. He was crushed and wondered what he was going to do.
Over lunch my friend told me the business he was now a part of was about to sell and some of the sale would come his way. The new role had been a perfect fit for him. His talents soared there, his skills were cherished, and his team had come to not only rely on him, but to really like him. It was the best job he’d ever had, he told me.
“What about the other job? The one they never called you back?” I asked. “It was a God stop,” he said. “That’s the only explanation I have.”
A God stop. Where a part of the Master’s plan is to firmly close the door on what we thought was certain. A divine interruption. No explanation can be offered other than the supernatural. How many God stops have each of us had? Lots, I suspect. And in hindsight, they’re always for the best.
Yet that’s the very problem with God stops. It’s only in hindsight that we recognize them. In the moment, they’re agonizing. They feel like abandonment. They feed our uncertainties and escalate our fears. In the moment, they’re awful. And we don’t recognize them as God stops. They look and sound and feel like failure.
My focus in such instances is too often on what didn’t happen. The narrative I had created in my mind of what I wanted, of what I thought was certain, was beautiful. It was leading me to the land of milk and honey. I struggle to focus on what might now happen because I was so embedded in narrative I had created. Perhaps this new destination will be even greater.
If we lived in the now, as countless sages have told us we should for millennia, God stops would never cause a problem. If we could manage our imagination, God stops wouldn’t feel like disappointment. Instead we – or at least I - live in the future with a runaway imagination and I often struggle whenever my plans meet a God stop. I focus on the door that’s just closed instead of stepping back to find a new door that’s standing wide open.
The goal, I guess, is to recognize the moment for what it is. It’s not failure. It’s not a loss. It’s a God stop. And somewhere nearby a wide open door is waiting for me.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
Cam spent Monday evening at a big party for a small group of twenty-one year olds. To say the least, times have changed. Here's what he saw.
A moment after midnight on March 4th, 1990, I stood on a barstool and declared loudly to the packed bar that I had just turned twenty one years old. I was in Boulder, Colorado. A moment later the bouncer had me by the shirt and said, “That means you used a fake ID to get in”, which was true. I was nearly carried, my feet barely touching the ground, to the door and tossed into the street.
Oddly enough, the same story happened to my wife, long before we met. It was a stroke after midnight on July 13th, 1991, and she was on Franklin Street in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Her declaration was not made atop a bar stool. She was greeted by cheers from her friends and was bought a round of drinks.
In both instances, our parents were not there. And, in both instances no evidence exists that any of it ever happened.
Monday night in Oxford, Mississippi, I was with my favorite oldest daughter in a bar called The Summit. All her crowd was there plus more. She and her friends who had turned twenty-one over the Christmas break banded together to celebrate. My wife and I were invited. We were, in fact, encouraged to come. Decorators created an Instagram-able background including a balloon-arch and streamers. There was a platter of cupcakes in the shape of 21.
Picture books were created for each of the birthday girls. The girls wore bawdy signs around their necks for the night. After a couple hours, my wife and I sensed the tide turning, the energy increasing, and a bar full twenty-one-year-olds were about to begin doing what bars full of twenty-one-year old’s do. My wife and I paid our part of the tab, hugged our daughter, posed for countless photos with her, and got the hell out of there. This is a low estimate, but approximately 55 million billion photos were taken in the two hours of the party.
This is not the way I would have wanted it, I kept thinking to myself. But the truth is, I didn’t have a pocket full of magic back in 1990. While it was her celebration, the cell phone and its camera, this magical device, drove the show.
I read somewhere that today mankind takes more photos in one day than we did from the invention of the camara roughly two hundred years ago to today.
The picture books she was given were made quickly compared to what it would have taken back in 1990 – imagine developing 35mm film, duplicates, photo booths. The sign she wore was full of images, printed as a whole, and laminated. It certainly took some effort, but simple compared to what it would have taken back in the day.
As much as I wanted to flinch, she and her whole party were a reflection of what technology has created. A natural consequence. Said another way, while I’d like to think differently, had the technology been available, I would have probably wanted the same. But I am indeed happy my parents weren’t there. And I am indeed very happy no evidence remains.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
My real name is Charles. But Chuck and Chas live inside me. Chuck was trying to get out this week. Chas had to try to keep in under control.
An icicle hangs from the roof of my house. I’m looking at it but still can’t quite believe it. Icicles are very rare here. Usually reserved for the freezer door that was left open overnight. A winter storm blew through and Mobile, Alabama is doing what it usually does when it gets below average cold – we’re freaking out.
School is cancelled, quote, “out of an abundance of caution” for the kids. There’s no rebuttal to that phrase. It can’t be argued. Right now, my kids are picking up their friends to go to lunch. School was cancelled to keep the kids off the hazardous roads. The roads are fine, and my kids are loving it. There’s no abundance of caution in them. There’s about to be an abundance of Chick Fil A.
I learned yesterday my generator that died at 3am in last week’s storm is unrepairable. It’s dead. The technician, a very nice guy, felt guilty telling me the replacement part I bought won’t work due to the alternator being destroyed by what was probably a lightning strike. Replacing the alternator would cost as much as a new generator. So, it’s dead. Here, he said, is his bill for the replacement part and for his time replacing it even though the generator is unfixable. That stung.
We are but nineteen days into 2024 and Nick Saban has retired, the election year chaos has started, we’ve had a horrible storm that knocked out the power then its lightning killed my generator, it’s now too cold to go outside, there’s an icicle on my roof, and my kids should be in school but instead are at Chik Fil A with their friends. If I could rhyme all this with beer and mud and tire it would be a country music smash.
A cynic lives inside of me. He’s powerful. I call him Chuck. When he gets out, he becomes uncontrollable. He runs amok. It’s been a life-long challenge to keep Chuck at bay. And it’s times like this that he’s banging at the door to tell the world what he thinks. What he sees. What the real truth is. And what’s wrong with everybody. Chuck is a know it all. And I don’t like him, but Chuck does live here. And it’s on days like today that he rages to get out.
Chuck’s foil, lives here, too. His name is Chas. Chas finds what’s right and what’s good and what is working. Chas sees the bright side. His cup is half-full. It took years for Chas to show up. And Chas has to be groomed and fed and nurtured every single day or he’ll vanish. Chuck needs nothing to thrive. He feeds on everything. Nurturing Chas requires discipline. He’s delicate but vital and I need him now.
Chuck says it’s one skinny icicle, why are my kids out of school? Chas says the surprise on my kid’s face from no school today was wonderful to watch.
I’m Cam Marston and on behalf of Chuck, Chas, and myself, we’re just trying to Keep it Real.
Storms blew through Monday night. It was tough weather. I survived. My daughter? It was the aftermath of the storm that nearly broke her...
My favorite oldest daughter is upset. “I just can’t deal with this. It’s just too much,” she keeps saying. She’s leaving for a bit. She needs to get out of the house. “I’m going to Starbucks,” she says. “I’ll be back later.” My wife and I say nothing.
You see, the power is out. The big storms that cruised through Monday night left us in the dark. It’s now Tuesday afternoon and the power company estimates another thirty hours or so before power returns. And the home generator, which kept a few rooms working, died about 3am Monday morning.
My daughter needs her wireless, her internet. Apparently, the LTE signal she’s getting is not quick enough for her. And she has no place to charge her phone. So, Starbucks.
We have water here. We have food. It’s cool outside but not cold. We have plenty of clothes and blankets. We won’t freeze. We have places to go to bathe. But she needs her internet. She waited patiently for it to load but the LTE took too long. She needs to Snap and to Insta more quickly. This adversity, well, for the moment, is just too much.
Somehow, she slept through the storms. The rain lashed the house. The wind howled. The power flickered on and off through the night, causing countless electronics to beep each time. My wife and I could hear horns and sirens as tornado warnings sounded. There were sounds of firetrucks and ambulances throughout the night. My daughter awoke the next morning and asked what was going on.
My wife and I were zombies – we had been up all night ready to react to any roof leaks, trees on the house, windows broken, or windows blown open. How she slept through it I don’t know. My wife and I were boiling a pot of water for coffee on the gas stove still dressed from last night when my daughter walked in in her pajamas.
I suppose there was something that, as a child, I felt I couldn’t live without. Something that I needed so badly that not having it was “just too much” like my daughter and her speedy internet. What was that thing? Was it my love for my stereo? I loved my stereo. My car? Some sort of clothing? I don’t know. What did my parents think when I couldn’t get that thing and it crippled me? I’m sure they worried about me. Worried about my future. Worried about their future if people like me may someday be in charge. The same worries that I have. That we have.
The first comment that I’m aware of about one generation looking at the next and worrying about the future comes from Socrates 3400 years ago. 3400 years ago. So, for centuries, centuries, generations have looked at the generations coming behind them and shaken their head. And yet we seemed to have made it. We always survive. Things generally get better. 3400 years of precedent suggests it will again.
So, I’ll button my lip, and I’ll drink my coffee. It’s the best I can do. Otherwise, it’s just too much.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
On New Years Eve, I watched a conversation in my kitchen that was exactly as I hoped it would be.
A friend called this past fall. He said, “The Holy Spirit told me to call you and tell you the Holy Spirit wants you and me to make a podcast together. Will you help me?” My goodness. What do you say to that but “Sure. I’ll help you.”
The podcast is about his spiritual journey. He brings his friends on from time to time to tell their stories. My job is to keep us focused on the topic, keep us at around twenty minutes per episode, and toss out a contrary opinion that will help the host clarify his position or story. The podcast is called Jeff’s Last Cast. If you’re the spiritual type and enjoy podcasts, let me know what you think. It’s triggered some soul-searching in me.
One thing I’ve observed from these podcasts is that everyone believes that God supports their decisions and behaviors, whatever they are. And I think this is universal. We all believe that what we’re doing is inspired by God, blessed by God, encouraged by God, or approved by God. We all believe God approves of what we’re doing.
For example, the vigilantes that stormed into Israel in early October were doing it because it was God’s will. We’ve labeled them terrorists, but they believe they were God’s mercenaries. They screamed prayers as they killed. And Israel’s punishing response is certainly God’s will. The loss of life, the remarkable destruction, the hundreds and hundreds of bombs are justifiable for the harm caused by Hamas. God approves. Both sides are acting with God’s blessing.
There are similar beliefs since the rise of Donald Trump. Some say he’s God’s gift to humanity and our nation. God chose him for us. Trump has, in fact, said this himself. He’s deeply flawed, people say, but aren’t we all and who are we to judge? He’s the one God wants.
Those that oppose Trump are convinced that God wants to prevent Trump from having any influence over our nation ever again. Trump is the nearest thing to the anti-Christ our world has ever seen, and God commands us to fight him. Their protests, their online videos, their lawsuits are all weapons in God’s arsenal to prevent Trump’s rise to power . Both sided equally convinced that God is pushing them forward.
The same arguments exist about Biden. Many say God wants him out. Many say God wants him in. They both site Bible passages and signs from above to justify their stances and their actions. They fight each other. They scream at each other. They grow red in the face. Both exactly the same. Both convinced they’re backed by God.
Honestly, I don’t know what to think. But on New Years’ Eve I watched and listed as two great friends quietly, calmly, and respectfully debated politics. They listened to each other. They didn’t interrupt. They considered the other’s point of view. They asked thoughtful questions. In the end they acknowledged that they could see the other’s point of view but respectfully said they couldn’t adopt it for themselves. They smiled. And the conversation moved on. Exactly, I think, the way he would have wanted.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
Yesterday was the winter solstice. Brings back memories...
Yesterday was the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. Said another way, there is more darkness on December 21st than any other day. It’s also the day I got engaged many years ago.
The story I like to tell is that my wife, who was then a collegiate volleyball coach, was watching VHS videos of players she was hoping to recruit. I asked her to stop the video and pay attention to me for a moment or two. She reluctantly did with a “this better be good” expression. I asked her to marry me. She considered the proposition. She looked me up and down a few times. She remained quiet for a terribly uncomfortable amount of time and finally said “Ok” and then hit play on the VCR and returned to her work. She’ll deny much of this story, by the way.
It's usually the darkest day of the year that I begin my annual Christmas panic purchases. I fear that I’ve underperformed with the gift giving; that my gifts won’t amount to enough. I blow through my preset budgets and start tossing stuff under the Christmas tree in a panic. My kids never mind this. My wife says you’ve done too much, you’ve gone too far. She’s never returned any of the gifts I get her, by the way. She says “You’ve gone overboard” as she takes her bounty with her to the back of the house.
And I get the same complaints from kids every year. “Dad,” they say, “you’re too hard to buy for.” They’re right. Like most fathers I tend to get myself what I want. Every year I struggle to get my father something and this year he flat our said “I don’t want anything. Nothing. Really. Nothing. I’m trying to get rid of all the stuff I have.” However, I’ll get him something. It’ll may be a new phone charger. The one he has is quite dated. It’s powered by a gerbil on a wheel and takes all night to charge his phone. However, I struggle with the question “Is a phone charger the right gift to give your father?” Seems very impersonable. My grandmother used to give the gifts she received back. She’d say, “I’ve enjoyed it for many months. Thank you very much. Now I’m giving it back to you.” We started buying her gifts with that in mind – what will I want in the spring that I can give her for Christmas?
Incidentally, my wife and I married on the summer solstice. We got engaged on the winter solstice and married on the summer solstice. We realized this years later. So my wedding day was absolutely the longest day of the year. That cannot be denied. It’s all in how you say it.
As 2023 winds to a close, I wish you a happy holiday season and a Merry Christmas. Try to slow down. Find a warm fire and stare into it for a while. Fires make good company. There is stress all over during the holidays, but for a short time, try to sluff it off and sit quietly. I’ll do the same.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
A family tree of photographs is at the top of the stairs at my father's house.
A picture hangs at the top of the stairs at my parent’s house. It’s of my mother’s grandmother, my great grandmother. I think it’s Grandma Leena. My father and I were trying to figure out who it was. My mother had told me about the picture and about Grandma Leena for years. I never listened. There are a bunch of other pictures. At the top, near the ceiling, are pictures of my mother and father’s family and they form a family tree, coming together, picture by picture, generation by generation, to a picture of my father and mother with my brothers and me. It’s nice. It’s my roots. My mother’s family was from the upper peninsula of Michigan. The cities of Ontonagon and Rockland come to mind. Her grandfather’s corner drug store. Another’s cattle farm. Mom wanted me to know about all these people. “You’ll want to know, someday,” she said.
Mom told us that the happiest times of her life were her summer visits to her grandparents when she was girl. She wanted us to know this. She wanted us to carry her summer memories on . Afraid that with her death they’d be gone. And they are. She died a while back.
In a box in my father’s attic is Grandma Leena’s wedding China. It’s carefully wrapped in brown paper. Each piece brittle and delicate. Mom loved it. My father and I looked at the box. “It’s all hand painted,” he said. My mother’s handwriting across the top. Some of the China visible inside. “You want it?” my father asked? “No. I don’t think so,” I said. “But don’t throw it away. Maybe I will someday.” That China just sits in the box. I don’t know the last time the box was opened. A decade, maybe. If I were to take it, I’d put the China in my attic where it may sit for decades more.
Prior to my mother’s death, she shared a lot of stories with us. And when she could no longer talk, she asked us to tell her stories of our memories of her. Our favorite days. Our funny adventures. She wanted to know she wouldn’t be forgotten.
What is it in us that makes us want to be remembered so badly? And why do we hold on to things cherished by our loved ones that mean so little to us? I don’t know.
We were around the Thanksgiving table at my parent’s cabin in the woods a few weeks back. Lots of food. Lots of smiles. It’s a special place. My mother came to mind. But I wasn’t remembering her. I was feeling her. She was there with me. In me. I don’t know. It sounds so strange to say. It wasn’t a memory. It was better than a memory. Again, I can’t explain it.
But I suspect it was it was the same way my mother felt when, every now and then, she opened the box, removed the paper, and held a piece of Grandma Leena’s China.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.
This may be a bit over the top but it's what it looks like to me:
The apprentice to master model in the workplace may be dead. It was declining prior to the pandemic but now, after the struggles from the pandemic are largely behind us, the apprentice to master model is gone. And it’s a shame. Our society today, our workplace, our government, all of it comes from this model. It served us well. We’ve left it behind. Out to pasture. It’s not a good thing.
Begun in the trades ages ago, its basic tenants are that a person enters a trade or a workplace with little to no knowledge. They apprentice themselves to someone who can teach them – a master. The apprentice slowly learns, begins mastery of their craft, to become the master themselves. They then train the next generation and so on. Stone masons, mechanics, glass blowers, plumbers, electricians, lawyers, and accountants. All of them and many more.
What brought apprentice to master to an end? A few things, the first of which is technology. Technology began its creep into the workplace two generations ago. The Baby Boomers were running the show. Boomers were first skeptical of stuff, and took it on reluctantly. In time, the power of technology became apparent and most Boomers didn’t know how to use it. Who did? The Gen X’ers.
The Boomers said “Hey Gen X. We need your tech skills. Please come work here, use this stuff, and teach me how to use this stuff.” Thus, Gen X entered the workplace as the master. The young were teaching the old. As technology continued its creep, more and more Gen X’ers were needed to teach the Boomers. The technology changed and the Millennials then entered teaching the Gen X’ers. Again, the young teaching the old. The workplace desperately needed the young master.
After the pandemic hit it changed again. No one could find workers. Workplaces were doing cartwheels to get employees with no proven experience, no discernable talents. Employers further sent apprentice to master into oblivion by giving the youngest workplace entrants perks and benefits and hybrid workplaces and flex schedules that previously only the masters could dare ask for. Tenure no longer mattered. And if the new employees didn’t like the way they were treated, if they felt unappreciated, registered too many microaggressions, off they went to quickly find a new job. A California MD told me in her workplace the newest workers are weaponizing wellness. “I don’t want to do that,” they’re saying, about whatever it is. “It will make me unwell.”
I was with a client in Dallas Wednesday. They’re struggling. They make high pressure valves and pumps and such. They’re struggling to find people to work. Making the items, installing the items, building things, and fixing things. To learn this stuff, employees have to apprentice to a master. No Google search, YouTube video, or ChatGPT will do it.
There was a lot of white hair in the room of 850 people wondering how to keep their businesses going. I’ve studied workplace trends for twenty years. I didn’t have much good news for them.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
Time to begin considering New Years Resolutions...
It’s December first which means it’s time for me to begin planning my New Year’s Resolutions. I take these seriously and begin planning them a month out. Any fool can resolve to change things New Year’s Day when they’re hungover, their belly is flopping around, and they’re full of regret. Drink less and get in shape is a New Years Resolution standard, like turkey for Thanksgiving.
At my gym, I refer to the first fifteen days of the New Year as tourist season. People show up motivated and driven by the hopes of meaningful change. They’re seldom stick around. Old habits take over. Their muscles start to hurt. And they justify not returning – it’s too expensive, it takes too much time, it hurts too much, I wasn’t as bad off as I had thought. All the things. Tourist season in the gym. It never lasts long.
I have a standard secondary New Year’s resolution I’ve recommitted to for many years. It’s from the late New Orleans musician Alan Toussaint and it’s this: Everything I do gonna be funky from now on. It’s one of his songs. The first line is: Just be myself and do my thing. It’s my reminder that fitting in is overrated. I know folks who try to fit in and find each of them, to a person, unremarkable. I resolve to not be that guy. I gonna try to be funky again this year.
My primary New Year’s resolutions a behavior deeply held. And old habit. If I can change a habit, I know I can tackle most things. A few years ago, I resolved to change how I wave when I’m in the car. We wave in my neck of the woods here in Mobile, Alabama. To walkers. To runners. To friends in cars. To strangers. We’re quite friendly. And for years my wave was to raise my thumb, my index finger, my middle finger off the steering wheel and shake my hand back and forth three times. You’ve seen this wave. That along with a smile and I did it without thinking. But I resolved to change it. Not because something new would be better, but to prove I could change. And I did. I turned to the garage door wave. Four fingers around the steering unroll to a wave and roll back down – garage door style. It’s a hard change. It took a while. But I did it.
I’ve always been a sock sock, shoe shoe guy. Beginning January second - the first is a holiday, after all - beginning January second I resolve to become a sock shoe sock shoe guy. I’ve been a sock sock shoe shoe guy since I was a toddler, so this will be a big one. Sock shoe sock shoe is a bit inefficient, but I welcome some inefficiency to prove to myself I’m capable of change. Sock shoe sock shoe. It will be my focus in 2024.
I did a practice run when I got dressed this morning and it went OK. This one’s going to take some time. I felt like I was dressing another man.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
I took the Friday after Thanksgiving off but found an excellent stand-in. This commentary comes from one of my daughter's college writing assignments.
Christmas Comes Early in Oxford
There are two types of people in this world, ones who celebrate Christmas months in advance and those who celebrate after Thanksgiving. I can honestly say that I put people in these categories. It is an essential question I ask when getting to know someone along with, “What is your name?” and “How old are you?” People are passionate about their category. Those who celebrate early say that their favorite holiday is Christmas and that it is superior to all other holidays, which is true. People that don’t celebrate early say that they hate keeping up with the tree and that It’s messy, which is also true.
I visited Ole Miss as a high school senior. I got to Oxford in late October and toured the campus. It was beautiful. Throughout the tour, the guides talked about this place called “the square.” I knew nothing about Ole Miss or Oxford but figured out that the square must be the heart of the town. My mom and I later found the square. We stepped up to it and I was shocked. THEY ALREADY HAVE CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS UP? Again, it was October.
My family has never been the type to start celebrating Christmas early but, Oxford, MS was starting to celebrate even before Halloween. I was floored! How can people be celebrating Christmas without celebrating Halloween or Thanksgiving? The decorations are adorable, but it was way too early for this. Walking through the square I saw that not only were the Christmas decorations up around the square, but all of the boutiques were selling exclusively Christmas decorations and clothing. They even had their fall decorations on the sale rack. How can people be so obsessed with Christmas that they start celebrating two months early? I felt like I was standing in the middle of Whoville.
My father thinks the tree should be put up on December 20th. My mother thinks Christmas decorations should start November 1st. It is a battle. It happens every year. My parents recruit my siblings and me to their sides. My mom usually pulls my sister and me because it means we can start our Christmas lists early. My dad tells my brothers that if we get a tree now then they’ll have to put it up and keep it alive.
We’ve had the same Christmas eve and Christmas day traditions since I was around four years old. They’re full of memories. And I think this is why the city of Oxford, MS and people in general celebrate Christmas so early, they want to have the feelings that they have on Christmas morning for longer than just one day. People buy Christmas gifts over months because they get a rush when thinking how the present will look wrapped and under the tree. They want that rush all of the time. People want to be happier, and if putting Christmas decorations up sixty days before the actual event does that for them, I can let it slide.
I’m guest commentator Reiney Marston and, on behalf of my father and me, we’re just trying to Keep It Real.
Some swine content before your Thanksgiving ham.
This is about pigs. Hogs, too. Sounders. Litters. And it’s timely since many of you, like me, accompany the Thanksgiving turkey with a ham. So, let’s have a quick chat about the magic that is pigs, hams, hogs, and other swine-related stuff.
Next week I’ll spend part of the Thanksgiving break in the woods of Clarke County, Alabama. If the weather is nice, my Thanksgiving meal will be on the porch of my father’s camp breaking bread around 1pm with my wife and kids, my brothers, their wives and kids, and my father. It’s what we do. There will be a ham there.
In the woods nearby will be hogs. Wild ones. And if I understand the story correctly, some of them are descendants of the hogs the first explorers to the Americas tossed out on islands as they came through. The explorers were preparing for return trips to Europe and put hogs on the islands knowing they’d survive because they can and will eat nearly anything and they’d multiply. When the explorers came back through on their way back home, they provisioned with some fresh pork. Some of the hogs that were left behind found their way to the continental US and the ones rooting the woods of Clark County, Alabama could be long descendants of those founding father pigs. Columbian pigs. Mayflower pigs. And I think that’s pretty cool.
But admiring wild hogs in Alabama is taboo. They’re hell on property and no farmer or landowner has anything good to say about them. They are, however, a remarkable species. They survive and they propagate regardless of their environment or circumstances. They’re a mammalian kudzo. They drop multiple litters each year of as many as ten piglets. Controlling them is nearly impossible, as any hunter or landowner or farmer can attest. As an animal, they’re full of vulnerabilities, allowing all kinds of prey to feed on them yet, they thrive.
And they’re tasty. Pork loins are delicious. I once ordered a blue cheese stuffed pork chop at K-Pauls in New Orleans and nearly fainted in bliss. I returned, and ordered it again the next night and had it many times until K-Pauls shut their hallowed doors three years ago. I used to genuflect when I went in.
And then there’s the ham that we will pull from Thanksgiving Day. Magically cut in circles. The kids love it. They fill their plates. The ham has that iridescent sheen that glimmers in the light. Exactly why ham glimmers and forms rainbows like spilled petroleum is unclear. I don’t want to know. It must be God’s will.
Later on Thanksgiving Day, after we’ve cleaned up and after I’ve curled up around my packed belly for an afternoon nap, I’ll step into the woods with a rifle, hoping to take down a distant cousin of the ham I’ve just eaten. Whose ancestor may have hitched a ride on the Niña, the Pinta, or the Santa Maria a long time ago. It’s all a bit gross and weird and magical all at the same time.
And that’s all I got to say about that.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real. Happy Thanksgiving.
My wife and I went to Oxford, Mississippi last weeked. Here's the scoop...
Oxford, Mississippi is as beautiful as they say. My wife and I visited this past weekend to see my daughter. We joined her for a morning tailgate in the famed Grove followed by a football game. It was exceptional. Here’s what I saw.
First – These people are serious about their tailgating. Our host was a couple friend who rented a tent on the Grove for home games. The Grove is exactly that, a grove of trees under which these tents sit and by tent, don’t think something for camping. It was a covering over a space of about 10 feet by twenty feet. Our friend’s tent was spectacular with food and drink for lots of people and a small statuette of the Ole Miss Rebel mascot made out of moss positioned in the center of a big bouquet of flowers. People were stopping to photograph it. Everyone who entered our tent – we began calling it our tent but we were, in truth, guests there – was offered breakfast croissants, lunch sandwiches, cheeses, lots of sweets and yogurt and granola.
The same generosity was everywhere. Since kickoff was 11 and people were arriving at 8am there needed to be some breakfast food, hence the yogurt and granola and bacon egg and cheese croissants. The bloody mary’s and mimosas were flowing like water and, incidentally, we were told there was water there somewhere.
Second – Oxford needs more restaurants. We tried eating at several places Friday night and the shortest wait was two hours. On football weekends the city floods with fans and securing a place to eat was nearly impossible. The same was true Sunday morning. We wanted breakfast with our daughter but even Waffle House had over an hour’s wait. We ended up eating at my daughter’s apartment which she shares with her three roommates, which means we first cleaned the kitchen which appeared to have never ever been done before and then we started cooking.
Third – Wow has football attire changed for the female college students. Wow. And I mean Wow. Call me a fuddy duddy all you want, but back in the day, female coeds wore clothes to college football games. I think the word “cute” today means “ain’t much to it.” I was terrified my daughter would show up in something similar. Thankfully she arrived clothed. At an Alabama football game in Tuscaloosa earlier this year, we heard a young female say to her friend “I feel like everyone is looking at me.” They were. We were. Her outfit was the size of a postage stamp. The men were saying “would you look at that” and the women were saying “would you look at that.” If you’re headed to an Alabama or Ole Miss football game in the warm weather and you’ve not been in a while, try not to gawk. Maybe it’s the same everywhere. I don’t know.
Finally – Seeing my daughter in her element, with her friends, in a place she loves was the best part of it all. It made the weekend for us.
I’m Cam Marston. Just trying to Keep It Real.
A similar theme repeats itself across all faiths. It's a discipline I have little of.
A friend of mine claims he’s a genius. He has little evidence of this. Just an over-confident assessment of his himself. He’s quite entertaining. He believes the lunar landings were a hoax, but of his own genius, he’s certain.
Last night I told him I was struggling for a topic for this week’s commentary. I hadn’t seen or thought or felt anything that moved me to write about it. So, I asked him for ideas. He blustered and bloviated and finally got around to saying this: The greatest enemy each of us face is staring at us every morning, every afternoon, and every evening before we go to bed. That enemy can be found in the mirror. It’s us. It’s me. It’s you. We’re our own enemy. We sabotage ourselves every day. Things that we know we should do, we avoid. Things we know we shouldn’t do, we do. It ranges from having too many cookies before bed at night to not making the sales calls, or having the tough conversations that we know need to happen. The list infinitely long. We blame others, we blame bad luck, even blame the devil from time to time. But the vast majority of the time, our greatest enemy is ourselves.
Now I would love to tell this self-proclaimed genius he’s wrong but, he’s right. And his description certainly describes me. I have remarkable discipline about some things in my world and remarkably little discipline about others – like gobbling a fistful of cookies on the way to bed at night. I know I shouldn’t do it but down the hatch they go. And I eat them quickly hoping the guilt will go away quickly.
Another enemy is when I try to make a joke when my inner-knower is whispering for me to hush, that I’ve gone too far. The joke may be more hurtful than funny. That happened on last week’s commentary, and I heard about it and I’m sorry. I ignored my inner-knower.
Next to my bed lie a stack of books. One compares Jesus’ and the Buddha’s greatest messages and how similar they are. Another is by Father Anthony DeMello who was a Catholic Jesuit priest from India and knows many of the stories of the Indian deities and shares their lessons alongside the lessons of Christianity. I frequently return to a wonderful book on the lessons of the Bhagavat Gita, a story out of India written 500 years before Christ. All these religions, these faiths, these pursuits of spirituality, while vastly different in important ways, emphasize so many of the same points. And it’s these similarities that fascinate me. That catch my attention.
One that shines through repeatedly is the mastery of self. Heaven, bliss, enlightenment, you name it. These spiritualities claim they can only be achieved through mastery of self. Self-control. I have so little. I know it. And I think about it each time I gobble the cookies and make the bad jokes.
And I can already hear friend demanding a commission for this commentary.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
The six weeks of travel is nearly over. Now I need to prepare for re-entry.
Good morning from Phoenix. This is my final stop on my intense six weeks of business trips. By tomorrow afternoon I should be home and I will not only unpack, I will put my luggage away.
After years of mistakes, I’ve learned a bit about how to come off the road. For years I walked into my house with a chip on my shoulder and I’ve talked to other road warriors who experience the same. Our attitude is this – Whatever has happened at home while I’ve been gone is not nearly as difficult as what I’ve experienced on the road. I’ve suffered airports, hotels, and cabs. Late nights. Early mornings. The list is long. Travel is exhausting. It’s not glamorous. And my struggles should be acknowledged in some meaningful way when I return.
For example: Yesterday at the TSA checkpoint in Mobile, on my sixty-fifth flight of the year, the agent told me I set off an alarm. He opened all my luggage, he rifled through all my stuff, and I got a thorough and complete full body pat-down by a large, grumpy, and – based on the intimacy of the pat down – lonely TSA agent who might have once been a Catholic priest. It was a bad start to the week.
However, years ago upon returning home, my wife’s position was that whatever I was doing and wherever I was, it was not nearly as difficult as managing a house full of children alone. Sleeping in the airport was nothing compared to a house full of young kids. As soon as I stepped into the house I should apologize for being gone. She never actually said any of this. But it’s the way it felt to me.
I wanted recognition for my struggles which I felt were greater than hers. She wanted recognition for her struggles which she felt were greater than mine. And it sounded something like this: “I’ve been taking care of the kids nonstop for three days. Can you please bathe them tonight. I’m exhausted.” I wanted to say. “I’ve been standing in long lines at airports and crammed into airplane seats made for a person half my size for three days. I’ve been felt up and run down by TSA. I’m exhausted, too.”
Neither of us got what we wanted and my demand for recognition made re-entry into the home routines more difficult.
It’s much easier today. In fact, I stepped into the house a few weeks back with my suitcase and my son said, “You’ve been gone?” Yep. For three days. It stung a bit but it also confirmed he’s largely self-sufficient. It was a parenting win though it didn’t feel like it at the time.
There is a pace to my home when I’m gone and my job upon reentry is to fit into it. People, even family, quickly adjust when you’re not around. Stepping through the back door and expecting sympathy and recognition makes for a difficult reentry. Always and everywhere and all the time. And I remind myself of this each time I drive home from the airport.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
My fall travel season has started...
The travel season has begun. Fall is always the busy season but this year it’s all compressed into a short six weeks. Eleven cities. Thirty-two flights.
There was a time when I bragged about this much travel. I felt it made me some sort of super-hero. Now I keep it quiet. I throw away the luggage tags that display my airline status. They don’t scream “road warrior” to me anymore. They whisper “bad dad.”
Getting back into the swing of travel hasn’t been that difficult this fall. I know what to expect and what I’m likely to confront in the airport, hotels and on the 32 flights. I begin each travel day by saying to myself “be nice.” “Be polite.” Most people don’t travel as much as me, so be patient. This is stressful and unfamiliar to many of them. Be kind to the people who take long minutes to settle into their seat, rearranging their carry-on gear over and over again. I wonder, do they make such a fuss sitting down to watch TV? Ignore the ones wearing pajamas. Ignore the ones who are clearly told by airport security to remove all items from their clothing yet walk through security with a cell phone in their pocket and say, “Oh. I didn’t know.” Ignore them. Pray for them. Breathe deeply. Let it go.
I’ve learned to say “Oh, look! A baby!” in such a way that people truly think I’m happy to see a baby sitting nearby on the plane. Passengers look at me in disbelief. Which reminds me, pay whatever necessary for top quality noise-cancelling headphones. They’re worth every penny.
Last week in Salt Lake City I had a hotel room neighbor fall asleep with their TV on. I heard his TV and his snores through the wall. I called his room throughout the night to jolt him awake so he’d turn over. It was that same room where a wall panel fell on me while working at the desk.
I had an Uber driver in Fort Myers immediately say “no hablo ingles.” About twenty minutes into the ride, he took a phone call in perfect English. I paid $23 for one Stella Artois beer in a busy Marco Island resort. That caught my attention. I’m now in Monterey, California. It’s a spectacular day and I’m writing this on the hotel patio with a coffee. Everyone is enjoying the perfect weather, especially the homeless man talking to himself while urinating in a potted plant not far away and the guy dressed as a ninja with only his eyes showing, holding a real machete.
I don’t much like traveling. I like being there. However, there is no way to get someplace different without traveling. It’s the price I pay for the work I do and the vacations I enjoy. I used to suffer loudly during each trip, bemoaning the travel. Now, I look for the stories happening all around me. Like now, watching the machete ninja who’s just spotted the urinating homeless man wondering if I’m going to have to put down my coffee.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just Keepin It Real.
Universal Truths about Fear
I hadn’t expected the reaction to last week’s commentary on fear and sloth. The podcast version was forwarded more than most and the social media got a lots of attention and forwards, too. Most of those commenting were like me – sloth is not such a problem. Fear is the problem.
A friend pointed me to a book that, he says, changed his life. It’s called Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway by Susan Jeffers and was first published in 1987. It’s sold millions and has been translated into 35 different languages. Fear is a big seller because it’s a common problem. I downloaded it to my Audible account and there it sat before I decided to finally listen. Frankly, I was skeptical. I find most of these types of books thin on content, and I should know because I’ve written a few. But if it changed my friend’s life then maybe some relic of this dated message will resonate with me.
So this morning, sitting with a coffee in my hotel room well before dawn with the curtain open to watch the sunrise, I hit play to listen to the book. I’m only on Chapter 3 and can honestly say I have taken a whole new and different approach to this persistent nemesis of mine called fear. So far, book is working.
There are many highlights already, but this stood out: Jeffers says there are five universal truths about fear, and we should repeat them ten times a day for a month or more. That’s a bit much, but I will print them and pin the to the wall near my desk.
- First, fear will never go away as long as we continue to grow. Fear’s a consequence of growth and growth does not happen without fear accompanying it.
- Second, the only way to get rid of the fear of doing something is simply go out and do it.
- Third, the only way to feel better about myself is to go out and do that which I fear.
- Fourth, not only am I going to experience fear whenever I’m on unfamiliar territory, but so is everyone else. You and I are not alone, but you’d never know because we all wear such a brave face, don’t we? However, we’re all feeling much the same.
- And fifth, my favorite one, pushing through fear is less frightening than living with the underlying fear that comes from a feeling of helplessness.
Jeffers goes on to say she’s has never met someone who does not struggle with fear. Maybe they’re out there, she says, but probably not. Some call it nerves. Some call it anxiety. Some call it worry. But it’s all the same thing: it’s fear.
It’s helpful stuff to know, but results come from taking action. So, with these five universal truths about fear in mind, I’m going to tackle some things I’ve been avoiding, using thin excuses but, in truth, I’ve been afraid of. Join me, and let’s see what happens.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
Every day. Every single day.
A friend told me that every day waiting for us at the foot of our bed is sloth and fear. Our eyes open, our brain turns on, and sloth and fear are right there. On the bed. Waiting. Our first challenge every day is to get past them. And she’s not wrong.
Sloth and fear work together. They’re different mental states but they support each other. I’m afraid of what might happen today or sometime in the future so I won’t move, I’ll stay right here in bed. It’s predictable here, we say. And the longer I stay here, the more afraid I become of what may happen. Sloth and fear. We try to leave them behind but they’ve never far.
Sloth is not as much my problem as is fear. For twenty plus years I’ve been a small business owner and when I began my work many many years ago I assumed that at some point the business will become automatic and at some point it will run on momentum and at some point I won’t have to worry about where the next client, the next bit of revenue, will come from. Well, it’s been twenty plus years, and I worry about it every single day, even on weekends. I didn’t know it at the time, but it’s what I signed up for. And the temptation to call it quits and find a job is always there. Give it to someone else worry about where the customers will come from. Let someone else worry about revenue and pay estimated taxes and make payroll and all that. The idea has a strong appeal. However, I know deep down inside that I’d be miserable. I’d want to make my own decisions, chart my own course, take the calculated risks I deem appropriate to grow the company. I don’t do well working for others and I have a number of former employers who would nod enthusiastically in agreement. A vendor? A contractor? A consultant? Yes. I’m very good in those roles. An employee? Not good at all.
But I sure wish I could get the fear to go away. It’s the worry over uncertainty. My wife always reminds me that every year I have the same concerns and every year everything’s worked out. My response is always the same – Yeah, but that was last year. Just because good things have happened in the past doesn’t mean they’ll happen again now or in the future. So, I worry. It’s worse some days than others.
A quick Google search says there are 365 instances in the Bible where the message is to not be afraid. I guess God knew it would need repeating. But saying that I shouldn’t be afraid or worry and not being afraid or worried are very different. Even the Buddha says that the path to enlightenment will leave all fear behind. Sure sounds nice. Maybe it’s all something I should look into.
If I could just muster the courage to get out of bed.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
Warriors need to be praised.
Young men have always been warriors. They’d go fight the battles while the elders sat around the campfire. The elders decided if fighting was the right thing and when and how to do it. The warriors executed the plan. When they returned, they were glorified for their success, or they were coddled in their loss. Either way, they were praised for their efforts.
Most old men don’t seek glory like young men do. Something happens after about forty years old, where glory no longer drives behavior. Old men prefer instruction and guidance. Not glory. Learning from mistakes is more important than celebrating victories. And old men want to help others learn, too.
In today’s parlance, the young warriors seek celebration for kicking tail and taking names. It’s been this way forever. The old ones seek correction, guidance, and offer feedback. “What did I do wrong,” they ask, “and how can I get better?” It’s mankind. It’s human. It existed before any of us and will continue well beyond us.
Which brings me to football.
My favorite youngest son watched the entire game from the sidelines a few weeks ago. He followed his coach up and down the field, never more than a few feet distant, like a puppy hoping for a treat. He wanted in. But the game was against our school’s biggest rival and it was close. And my son, a sophomore, wasn’t yet ready for that stage in a tight game.
I found my son after the game. I hugged him and told him I loved watching him out there. I told him his time in practice had helped ready his team for a well-deserved, hard-earned close victory. I told him I was proud of him. He flashed a tiny smile. He shook his head. He said he had wanted to play. “I know. I was watching. Keep working hard,” I said. “Your time will come.”
I did this and said this because I did it the wrong way a couple years ago. I made a mistake. My favorite oldest son had walked off the football field after several great catches and a couple touchdowns. He was beaming. That young warrior had conquered and had conquered well. And I…I immediately pointed out a block that he had missed. I had offered him the feedback that I, an old man, might have wanted. Not what a young warrior aches to hear. My son’s face changed. I immediately realized what I had said, and what I had done, and how I had made him feel and my guts hurt to this day. Catches. Touchdowns. Yards after catch. A great team win. And I start with his mistakes. Ugh.
I tell this story often. It’s my penance.
Warriors need to be praised. Warriors need to be praised. Remember that. Warriors are not always right. Warriors are not above discipline. Warriors aren’t infallible. Warriors are not above correction. But, whenever possible, warriors need to be praised. It’s ancient. If you, too, are an old man like me, you’ll learn from my mistake.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
It's been a tough few weeks. This commentary offers no specifics, but I've learned some things.
Many years ago, my neighbor in Charlotte, North Carolina knocked on my door one weekday afternoon. His wife had just told him she’s leaving. She climbed her car and drove away. He was dumbstruck and he needed to talk. My wife and I had just moved in. I hardly knew him. I didn’t know what to say or what to do. I froze. To my everlasting shame, I rushed our conversation so he’d stop making ME feel uncomfortable. I realized years later he was crying out for help and I failed him. I know this now. And I’ll never do it again. To this day I regret my behavior that afternoon.
When I was a much younger man, I chose to remain ignorant other people’s problems. Mainly because of the way their problems made ME feel. But I now realize that when someone shares their problems, when they confess a deep vulnerability, they’re taking on risk by sharing it. They’re vulnerable and are hoping I won’t fail them like I did my neighbor many years ago. In fact, to be thought as one who might can help is, in fact, a privilege and should be treated that way. I’ve learned. Today I do my best to help; I try to do what I can. I’ve changed.
Folks, there are no awards for bearing deep emotional pain alone. There is no Hall of Fame for keeping your horrific and debilitating suffering to yourself. We say we don’t want to burden someone else with our problems. But how many times have you and I wished, regarding our own friends, that we would have known about something so that we could have tried to help.
Asking for help is not a weakness. Asking for help is the first step to elevating a problem and finding someone who can help you solve it. There’s no shame in it.
To my wife, my friends and my family: I commit to working on a solution when I fall into these vulnerable states. And I do fall into them. I may sound sanctimonious right now, but I’m vulnerable. Deeply so. Maybe we all are. And I commit to not suffering quietly out of pride or shame or embarrassment. To my wife, my friends, to my family; to those who listen to these commentaries – I need you to commit to taking care of yourself, too. I need you. I need to know not only that you’re out there, but that you’ll be there.
My wife has told me many times – there’s a big difference in listening to yourself versus talking to yourself. When you listen, you let the demons in. When you talk to yourself the right way you make yourself stronger. You keep the demons at bay.
Folks let’s agree to talk. To ourselves. To one another. Let’s agree to admit that we all have problems that we can’t solve them on our own. And let’s agree to get through this - whatever it is – by relying on each other. Together.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
My wife and I were headed to a cocktail reception where we knew no one. "This is an opportunity," I said.
My wife and I were driving to a short cocktail reception full of people we’d never met. Most of them knew one another. Us? Not a soul. This is an opportunity, I said. Let’s run with it.
I proposed that she and I create a story for ourselves. Pick a personality and a background and a job. We’ll create something bordering on sensational and come up with a few very specific details that will make whomever we talk to truly wonder. About us. About whether we’re telling the truth. They don’t know us. It’s a short event. Let’s see if we can pull this off. Nothing to lose. I used to do this on blind dates back in the day and I got pretty good at telling long haul truck driver stories.
A glance at my wife in the passenger seat and I saw what I’ve come to expect. A roll of her eyes. A shake of her head.
“I think I’ll go with having invented the direction North,” I said. Prior to my invention, no one knew where anything was. People were getting lost in round rooms. I gave them direction. Today I get small commission every time a new compass is printed. And this younger generation today - they use Waze and Google Maps and Apple Maps all the time and North is usually on every screen. I only get a fraction of a cent each time that happens but the money ads up. Each day I spend a lot of time promoting North as very popular direction and I feature it in a lot of my social media. Two other guys came up with East and West and we split commissions on directions when we collaborate. And I have a new direction being released soon but nondisclosure documents prevent me from talking too much about it right now.
Sideways glance. Silence from the passenger seat.
How about I was the original voice artist for the beeps trucks make when they back up. Today they’re electronic, but in the good ole days when they beeped, that’s me. Age has made it hard to recreate that sound any more but… beep beep beep. Can’t you hear it? The recording came down to me and this little pre-pubescent teenaged girl, but she suffered an awful blow to the throat by a masked man outside the studio after her audition. They called me back because I was the only candidate remaining. I’m not exactly famous, but you’ve probably heard me.
Nothing. Time to go for it.
How about we’re royalty from a small principality in Europe called Genovia. People won’t remember the Princess Diaries movies. They’ll have heard of Genovia and maybe think it’s a real place. We’ll tell them it’s similar Lichtenstein but smaller. And near the edge of Austria. Our citizens there are not known as Genovians, by the way. To us Genovian royalty, they’re actually known as our Genotail…
“STOP,” she said. “Just stop. Who we are is plenty. It’s actually more than enough.”
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
The heat's cooked our brains.
The heat’s taken its toll. It’s been unrelenting. Brutal. The greenery looks weary. The grass dries and turns brown within hours of any moisture. My car thermometer regularly reads around 110 and I saw online that it feels much hotter. We need a break. We need relief. My dog looks at me and says “No way I’m walking on that street. That street will burn my feet right off” and she’s right.
It's affecting us mentally. We’re budding on crazy. It’s cooked our brains. Recent headlines are all you need to see. A lady in Birmingham faked her own abduction. She was missing for a few days before she showed up again. I don’t think anyone knows where she was. I’m betting she found some air conditioning and was just sitting in it. “Let people look for me, let the donations pile up,” she thought. “That’s fine. At least I’m cool.” Lady, I get it.
A brawl on the Montgomery riverfront didn’t cite heat as an instigator but it certainly had to be. Those fools on the pontoon boat had been cooking themselves in the sun all day. It melted their brains. They likely had a big cooler full of cold pops that had turned warm, too. All day in the searing sun, cold pops now hot and tempers can’t help but rise. It all triggered some bad decisions. Same with the folks on the riverboat. It had been a nice cruise but it’s time to find the comfort of AC at home and anyone preventing them from getting off that boat… Well… I’d grab a chair, too.
Down here in Mobile we’ve had a fully adult Roman Catholic priest head off to Europe with an 18-year-old female high schooler just after her graduation. Reports say they’d been together for a while but I’m sure the heat accelerated things. Cooked their brains, especially his. Those priests wear those heavy vestments and garments and such – no way to stay cool under all that. And black clothes with those closed priest collars? He’s made a heat related mistake and the Archbishop has defrocked him – un-priested him. I’m guessing Mr. Romeo Priest may a bit upset now that’s he’s come to but he’s happy to get into some cooler clothes.
As I write this it’s the hottest day of the year so far here in Mobile. As I look online right now, it says it feels like 116 degrees outside. Meaning my car probably reads 125 or so. It’s brutal. It’s the seventh layer of Dante’s Inferno. When I get home, I’m going to watch on TV what crazy things the cooked brains in our city did today. Someone misbehaved. Someone surely snapped. Can’t wait to see who.
As for me, I’m going to stay right here lying down in my underwear on this cool tile floor, feeling the wash of cold air flow over me each time the refrigerator door opens above me. Wondering what the camera crew is doing here. And why the convenience store clerk keeps pointing at me.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
Last week I danced in front of a train to try to get it to move.
Trains have always held great symbolic meaning. They represent the future, a new destination, an opportunity. In movies, the characters board trains in the hopes of greater things down the tracks. Lovers tearfully depart at train stations. Though tragic it’s what’s best for each of them. Bandits of the wild west knew there was a strong box on a train full of money. Convicts break out of jail and if they can make it to the train it will take them away from the misery of prison.
Songs, too. The Midnight Special. Midnight Train to Georgia. Folsom Prison Blues. People Get Ready. Downbound Train by Bruce Springsteen. Lots of train songs. Lots of them. Trains are a metaphor. They represent a passage. A transition. A breakthrough, though that breakthrough is often difficult.
A transition, a passage, and a breakthrough was anything but the case two Thursdays ago here in Mobile. Our GulfQuest Museum invited me to give a speech called The Stories Behind Keepin’ It Real. They wanted the stories behind my most popular commentaries. The stories behind the commentaries most difficult to write. And I offered to play the commentaries and tell the stories behind the ones that never were allowed to broadcast. The ones that were veto’d and blackballed.
Having never given this speech, I was nervous. What would I say? How would it go? I love writing and recording these things, but a formal presentation about them? I was nervous. Excited. Very excited. But also very nervous.
And rolling into the GulfQuest Museum early to get set up I was greeted with…a train. Blocking the tracks. And cars beginning to pile up at the train crossing waiting, like me, to get in. In the cars were my audience. They waited patiently, avoiding the brutal heat by sitting in their cars in the AC. I called the train company to ask them to move the train. “Ok,” the CSX dispatcher said. “Any minute now.” We all waited. I went to the federal transportation bureau website and submitted a form asking them to move the train. Nothing. I called back to CSX about their train. “Any minute now,” they said again. I danced in the tracks in front of the train to try to get the conductor’s attention. I called CSX a third time. Nothing.
I began walking to the waiting cars to assure them they wouldn’t be late to the speech and they wouldn’t miss the speaker because I was the speaker. I begged them to wait. Don’t give up hope. The train will move eventually. Because there is nothing worse than giving a speech to one or two people in a nearly empty auditorium. It’s humiliating. And nervous as I was, I knew an auditorium with some people was better than a nearly empty one.
About forty minutes later, the train slowly rolled away. The speech went well. You can find it on the GulfQuest YouTube page.
At one point I was excited about Amtrak returning to Mobile. Now I hope I never ever see another train.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
This week I take an imaginary walk through Jackson Square in New Orleans and ask a caricature artist to draw me something...different.
There are sections of our society that have become parodies of themselves. Once proud, they’re now laughable forms of their former self.
Imagine this: You’re walking through the New Orleans French Quarter. You stop at one of the caricature artists on Jackson Square. You say, “Hey Mr Caricature artist. I don’t want a picture of me. I want you to draw a picture of, let’s say, today’s country music.” That caricature artist would draw country music exactly as it is today. Because country music has become a caricature of itself. It would be both a portrait of country music and a caricature at the same time.
The musician’s goal is to find rhymes for the words beer, mud, tire, and truck many multiples of times in just under three minutes. Fishing a few weeks ago, I heard the song “it’s a bad bad day to be a cold cold beer” over and over again. It was a parody of country music. A caricature of itself. The ghost of Hank Williams has his ghost head in his ghost hands and he’s crying ghost tears.
Another one. Imagine saying “Hey Mr Jackson Square caricature artist. How about drawing me a picture of today’s Republican party.” They’d draw the Republican party exactly the way it is right now. The GOP has become a caricature of itself. It would be, again, both a portrait and a caricature at the same time. Once the party of integrity, honesty, and character, it now denies those qualities and, and in fact, spoofs them. It’s imaginable that a person could change their favorite color one day. But political party going from railing against liars and the mistreatment of women to saying today, “Ah, well. Maybe that stuffs not so bad.” A complete reversal. The Democratic party is still vaguely recognizable for of what it once was. The Republican party? A parody. A caricature. A spoof. They used to be amateur wrestling. Now they’re the WWE.
Another one: “Hey, Mr Jackson Square caricature artist. You smell of strange herbs and your eyes are barely open. Can you see well enough to draw me a caricature of college football.” Folks, I love college football. I can’t wait for it to start up again, but my narrow-eyed caricature artist friend would draw a portrait of college football as it is right now. It’s a caricature and a parody of what it used to be. A spoof. Transfer portals and NIL money have taken their toll. The only ones playing for love of school, sport, and a college degree are the ones who never see the field. The third and fourth stringers. It’s a shame. What purity and innocence it had, if it ever had any, is gone.
After reading this through – maybe one more. Hey Mr Caricature artist, draw me a caricature of a bitter, grumpy old man. One who doesn’t like change and lives too much in the past. And please be kind.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just Keepin’ it Real.
After thirty years of the same family tradition - I give some thought to the future.
For the thirtieth year in a row my SUV left my garage headed for the North Carolina Coast the second to last Saturday in July. If we weren’t in it, it would go by itself. It’s what we do. It’s what the car does. And it was packed tight with everything from fishing gear, to bed sheets, to food, to 150 oysters in the shell on ice, two cakes from Bake My Day, and a case of get-along juice, also known as wine. My in-laws have rented a house on Ocean Isle Beach in North Carolina every summer and we are all expected to be there – there were sixteen of us.
Question for you – Name one spouse you know or have ever even heard of that’s vacationed in the same place, in nearly the same house, with the same people, on the same days every summer for thirty consecutive years. Unless that person is me or my sister-in-law, that person doesn’t exist. I can’t speak for my sister-in-law, but it makes me… Well… I don’t know what it makes me. Honestly, it makes me afraid for my life to declare that having vacationed in the same place, in nearly the same house, with the same people on the same days for over half my life that I’m now ready to do something different. It wouldn’t go over well.
It's this week at the beach every year plus a few weekends in the fall at my father’s camp in Clarke County, Alabama that I’m reminded of the great disparity in penalties for loud noise in the nighttime versus loud noises in the morning. This does require some explanation:
I go to bed early. After about nine PM, I’m useless and am eager to get to sleep and start again the next day. However, some of my family like to whoop it up at night and at 9pm they’re just warming up. They make lots of noise. They’re having a ball. But little consideration is given to those of us that retire early. There’s little penalty applied for keeping us from getting to sleep or waking us after we’ve fallen to sleep.
However, the reverse is not the true. I’m an early riser. And early risers must tip-toe through the house, careful to not make a sound or else face the wrath of the late sleepers. Their being inconveniently awakened by the early riser’s God-awful sounds of the unloading of the dishwasher or the brewing of the coffee are intolerable fouls against the family’s 30-year-old tradition. I’ve come to live with it. It’s a small price to pay. It’s not a big deal. But there’s some sort of economy that needs to be flushed out regarding penalties for preventing sleep versus penalties for awakening sleepers. Small penalties are applied for preventing sleep. Large penalties are applied for awakening sleepers. Its’ not fair but we live with it.
How long will this yearly tradition last? I don’t know. My children have grown such that we now need two cars to make the 22 hour round trip. And if we decide stop one year, we’ll know when that week comes because the SUV will go anyway. It’s simply what it does.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
She hopped to the edge of the platform, raised her arms, and jumped.
The video opened on my phone and my daughter was leaping off a bridge and falling out of the frame. It took my breath away. I watched it again and texted her. “Since you sent this to me,” I said, “I assume you survived the fall?”
“Yea,” she texted back. “It was awesome.”
She’s in South Africa as I write this. She’s spent the month there with a student group called Lead Abroad. It’s a one-month trip where she and about thirty others study leadership and communication skills while experiencing the adventures that the host nation has to offer. The day she sent the video they were bungy jumping off Bloukrans Bridge. I watched as she walked to the edge of the platform, raised her hands over her head, bent at the knees and leapt forward, falling into the abyss. It was hard to watch but I was so proud of her.
I had no idea how much I’d enjoy her being on this trip and it’s mainly because she’s eating up every opportunity that’s come her way. There is nothing she’s not tried with a wide-open spirit, no question she’s not asked, not experience she’s passed up from the food, to the native face painting, to the safaris, to the paragliding, to the shark diving, to the bungy jumping, she’s done it all. Each of her messages home are full of energy.
I’m proud of her. She’s worked hard for the trip. She’s saved money for a few years to afford it. Her summer jobs gave her a little spending cash but most of her earnings went into savings. She does small decorative signs for friends at college for a little pay and saves some of that, too. My wife and I and her grandparents have her helped a small bit, but this is largely her doing. She’s experienced the satisfaction of hard work, disciplined savings, patience, and the fulfillment of it all paying off – a lesson I didn’t learn till much older.
There’s still another part to my pride. It’s watching a child take risks, meet new people, try new things well outside her comfort zone, and thrive through it all. Right now, my wife and I have a child who has confidence in herself, confidence in her social skills, confidence in her risk taking and all that. And that’s no small thing with young adults today. This experience will become the ground for more experiences like it; for her not being afraid to get outside her comfort zone. From what I see and hear right now, she’s truly living life. It’s a delight to see.
Parenting continues to surprise me. Things that my children do that I thought would have no impact on me end up taking my breath away. Other things that I thought would be momentous become unremarkable. I need to stop making predictions about what I’ll do and how I’ll feel when certain moments arrive and just experience them in their fullness.
Which is exactly what my daughter is doing right now on her hard-earned trip to South Africa.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
A cup of coffee with a friend and a few strangers was a wonderful start to a great day not long ago.
I’d like to say Hello to Randy Fowler. On Friday mornings he’s in his car on his way to the Restaurant Five in downtown Tuscaloosa with his dog Milo. He’s a regular listener to these commentaries and he reached out to me a few years ago when he liked one to offer a compliment. Turns out Randy’s daughter, Julie Otts, lives a few doors down from me here in Mobile. It’s a small world. Randy and I have visited a few times when he’s in town to visit his daughter, son-in-law, and grandkids.
Several weeks ago, I was in Tuscaloosa for my son’s Bama Bound orientation and Randy invited me to join him and Milo for coffee with his regular crowd one morning at Restaurant Five. I was welcomed as one of their own. We sat, we talked, we drank coffee, and watched all the dogs interact. These old friends have been meeting for coffee for years. They offered greetings to each other, shared inside jokes and laughs. They were wonderfully kind to me and invited me back whenever I’m in town.
That morning, as I waited for Randy to arrive, a very tall man walked past with a coffee and a doughnut and he stopped to talk. He was in town with his son, Grant Nelson, to meet with the Alabama basketball team. He was Nels Nelson. Randy arrived, invited Nels to join us for coffee and Nels did, sharing what life was like in his hometown of Devils Lake, North Dakota. We talked cold weather, the near-by Canadian border in Devi’s Lake, and buffalo. We talked javelin since another of Nel’s sons was a collegiate thrower and my son and Randy’s grandson also throw. Nels, like me, was genuinely appreciative of the warmness Randy and his coffee-drinking friends at Restaurant Five showed him. I’m sure Nels got back to the hotel and told his son – “It’s gotta be Alabama, boy. You gotta play here. It’s simply too friendly to believe. I’m coming back to just have coffee with these people, ya know.”
We were all told as children to not talk to strangers. That’s simply bad advice. Talking to strangers is one of life’s most sure-fire ways of making it a great day. However, it often goes against our inclinations. We worry about improbable outcomes. We misuse our imagination. We think, I don’t know them. What if they don’t like me? What if they don’t want to talk to me? What if they offend me? What if I offend them?
And my reply to all that junk? Who cares? So what. The risk is worth the reward and do you have to lose? Most people are much nicer than we imagine them to be. Our brains, our leaders, our media, whoever, wants us to think that everybody’s out to get us. They’re not. They’re absolutely not. It’s untrue.
Introduce yourself. React kindly to a stranger’s introduction. Find someone new to talk to. You’ll live longer. You’ll be happier. You’ll be glad you did. And you’ll have a great day.
Thanks again for the coffee, Randy, I still remember it. I’ll see you and Milo when I return in the fall.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
I have an idea for a business. Make up words customers can't understand then upcharge 75%.
I think our dog is constipated. She rung her tinkle bell early early in the morning to go outside and she just roamed around the yard in a hurry with her nose down. I have no idea if this is what a constipated dog looks like. I’m assuming that’s her issue. She appears to want to do something but…can’t.
The tinkle bell hangs next to the back door. The dog rings it with her nose when she needs to go out. In the wee hours my wife or I stand bleary-eyed in the door waiting for her to do her business in the bushes. The dog’s been trained, Lucy is her name, by the way. Lucy’s been trained to ring the bell then do her business in the bushes, not in the yard. It took about six months of my wife demonstrating this process for Lucy for Lucy to finally catch on about what to do and where to do it. Those six months, by the way, were quite awkward with the neighbors, as you can imagine.
None of this would matter so much if I weren’t so very tired. I had my stroke about three months ago and it feels like every doctor in town has sensed an opportunity to run a test and send me an invoice. Yesterday at the doctor’s office the check-in document asked, “what are you here for?” I wrote, “something to do with taking a picture of the back of my heart through my throat.” Of course, there’s an official title for this test using a big giant series of important sounding words but I’ll get to that in a moment.
In a shocking example of a customer service failure, when I was called to the front desk the attendant had her very large computer screen turned with its back squarely facing me. I couldn’t even see her. My first encounter with a human in a place I didn’t want to be was not with a human, it was with the back of a computer screen with a disembodied voice somewhere on the other side. It was so shocking I took pictures of it on my phone. It was clear the computer screen was much more important than the patient. No reason to actually see me, or welcome me, or smile at me, or make eye contact which took me from not wanting to be there to angry about being there.
Anyway, the drug they used to sedate me was milky white. I asked about it when I saw it in the syringe. They said, “It’s white because it’s lipid based.” What? If I ever start a new business, it will be one using words and providing explanations that mean nothing to the customers. Businesses that use their own language can charge more than businesses where customers actually understand answers to their questions. I’ll create a business, use some Latin-sounding words, drop them into customer conversations, and upcharge at least seventy five percent.
Anyway, the sedation lingered all day and at eight PM I fell into bed exhausted. Until the tinkle bell began ringing and I wished my wife had demonstrated for Lucy how to hold it.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
My wife and I were at Bama Bound this week for my son's college orientation.
I am oriented. It’s official. My wife, my son, and I spent a day and a half in Tuscaloosa this week at Bama Bound – the school’s orientation for students and parents. Roll Tide! Or as my wife says “Rowl Tihhhdee, yall”. We heard a lot of that these past few days. I attended out of curiosity to see what a parent’s college orientation includes. Here’s my review. And since this commentary broadcasts from the University of Alabama, if you’re hearing it, it cleared the censors:
First, the director of campus security assured us there are many ways our cherub-like son could get arrested. He listed them all. There is no shortage. One included domestic violence from parents and children fist fighting on move-in day due to disagreements over dorm décor. Apparently, it’s happened. I’ll need to remember that in August when we move him in.
Next, there are 687 different student organizations including ones for watching Disney movies together and another made up of guys who gather solely to discuss trucks. “Rahwl Tidde.”
At one point in the business school session with my son, I suggested that this degree sure sounds like a lot of work and maybe we should just go to the book store buy a degree. He shook his head. Rolled his eyes.
I learned I must get my son’s permission to see his grades and to see where he’s spending our money. As the parent, the bill payer, the bailer-outer, the “hey, what’s going at school-er”, I’m not allowed to see his grades or how our money is being spent without his permission due to privacy laws.
In a parent’s only session, we had a group of students there to take any random questions we had. The room had some super-moms and Karens and some super-dads and we’ll call them Darrens. Super Karens and Super Darrens ran the show. They asked questions that I had never considered. We had to cut the session short. Suffice it to say that there are parents leaving no part of their children’s college experience for the children to enjoy or figure out on their own.
There is a part of me that wants to know where my son is and what he’s doing when he heads off to Tuscaloosa in August. There is another part that wants him to discover much of it on his own. For him to solve some problems and tell me about them when he comes home. So, somewhere between knowing everything and knowing nothing may be the Goldilocks zone. May be just right.
Leaving the event I stopped in the campus bookstore. There is nothing on God’s green planet that cannot be branded with an Alabama logo. At the register in a big cardboard bin were blank diplomas and a Sharpie marker. I’m now have a Doctorate in Average Parenting and he has a double MBA with a concentration in College Football. All for forty bucks. I’m going to display mine in my office and hold his until he gets that other degree in, I hope, four-ish years.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just Keepin’ It Real. Rahl Tyde!
I had a tough day the other day. Thankfully, I know a recipe that gets me out of them.
My eighteen-year-old son is headed to Tuscaloosa next week for his Bama Bound orientation. My wife and I are going, too. I’m wondering why the parents need a college orientation so I’m tagging along. It’s about a day and a half worth of stuff. As a student, my Tulane orientation was this: “Don’t mess with the New Orleans police department during Mardi Gras,” some guy said from the stage, “or you’ll likely never be heard from again. Good luck at college. Don’t forget to study.”
Thursday my oldest daughter left for a month abroad as a part of her college studies. We dropped my youngest daughter off at Camp Mac near Talladega this week where she’s now a worker – she’s a counselor in training. We are paying for her to be there to work, by the way.
She and her twin brother turned sixteen on Tuesday. Long ago in a moment of parenting bravado, my wife and I promised our four kids we’d help them buy a used car when they turned sixteen, but they’d have to save a good bit on their own and we’d be a multiplier for whatever they saved. Today we are on the hook for two cars.
Suffice it to say it’s quite expensive around here right now. I knew these days were coming and…they’re here. However, there are moments of doubt when I wonder how this is all going to work, how it’s all going to get paid for and I get, well, a bit anxious.
And I’m certain there is no parent that hasn’t experienced something similar. Regardless of the size of the family or the size of the income, parents wonder how they’ll make ends meet. My father sure did. He’d walk through the back door of the house at the end of his workday and we’d ask how his day was and he’d say, “slow” with an uncertain look on his face. Standing in front of him was my mother, my two young brothers and me. Mouths to feed. Clothes to buy. College tuitions.
And I had one of those moments this week. In times past those moments immobilized me, but trial and error has taught me a recipe for getting through them. The key is to recognize what’s happening and get started on the recipe.
First, I remind myself that I have a perfect record for getting through difficult days. I’ve had many before and yet here I am. One hundred percent perfect record. Two, I need to get outside. Something about being outside. I can’t explain it. Three, I need to do some exercise. Any exercise. Get the blood pumping. And at this point I usually feel the stress dissipating. Four, have a good conversation with someone. Anyone. It gets the focus off of me and gets me out of my head. And five, reread the good books and relisten to the good stories. I just jump in and out of the books and stories randomly to remind myself of the messages. And I did all of this. Every bit of it earlier this week. And it worked. It usually does.
I love my recipe. I hate that I have to use it. But I gotta be honest, thank goodness it’s there.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
Some social media posts have been gettin' to me a bit...
The caption read “blessed.” The social media posts were of a woman surrounded by her friends wearing designer clothes. Another of her on a private plane drinking champagne with friends. And another sitting in a suite with friends at a world-famous event. Perfect hair. Perfect teeth.
Blessed, it read.
Blessed? Really? I think what she meant was “More blessed than you.” Or maybe she misspelled blessed and it should read “Boast.” When Christians want people to see how well they’re doing, they post a “humble brag.” I think the new alternative to the “humble brag” is the “blessed boast” and social media is where it happens.
Social media is where self esteem goes to die. It’s where comparison happens constantly and comparison has always been the thief of joy. And if you want to feed from a comparison trough, social media is the place for it. It takes some wisdom and maturity to keep comparison from destroying self-esteem. Most young kids don’t have it. Heck, there are many days I’m not sure I do, either.
And before you argue, social media has its good points, too. Anyone looking on Facebook on their birthday knows what I mean.
But the blessed boasts get me. They’re never pictures of someone blessed to simply not be dead. Or blessed to be able to build wonderful things. Or blessed to be able to comfort those who are suffering. Or blessed to be able to make a donation that will help out the less fortunate. On social media, they’re always blessed to be in a first-class seat. Or blessed to be wearing a Rolex. Or blessed to own a nice new car. Here’s the recipe: Take a photo of yourself with things or doing things only the top one percent of society can access then hide behind God and your oh-so humble spirituality by captioning it with “blessed.” I’m pretty doggone sure God spits or throws a lightning bolt in disgust when he sees blessed boasts.
The way I understand it, the spiritual gifts we’ve been given, our “blessings”, are our unique talents and skills from our creator, if you believe such things and I do. Once we discover these talents and skills we are to use them to serve our creator and others. Our blessings are talents given to us to use for the betterment of one another. People who know this, and do this, are, in my experience, universally happier than the rest of us. They’ve found their calling and through their calling they are a blessing to us all. Blessing are not and have never been things.
I don’t mind the photos of my friends with fantastic items or doing fantastic things. But let’s be honest and caption the photos accordingly. How about “Oh my goodness. What a day. How did I get here? How lucky am I?” Or “I don’t have as many friends as the picture suggests but it’s a great day and I’m having a ball.” Are you blessed? Maybe. But your new Porsche has nothing to do with it.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
Recap and thoughts from a client call a few week's ago. We were discussing a problem they're having that all of us had a hand in creating.
“I didn’t realize it would be so hard.”
That’s from a conference call with the leaders of a mid-Atlantic hospital system a few weeks back. We were talking about their young, newly minted doctors. I was putting the finishing touches on a workshop for their spring leadership conference.
It seems that medical residency has gotten much easier. Less stress. Less sleepless nights. Less intensity. Less rigor. Once residency is over, the newly minted doctors are shocked at how hard the real work of being a doctor is. They’re demanding more money. More vacation. Fewer hours. When asked why, they say “I didn’t realize the work would be so hard. I need more.” The hospital is making major exceptions for the new doctors and it’s causing big problems. They told me of doctors leaving patients mid-procedure because their shift was over, assuming someone will show up and finish.
“What in the world is wrong with kids these days?” was my immediate response. But that’s misplaced blame.
A shoe box in my daughter’s bedroom is full of ribbons from her days as a young swimmer. They range from 6th to 11th place. She was never a good swimmer. She always got ribbons. Today she laughs at them. “Participant trophies,” she says, rolling her eyes. Let’s be clear: those ribbons are a parenting trend. Parents like you and me bought them and gave them out. We thought it was the right thing to do. Today, my kids are older and think participant trophies are silly. But the trophy’s impact remains with them today and it’s this: Any amount of effort, regardless of outcome, deserves recognition. That’s what a participant trophy is. The greater the effort, the more elite the participant, the more the recognition needed.
The young doctors in my client’s hospital system are no different. They’ve been taught by people just like you and me that since it’s hard and since they’ve put in a big effort they deserve more. Medical residency’s historically rough road has been flattened and paved for them.
“They’ve worked hard, let’s help them out,” some residency director, and likely a parent, said at some point. And incremental creep continually makes the road easier.
And it’s not just doctors, it’s everywhere. Add Covid money plus work from home and suddenly doing little and getting paid for it is possible.
I was clear with my hospital client: this problem is not solvable in a half day workshop. I can give them a new way of understanding the problem that will give them a start in changing their culture. The truth is, though, this is a societal problem that began long ago. The workplace solution is to model the behavior you want to see and make it the defining part of your workplace culture. It will take time. I told the doctors on the call, if you thought the final chapters of your career would be easier as the next generation steps in and takes the lead, it probably won’t. I’m sorry. But remember, it’s a problem that we – all of us – created.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
We need change. And someone special who can bring it.
Another mass shooting last weekend. By the time this airs, there will likely be another one or two. It’s awful that these events no longer horrify us the way they should. I hardly read the story anymore. The details are all too familiar. A young male. An assault weapon. A troubled background. A history of affiliation with hate groups. Concerns by neighbors and employers of mental instability. And, boom. I’ve warned my children: at some point in your life, you’ll experience a mass shooting. Know what to do, I’ve told them.
Our politicians blame guns, blame parenting, blame hate groups, blame mental health, all trying to out shout each other. All hoping NOT to solve the problem, but, instead, all hoping to get reelected. Bluster. Pomp. Self-righteousness. Self-important. I’ve said it before: If it weren’t for politics these people would be unemployable.
Our world needs a prophet today. Someone who steps forward and offers a compelling alternative view of our reality that creates change.
Traditional faiths tell us that in times of chaos, confusion and disharmony, a messenger arrives, shouting from the edges, from the craziness of our world, showing us we’ve lost our way. There’s a better way, they say. We need that person now.
Prophets have always been outsiders but never strangers. They’re on the edges but are active in the customs and the traditions of the group they’re trying to reform. They see a truth that has escaped those of us in the center who gain traction by attacking each other. The prophets call attention to something different, something more important, and often, something obvious – right in front of us – that we can’t see.
However, aside from a tight group of early adopters, profits are reviled. They threaten the status quo. And those who benefit from the status quo act quickly to silence them. Pastors and priests make careers out of teaching the Bible’s lessons of the prophets. Rest assured though, if a prophet showed up and questioned the value and the teaching of churches and pointed to a new, inclusive path to eternity, those very same pastors and priests would attack.
But how would a prophet’s voice break through? Who could it come from? It won’t be a politician. Campaigning saying we’ve lost our way makes that person unelectable. It won’t be on social media. That person would be cancelled. It won’t be in business. That person would be accused of only trying to make money. And it won’t be through entertainers. THAT person would be cancelled. So who? And how? And from where?
Our world needs a prophet today. Someone to refocus us. To remind us of what’s important. No prophet ever said, “Hey. I’ll do it. I’ll be your prophet.” They took the job reluctantly, feeling inferior to the task, but compelled by change that needs to happen. Our world needs that prophet today.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
Lots of sights and sounds at New Orleans Jazz Fest.
My wife, a college friend and I stood amidst the peace and quiet of Jazz Fest in New Orleans last weekend along with what must have been 100,000 of our closest friends. It was a sight.
When my wife and I told our friends we were going, they reacted the same was as when I told them we were going to Mexico for spring break – “Oh no,” they said. “That’s dangerous over there. You’re going to get shot.” During my thirty-six hours in New Orleans, I never once felt unsafe. To the great disappointment of my schadenfreude friends, we returned to Mobile unscathed. Which has led me to the conclusion that many of my friends are ninnies and are best left at home.
I’m hoping heaven is a lot like the Gospel Stage at Jazz Fest. A cool breeze blew through the tented area. People were happy to slide a chair or two over to make room us. Most importantly, there were chairs. And, wow, the music. Argue if you want, but there’s more energy coming from the Gospel Stage than any other Jazz Fest stage. When you’re singing about the glory of the Lord, energy comes naturally. And when this middle aged, overweight, thinning haired white guy rose to his feet waiving his palms in the air to show that the spirit was moving…well, I couldn’t believe myself. It was very out of character. But I felt it. And I loved it.
One thing I don’t love are large sweaty shirtless men. Or even small sweaty shirtless men. And there were a lot of them at Jazz Fest. They were everywhere. We left the Gospel Tent to wander the exhibits and try the food…and they were everywhere. One of the hardest movie scenes to watch ever is the scene from Along Came Polly when Ben Stiller’s character plays basketball and, well, rubs up against a big sweaty guy. If you know what I’m talking about, you know. That was my fear. Shirts should be required when you’re standing in crowded areas waiting for the acts to start. And when the music starts, the shirtless men more than others, become quite the charismatic dancers. I minded my own business, but I kept them in my periphery hoping I wouldn’t have one of those Ben Stiller moments and have to wash my entire body in molten lava or, more likely, decide my life was simply no longer worth it.
After watching Jon Cleary play some fantastic funk music, we turned to leave and hordes of people were filing in to see Kenny Loggins finish out the day on that same stage. You gotta respect Kenny Loggins but, for me, his music isn’t good enough to risk proximity to gobs of sweaty, shirtless, charismatic dancing men. Not my scene. But in they marched, packing the area, eager for Kenny Loggins.
They were excited to get Footloose as they headed into the shirtless Danger Zone. Don’t Fight It. This is It. And as for me not seeing Kenny’s show, I’m Alright.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
Today's Keepin' it Real - the language of insiders.
I made a short statement the other day and my son immediately replied, “That’s cap.” C A P. Cap. I’m unsure what it means. It’s either “that’s the gospel truth” or “that’s a boldface lie.” I thought about it for a moment and decided I didn’t want to know.
For centuries generations have used hairstyles, vocabulary, music and clothing to separate themselves from adults just like my kids are doing today. We called things “cool” or “grody” or “sick.” Today my kids use Cap and ‘lit’. When I say someone was ‘lit’ it means they were very overserved. With the kids today, ‘lit’ means cool or fun or hip or exciting. There’s a part of me that wants to adopt this language to try to stay young. There’s a bigger part of me that says stay away.
My daughter and her friends use the word ‘like’ as an opening quotation mark. For example: “She said like I didn’t do it and I immediately said like it was you. I saw you. And then she said like, Well, that’s cap.” And again, I’m clueless.
The stay-at-home women in my part of town have starting using the expression “all the things.” It means just so much of everything. “I’ve got so many chores and errands and the kids need me and you know, all the things.” All the things. Listen for it. It will be coming from a SUV driver in yoga tights.
Sociologists have studied that shared words and, specifically, acronyms self-identify people as part of an in-crowd. At a financial services conference I was amazed by the overflow of TLAs and FLAs. Attendees bandied them back and forth to say to each other, “I am an insider” and to remind outsiders like me that I’m an outsider. Financial services love their TLAs, and when find a tidy TLA won’t do, they go to FLAs. Three letter acronyms and four letter acronyms, by the way.
In a conference call a few weeks ago I was immediately told through the use of insider language that I was an outsider. It was a passive aggressive masterpiece. The TLAs and FLAs numbered in the dozens. The guy leading the call was letting me know he’s my alpha. It wasn’t like he was a silverback gorilla standing on a rock and beating his chest to declare his dominance but it was very much like a silverback gorilla standing on a rock and beathing his chest to declare his dominance.
The evangelicals have an insider language, too. This may offend some of them, but you’ll recognize the use of the word ‘just’ in your prayers. “Father God, just just wrap us in your love and just heal our hearts with your manifest of greatness and just feed us with the bounty of your loving kindness as we just work to serve your steadfast love and just just keep your son in front of our eyes…” I stop listening and start counting. I can’t help it. And I’m pretty sure if the universe’s editor in chief were to speak to us he’d say ‘what’s with all the justs? The reason I don’t answer your prayers is I lose focus counting.’
I’m Cam Marston and I’m JUST JUST JUST just trying to Keep it Real. And all the things.
This week I'm on the heels of a spring break trip with my youngest children - my twins.
I’ve wondered how often my teenaged children brush their teeth. After spending a week in a hotel room with two of them I learned that it is much less frequently than I had thought. Spring break was last week. It’s already been quite a year in the Marston household. With a daughter off at college and my wife and son away on a trip with his classmates, the twins and I flew to an all-inclusive resort on the Pacific coast of Mexico. Unlimited smoothies and milkshakes for them. Long days of compare and contrast light versus dark Central American rums for my mojitos for me.
To my surprise and delight, somewhere in the past nearly sixteen years, my twins have become interesting. I’ve always loved them but there were times I didn’t particularly like them. I was, admittedly, very lacking in fathering skills or interests when my children were babies. I did what I had to, did what I should do, but I have a deep aversion to needy things or people. I plant things around the house that can survive neglect. Buying a car, my primary motivator is how much upkeep is required. My spouse is fiercely independent and self-sufficient. A baby, however, is the very essence of a needy thing. And for the twins, my wife and I were given a two for one deal we hadn’t expected.
It was in Mexico a week ago that I realized the joy of finding my children interesting. Asking questions because I’m curious about their thoughts and their opinions. Their voluntary observations of their surroundings were insightful. They thought about other people who they felt would appreciate the trip. And while they stared into their phones a lot – truthfully, so did I – they took time to observe, to notice, to wonder, and, from time to time, to empathize with strangers.
I enjoyed listening and watching as they worked to bring their high school Spanish classes into play asking questions and ordering food. They wondered what was on the other side of the ocean. They were curious, polite, and considerate of others. I was proud. And even with some very odd questions – the one that stands out is “Do you think my earlobes are disproportionate to my face” to which I had to reply “Of course they are. Amazing you’re just now noticing. We’ve struggled to not say anything. But they’re nothing compared to your big toes.” – I thoroughly enjoyed their company and was proud to tell my wife when we returned that I never grew tired of them.
Bonnie Raitt is right – Life gets mighty precious when there’s less of it to waste. And my time with them was precious.
Their sixteenth birthday is coming up in about a month. They look nothing like their baby pictures any more, but that’s who I still see.
I won’t be giving them toothbrushes as birthday gifts, by the way. They’d go unused.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
Listener's responses from my request last week:
To the many of you who pulled your Subaru’s over last week and emailed me, thank you. For those who don’t know, I had a stroke about two weeks ago and am, thankfully, ok. I walked out of intensive care about twenty-four hours later. Other than a fistful of pills every day, I’m back to normal. And as I said last week, it was close and I got lucky.
My request last week was what does this all mean? I got very close, received an enormous outpouring of support, and got stuck on the question, “What’s it all mean?”
The emails from listeners had three consistent themes: gratitude, the small things, and people.
Lara Shows emailed to say “find joy in every day even in the mundane things” which I tried to put to use in the Atlanta airport Sunday with a delayed flight. I watched the planes come and go, tried to enjoy it versus getting upset about the delay.
Lawrence Hughey of Mobile and I exchanged a few emails. He wrote “all of us are surrounded everyday by blessings and miracles but we don’t see them. Our vision is faulty and limited. But for you,” Lawrence continued, “I’m betting your vision is greatly improved at this point.” And it is, Lawrence, and I hope to never lose that vision and I know I have to work to keep it.
There was Andrew Willis who works at Alabama Public Radio. He began as an intern where one of his first jobs was learning to edit audio content and used my commentaries years ago as practice. He’s now the Assistant Program Director and Radio Producer. His message: “It’s not about the lifestyle changes that you need to make, but the relationships you have with people. Set aside more time for those relationships. That’s where you really make a difference.”
Andrew, I don’t know if I make a difference or not, but I do remember lying on that table in the hospital and telling my wife I’m not ready to die yet. The imagine in my head was of my children and how badly I want to watch them grow up and celebrate all the chapters in their life that lie ahead. I’m not ready to acquiesce that dream yet. And I’ve made some subtle changes with them already.
In the movie It’s A Wonderful Life, George Bailey’s guardian angel, Clarence, says, “You’ve been given a great gift George: A chance to see what the world would look like without you.” I was not given that gift, but I the stroke I had two weeks ago was a big scare. And I’m going to decide it was a gift and see what I can do differently going forward to try to make a difference.
My doctors told me to take it easy but get back to living. And all this rumination on life and such along with waves of emotion have been exhausting and they’ve left me feeling a bit melancholy. I’m ready to take my newfound lessons and move forward, renewed.
If you offered thoughts for me, I can’t thank you deeply enough. Truly, thank you.
Now, let’s get going.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
It was big. I got lucky. And I'm not sure what to think about it.
My wife and I moved to Mobile in 2007. We had four children ages four and under and needed cheap arms and laps – better knowns as family - to help through this overwhelming time. We committed to staying awhile so my wife and I did our best to invest ourselves in our community. That investment manifest itself last week.
Last Tuesday morning about 8:30 I was on the treadmill. About 8:35 I was mumbling, drooling, the left side of my face was sagging, and I was leaning against the wall. About 9:20am I was rolled into the University of South Alabama emergency room from the ambulance. The stroke code team was waiting. My femoral artery became the channel for a catheter thingy that went into my brain’s right side with a grabber thingy on the end, surrounded a blood clot and removed it. I was fully functional moments later and I walked out of intensive care unit on my own the following afternoon. No damage. It was close. I got lucky.
In the uncertain moments I learned many of our friends, the families we know, our church community and so many others asked God to wrap his arms around me, to cloak me in his protection, to lift me up. Massive quantities of food have materialized. Flowers, too. Calls, texts. Notes and gifts from strangers in our mailbox. My wife and my community showed up to a degree I’m not sure I deserve. I’m beyond humbled and, honestly, am struggling with it a bit.
The stroke was not a consequence of lifestyle choices. My doctors can’t say “I told you so” because, per all the data, I’m in very good health. Which makes me ask, what’s the lesson here? What’s the takeaway? How do I change? What should I change? Or should I even change other this new diet of blood thinners? Should this event move me but not change me or change me but not move me. I don’t know.
The outpouring of support has caught me off guard. So many people have contacted me, my wife, my kids, my father, my brothers, all to check on me. All expressing gratitude that I’m Ok. My eyes have been regularly wet for well over a week, and they are again right now - not because of what almost happened, but because of what did happen – a gush of support. I’m unsure I deserve it.
I hoped to finish with an impactful lesson from all this. But I don’t have one. Truthfully, I don’t know what to do or say. I don’t know what to think about it.
Certainly some of you listening have similar stories. Stroke. Heart attack. Car wreck. Something. What’s time taught you? What’s the lesson? I need my intelligent and vocal public radio listeners to pull your Subarus to the side of the road and go to CamMarston.com where you can email me or call and leave a message. What’s all this mean? What’s the grand take away? I need your guidance. I’ll share what you share next week.
Until then, I’m Cam Marston and I am truly grateful to be here.
I've been offered an invitation to go camping...
Years ago, my wife and I got a deal on some camping equipment. We headed into the North Carolina mountains to a creek camp site and set up our fancy new tent and tried out our new gear. When night fell, we unpacked our fancy new sleeping bags that were rated to keep us warm well below that night’s low temperature, climbed in, and waited to get warm. And we waited. And we waited. Then we started shivering. Teeth began chattering. After an interminable amount of time, I asked my wife what time it was. “Ten PM,” she said. The night wasn’t even half over. It was awful. As soon as there was any hint of daylight we packed up, hiked out, drove home, climbed in bed. That was well over twenty years ago. The cold got into my bones that night and has never left. I’ve still not warmed up.
Mankind, and especially Western society, has gotten soft. In fact, a book called The Comfort Crisis documents this and I’m right in the crosshairs of that book. Humans have figured out how to make nearly any environment on earth more and more and more comfortable. Along the way we’ve lost some toughness, some resilience. At the same time, however, I don’t think the solution to too much comfort is to seek discomfort.
And this is on my mind right now as I have, once again, been invited to go camping. I have a certain friend who claims to love camping. And I think he really does. But he has a hard time finding anyone to go with him. He invites me multiple times each year. The reason that no one joins him is that we know camping is not fun. It is unfun. It is the inverse of fun. It is proactively seeking discomfort. And this current invitation involved a five and half hour drive one way to sleep on the cold ground for one cold night and then drive home. And I’ll say it again: Five-and-a-half-hour drive. Sleep on the ground. Very cold night. Drive home. Un-fun.
For two summers during college, I worked in Glacier National Park in Montana. Each summer I planned to become a camping savant. Each summer I camped one time and never did it again. I lay there all night hoping a grizzly bear would come maul me because it’s got to be better than this.
The idea of camping is glorious. Nature and hiking and self-sufficiency and wildlife and all that. It’s romantic. But it’s like horses. I love the idea of being a horse person. But I’ve been around horses. They’re big and they’re strong and they spook easily and run very very fast and I’ve learned that I love the idea of being a horse person. But I have no interest in actually being a horse person. The same is true with camping.
It disgusts my friend when I tell him this, but on a pretty night when the wind is out of the north with low humidity in the air, I’ll open my bedroom window and throw an extra blanket on the bed. And that’s as close as I’m gonna get to camping.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.
What my wife and I saw on my recent business trip to a Bahamas resort was more than enough.
My wife and I spent four nights at a Bahamas resort on a business trip and here are my observations. Here’s what I saw.
First, I remember hearing that most traffic accidents happen within five miles of the driver’s home. Seems inverse of what you’d expect. The reason? When you’re driving through your home territory, you’re so familiar with the roads, the traffic, the scenery and such that you let your guard down. The familiarity and the routine make you vulnerable to carelessness. When you’re out of your home territory, you slow down, take notice of what’s around you, and are cautious.
The same can be applied to people at a vacation resort. We were all strangers in an unfamiliar place, carefully navigating around each other in sometimes tight quarters and sometimes long lines, like drivers navigating unfamiliar roads. We were all polite and accommodating. Everyone was on their best behavior.
And the resort was huge – 2500 rooms – on 1000 acres fronting the beach. It was more Six Flags amusement park than a beachfront resort. There was a water park. And there were one million places to get overpriced food and two million places to get a very overpriced drink.
We heard at least five different languages. We saw lots of what I think were Orthodox Jews – it’s not something we see a lot in south Alabama, so I’m not sure – and quite a few people dressed in what I think was Muslim attire. There were same-sex couples of all ages and mixed-race couples of all ages. There were people dressed luxuriously as they walked through the huge casino, and some dressed like they lived under a bridge. However, for the most part, there were no sideways glances. No looks up and down. Just lots of acceptance, space, and privacy in close quarters. It was nice. However, there was one notable exception.
The one thing my wife and I saw way too much of was very, very small bikini bottoms. Actually, the reverse is true. We saw very little of the bikini bottom, it being so small, and a whole lot of what the bikini bottom was not covering. Bottoms were everywhere. Everywhere. Call me a prude. Call me whatever you want, but it was way too much. Many of those displaying were young girls and I felt awkward being around it. But there was no escaping it. If I looked towards the ocean, they walked in front of me. As I stood in line for a towel, there they were. At the pool. At the poolside restaurant. They were even walking inside through the casino late in the day. Bottoms. Lots and lots of bottoms.
It appears, with the way things are going, many of the women at that resort will soon be emulating the same bikini bottom Eve wore in the Garden of Eden. The majority of them were most of the way there and, well, I wish they weren’t. This old fuddy duddy wanted to say, “Pardon me, miss, at the risk of being rude, I don’t care what the fashion trends today are, do yourself and the rest of us a favor and please put on some pants.”
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
My wife invited some friends to a birthday gathering and gave them two options...
My birthday was last week. Right now, my wife is inviting friends to dinner and asking them to come and either roast me or toast me and if I were this invitation, I know what I’d do.
I’m not sure if it’s me and my friends or just males or just certain types of males, but I’d roast me. My friends and I constantly work hard to roast each other whenever we can. It’s savage exchange whenever we’re together.
For example: When I walk into my gym the head trainer starts trash-talking me as soon as he sees me. He leaves no stone unturned in his evisceration of me. And I smile and laugh at his creativity and usually come back with something like “I didn’t think it was possible for someone to gain that much weight since yesterday. You’re like a plump, wet snowball rolling down a hill. I wouldn’t tell anyone you own this gym looking like you do – it’s not good for business.” However, he and I have shared some of the most thought-provoking conversations I’ve had in recent times.
Another one - Several weeks ago I nearly stopped writing these commentaries and I shared my reasoning with a friend. “Cam,” he said, “all of your commentaries are bad and some of them are actually worse than bad.” He then handed me his phone to show where he’d downloaded every one of them and had book-marked some to listen to again and again and others he shares with friends who he felt would enjoy them and others still he shares with people who he feels needs to hear them. It was a generous gesture on the heels of a sharp poke at me. In return, I won’t let him forget the nearly spectacular meal he cooked back in December. He, however, admitted that the meat was a bit undercooked. And now, that’s all I talk about with him now - his undercooked meal which was almost good but was not.
The model of these roasts is, upon greeting – especially when there is a small crowd – loudly roast and eviscerate. We tell each other how badly each other looks with a beard. After they shave, we tell them we preferred the beard since it hid their face. We discuss each other’s incompetence in their job. It goes on and on. The only thing off the table are wives and children – we don’t include them. Do we discuss our wives’ and children’s disappointment in each other as husbands, fathers, role models, partners? Of course. That is a layup. That’s table stakes. Quietly and interpersonally, though, out of earshot of the group, we dial down the roasting and offer compliments and appreciation though sparingly.
It's strange how weird yet comfortable this all is. It’s strange and weird how much I look forward to a brutal assessment of me whenever I step into a place where friends are gathered.
So, to my friends who will join me for my roast or toast party, bring your best. I’m not worried. I know each of you well and know none of you are smart enough to bring anything that could sting.
I’m Cam Marston and I will probably regret saying that.
My mother died a year ago. Cleaning out her home office brought about some questions for my father and me as we gathered her things.
My mother died nearly one year ago today. It was March 5th, the day after my birthday. I think of her frequently. Last week, my wife, my daughter, and my son and I placed purple flowers on her headstone for her birthday. Purple was her favorite color. We bought a purple orchid on the way home to remind us of her and it’s now sitting in the kitchen window.
Last week I said in an interview that doing these commentaries helps me process things, they help me think through things that I’m seeing or that are going on inside.
Which leads me to a somber day several weeks ago when my father and I cleaned out my mother’s home office. Lots of the stuff in there was easy to throw away – stuff that made no sense to either of us.
However, some of the things did make me pause. What do you do with your mother’s faded black and white pictures of family members from long, long ago that have no notes or identifiers on them? They were important enough to her to set aside. But, without her explanation, they’re no one to me. My dad and decided to keep them, hoping the decision about what to do would be easier when we found them again someday.
And I came across a Ziploc bag full of inspirational and spiritual and motivational quotes she’d had collected for what appeared to be half her life. Some were torn out of books. Many appeared hurriedly handwritten in her beautiful handwriting before the disease took her ability to write. Like she heard it and quickly captured it on a receipt or a church bulletin. There were probably two hundred of them. They meant something to her. Maybe, they even shaped her in some way or another. The ideals and attitudes she cherished, that she’d taken the time to gather for many years, sat in a Ziplock bag in my hands. Without her explanation, though, they were meaningless.
Is it possible to capture someone, to gather who they were and how they engaged life in a plastic bag full of torn out pages and handwritten quotes? No, I don’t think so. But what do you do with something that was once so important to someone who’s now gone?
I’ve been a bit surprised by how quickly my mother has disappeared since her death one year ago. How quickly all of us who loved her have moved on. I remember her daily which, I suppose, should be no surprise.
And the same will happen to you and me. We will vanish from the lives of our cherished loved ones. They’ll come clean out our stuff and throw most of it away. We will be very gone. It’s what the wisdom teachers and philosophers have told us for thousands of years. And, of course, my mother cares the least about this. The benefit of the deceased they don’t have to make decisions about their stuff.
And I think about these things. Like r ight now. As I stare at a Ziplock back full of meaningless quotes now sitting on the edge of my desk that, in some unexplainable way, capture my mother.
I’m Cam Marston, and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
Embarrassing your children is a parent's obligation. It happened to me. I'm doing it to my kids. It's part of the contract.
Here’s a guaranteed way to embarrass your teenaged child. In a restaurant, say loudly where other diners are close enough to hear: “Your mother and I are going to a clothing optional resort in the Bahamas next week. It will be nice for us to get back in touch with each other.” My fifteen-year-old favorite youngest daughter flushed red, buried her face in her hands, and said over and over again “Please stop, Dad. Please stop.” Which is, for me, a big win.
Please know my wife and I are NOT going to a clothing optional resort in the Bahamas next week. I am giving a speech at a banking conference in the Bahamas next week, but it is not at a clothing optional place nor is that the type of place I would ever go. In fact, when I take off my shirt at the beach, people usually shield the eyes from the glare and then run to splash water on me and say to each other “make sure his blowhole is clear.”
Embarrassing your children is a right of every parent. I’m sure some woke parents out there disagree but they’re simply wrong. It’s a right. It’s our duty.
I remember a summer day when my mother encouraged my friends and me – all of us teenagers at the time – to start a car washing business in the neighborhood. We were skeptical. She made up a jingle and suggested we go door to door singing it. “You’ll kill it,” she said, “The jingle alone will get you tons of business.” She then made up a dance and sang and danced in front of my friends. I flushed red, got angry, and quickly pushed my friends into my bedroom. Then a knock on my bedroom window. I pulled back the shade and my mother was now in the front yard dancing and singing the jingle. My friends laughing. Me an angry and embarrassed wreck.
On our twins last day of grade school years ago, my wife and I threw the car in park in the carpool line and began dancing. Grade school carpool was over forever and this deserved celebration. Our twins stood watching in horror on the curb.
Parents dancing seems to always do the trick. Watching middle aged people try to dance is typically very difficult to stomach. Children watching their middle-aged parents try to dance like cool kids and imitate the dances of the day puts their children into a spiral of embarrassment. And when the parents notice this, they double down and really go for it. Tik Toc is made up of such videos.
I’m fairly certain the ancient Greeks found way to embarrass their children. So much of our Western society today is made up of early Greek philosophies and concepts that one must imagine some part ancient Greek culture included embarrassing their children. It can’t be new.
Anyway, back to my favorite youngest daughter who is fifty percent of my twins. Embarrassing her in the restaurant last night was a big treat. Her face flushing red. Her head in her hands begging me to stop. A big win.
At least, sweetie, I didn’t mention how you wake up at night talking sweet to movie star Tom Holland and kissing your pillow with his picture on it.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
"Keepin' It Real" is now broadcast on KXCR in Florence, Oregon. Larry Bloomfield invited me to be a guest on the station's "KXCR Conversations" to talk about the commentaries.
The value of Mardi Gras beads peak when they're under no ownership. It's part of the silliness of my favorite time of year.
If you’re not listening in the deep south, you may not know that it’s Mardi Gras time for us derelicts and mystics living here on the top lip of the Gulf Coast. Ships from all over the world back in the day delivered a menagerie of people here where they threw their customs and traditions into one big gurgling pot and one of the results is Mardi Gras. The story I tell is that Mardi Gras was a time for people to dispose of food that would spoil during the fasting associated with Lent, which begins with Ash Wednesday next week, so they threw big parties to consume all the food. Is it the truth? I don’t know. It’s the story I’ve heard the most, so it’s the story I tell.
Folks from other places who now live here are fond of saying “I just don’t get Mardi Gras. It makes no sense.” And they’re right. It doesn’t. Don’t try to make sense of it. Just enjoy it. If you can’t enjoy it because it doesn’t make sense, stay away. L et us have our fun.
Take Mardi Gras beads as one of many examples. The value of a typical strand of Mardi Gras beads can range from a few cents per strand to a few dollars. So, for argument’s sake, let’s assume one of the strands I bought at the bead store last weekend for my parade cost one dollar. It was likely made for a few cents by some poor underpaid child somewhere operating massive machine and wondering what in the world these beads things are used for and why they need so many. Nevertheless, the bead store paid maybe forty cents for it. Its value shot to a dollar when I paid for it at the register. However, the highest value of those beads cannot be assigned a number and was not when it was owned by the manufacturer, the retailer, or me. The highest value of the beads was when those beads were ownerless after I had tossed it from my hand, and it curved in gentle arc through the air and began its descent. In those moments the beads were in the air, grown men and women, aggressive children, and people who are normally friendly neighbors saw the beads and used NBA style block-outs, tremendous jumps, karate chops and tae kwon do style elbows to friend’s ribcages to classes to catch ‘em.
Once caught, the beads went around a neck for a short time. Or they disappeared into a bag already full of them. Or were tossed on top of a pile of other beads just like it. Or, they could very likely been given away to a complete stranger. Once secured and under new ownership, the bead’s value vanished instantly. In a week they’ll be in the trash.
It makes no sense to spend so much money buying beads, then give them away, only for them to ultimately be thrown away. No sense at all. But that’s Mardi Gras. If you try to apply logic to it, you’ll scream.
And, frankly, I can’t get enough of it.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
Thre are three types of people, he said, and my mind has been racing ever since.
In a Zoom call this week I chatted with another speaker for an upcoming conference. He and I want our messages complement each other and he offered some of his presentation highlights and one thing he said has rattled around in my head since our call.
He said there are three types of people - and when he said this he was quoting someone else but I don’t remember who – he said there are fragile people who when pushed or dropped or damaged, they break. Once broken, they don’t heal. We all kinda know people like this.
The second type of person is resilient. When dropped, they get back up. They don’t break. And though it sounds laudable, they don’t change. Each time they’re pushed or dropped or damaged, they simply get back up and resume.
And there’s the third type which he very inelegantly referred to as anti-fragile. When pushed or dropped or damaged, they get back up, learn from what’s happened, and change so that it won’t happen again. These people prove remarkably successful over time, he said, in both business and in life.
And he went further and applied this concept to organizations. In this post-pandemic business climate, he said, we’re seeing organizations who were fragile and broke due to the pandemic, the organizations who were resilient but simply resumed what they’ve always been doing, and the ones that are anti-fragile and are using pandemic-learned lessons to become stronger.
Well, I can’t hear stuff like this and not start thinking about the people around me. My wife is anti-fragile. She learns from her mistakes, and they’re seldom made twice. My business manager is definitely anti-fragile. She negotiates for me and though we may have been taken advantage of in the past, it’s never happened the same way twice. She learns. She changes. Which is good.
And, of course, I think about my kids. They’re a mix and it’s situational. I have children who have their athletic weaknesses revealed and they change to fix the weakness. However, they may make mistakes with friendships and get right back up to only to have those same mistakes happen again and again – a resilient behavior. They’ll learn what’s necessary to perform well in class but repeat the same mistakes regarding rules my wife and I have about our home – again, a resilient behavior. None of them are fragile, they’re either resilient or anti-fragile depending on the situation.
And the questions continue: how do we raise our kids or groom our colleagues or employees to become anti-fragile. Are we born one way or another or is this a learned behavior? And is today’s coddling society today raising our kids to be fragile and can we fix it? Or them?
And what am I? I don’t think I’m fragile but am I resilient or anti-fragile? I don’t know.
I do know this though - this other speaker needs to bring the goods next month. He’s started my head spinning and I didn’t allot enough time in our Zoom call to ask these questions and we had to cut it short – a simple mistake I’ve made too many times.
And, well, I guess that answers it.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
There's a tale radio people tell about why they got into radio. Does it apply to me? Well...
A story I’ve heard about people in radio is that many of them share a similar childhood experience: They tried to get their parent’s attention but their parents shushed them – told them to be quiet – they’re trying to listen to the man on the radio. The children begin to think that whatever is coming through the radio speaker is more important than what they want to say and later, those children begin a career in radio to get their parents to listen to them.
Is it true? I don’t know. Regardless, when I heard the story, I had to assess if that’s the reason I’ve begun these commentaries and the business talk show I have on other stations across Alabama.
My earliest memories of the radio are as a young boy of about ten. My father would wake me early in the morning on Saturdays in the winter and we’d drive north out of Mobile for a hunting club in the small dirt-road town of Suggsville, Alabama deep in Clarke County. We left well before daylight and I lie across the bench seat in the old yellow Jeep Cherokee in my hunting clothes with my head on my father’s leg trying to get back to sleep while he drove. This was long before using seatbelts was a thing. The radio dial was the only light in the car, and it shined in my eyes while the radio played country music. I remember hearing the piano in Crystal Gayle’s song “Don’t It May My Brown Eyes Blue” and thinking, “Wow. I really like that” and I still really like it to this day.
After that the memories jumble. I remember the Top 40 radio stations of the late seventies and eighties and one time as a pre-teen calling a station over and over again to request a song. When the DJ finally answered and I told him I wanted to hear - “Emotions” by the Bee Gees and I’m shocked that I can remember that – and he said “Well…It’s playing right now.” I had become so focused on dialing and redialing I stopped noticing what was playing. Alone in my bedroom, my face burned bright red in embarrassment and hoped that DJ couldn’t ever figure out who I was.
And I remember hearing Paul Harvey. There are over 3000 episodes of his The Rest of the Story. 3000! He did six per week, all about four minutes long. You can find his catalog online. Today when I listen, I hear that remarkable voice, that remarkable control in his delivery. His word choice, his inflections, his tone, his variations in speed to perfectly sculpt the story he was telling. Today I recognize those as the tools of his craft. Back then though, I just listened. Probably impatiently. Sitting in the car with my father or my mother in a parking lot somewhere in the middle of running an errand.
“Mom” or “Dad”, I very likely said. “Can we get out now? Can we go?” “No,” they said. “Not until this is over.”
And, here I am.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real. Oh, and welcome to my new listeners with public radio station KXCR in Florence, Oregon. I’m happy you’re along for the ride.
A friend's fortunes have turned...
I met with a friend yesterday. I haven’t seen or spoken to him much for the past six months. His business has exploded over the past three or four years. He’s a good guy, an honest guy. He’s created a niche product, the market found him and he’s grown it masterfully. Until he and his business partner got sideways with each other, and the last six months have been tough. Accusations. Finger pointing. He finally told his partner, “We have to split up or it may get violent.” They both lawyered up, money changed hands with both teams of lawyers scooping up piles of it and it’s now finally over. Diminished, depleted, and emotionally exhausted, my friend is now free of that turmoil and can focus on growing what’s left of his business and moving forward.
Word got out and his phone began ringing. Old influential customers that had fallen off the radar were calling. “Hey,” they were saying, “now that he’s gone, let’s work together again.” Turns out a lot of his former customers didn’t like his business partner – didn’t trust him - and quietly went away. Now that the partner is gone, those customers are coming back.
My friend was also able to secure the distribution rights to a new product that, he predicts, will change his marketplace. Word is out and people are asking to partner with him, offering him big sums for a piece of the action. My friend, despondent and over his head in turmoil six months ago, is now worried about controlling the growth of his business. His reputation and his integrity are stellar, his customers and colleagues know this and are rushing to transact with him, and I’m thrilled for him.
Years ago, I was given an adage that I’ve never forgotten: time either promotes you or exposes you. Time reveals who you are. Time will deliver situations where your integrity, humility, your character, your soul, maybe, is revealed. Many can mask their true character for short amounts of time, and they do. Some mask it for years. In the end, time eventually reveals the truth. Time either promotes you or exposes you. And time is now promoting my friend. He could have given up his battle with his partner when it got nasty, when the terms of the buyout got ridiculous, but he stayed the course to serve the customers he’d begun relationships with, and he wanted to continue serving new customers because they need the new product he brought to market. There were many times when he could have made small decisions that would have made things easier or resolved the issues more quickly but not comprehensively, but he stayed the course. And it wasn’t just the decisions he made during the acrimonious buyout, it was years and years before that, in how he treated bankers who were now eager to help him, the lawyers who were eager to represent him, and so many others along the way.
Time either promotes you or exposes you. I’ve seen it over and over. Time always pulls back the curtain and reveals the truth. I’m so happy for my friend. Time has revealed him to be a well-deserved champion.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
Time for a New Year's Resolution. Let's make it a BHAG.
Perhaps you’ve heard the word BHAG. It’s actually an acronym. Stands for Big Hairy Audacious Goal. A BHAG. BHAG is also, incidentally, a city in Pakistan. Certainly pronounced differently and now that you know it’s also a city, the next time someone mentions a BHAG you can ask them to clarify: Are you talking about the acronym or are you talking about the Pakistani city, which, also incidentally, is really fun to say. Not BHAG but Pakistani city. However, I’m referring to BHAG the acronym. A big, hairy, audacious goal.
And, tis the season for BHAGs. New Year’s resolutions are a part of the fabric of our world. And as of this moment, I’ve set no resolutions, no goals, for the new year. I need some, I just don’t know where to start. In years past I’ve resolved to select my curse words more carefully, choosing ones that truly reflect how I feel versus the ones that just fly out without consideration. That lasted a little while. Another year I resolved to teach my children the roots of New Orleans funk music when I drove them to school and they sat captive in my car. I even printed out the words to the songs I felt they should know. And that lasted a very little while.
I’ve set New Year’s goals for my business and my hobbies. The fact that this commentary even exists is a result of a BHAG I set out for myself about five years ago now – to be a commentator on Public Radio. And while there are many goals I should set out for my business, nothing comes to mind that really excites me.
In year’s past I set goals for exercise and road races. I set out to run a 10k in under forty minutes. That was a significant BHAG. I didn’t make it, by the way. I was about a minute too slow and as I crossed the finish line was I pretty sure I was about to experience a big hairy audacious death and have never tried again. And athletic pursuits have been shelved for a while due to mystery pains in my right knee known clinically as hurto-knee-e-osis. I’m nursing it back to health so I don’t need what orthopedists call a knee-ectomy. So, anything stressful involving my favorite right knee is out.
The trainer who runs the boot camp workout I do three days a week is a horrible, mean, miserable and unpleasant man which makes him very good at his job and I’m proud to call him my friend. He suggested a full body scan giving me a readout on everything from my weight to my bone density to my muscle mass to my sub-cutaneous fat which, I’m told can only be altered through a change of diet. I could target some numbers to change and set about it via a mixture of dieting, changing what I eat, and exercises that don’t inflame my favorite right knee.
Or, I could put a travel goal out there of, let’s say, travel to BHAG, the Pakistani City. It would probably be easier. Pakistani City. You just gotta say it – it’s so fun.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
One condiment in particular kept my kids alive.
There’s no ketchup in my house right now. I made burgers for the family Sunday night and we had no ketchup. This may sound trivial but it’s an extraordinary landmark in our family’s life.
When my kids were much younger, my wife and I relied on frozen chicken nuggets about five nights a week to feed the kids. Our four kids are two years apart with the last two being twins. Imagine dinner time with a six-year-old, a four-year-old, and two-year-old twins. It was pandemonium. We’d pop a cookie sheet full of nuggets into the oven. They were quick. They were easy and though they weren’t particularly healthy, they kept the kids alive until the next day which, at that point, is all we wanted. Chicken nuggets were our bread and butter. They were our life saver.
In time, though, the kids tired of them. We experimented with different brands, with different shaped nuggets. We learned that rib meat nuggets were too chewy and who knew chickens had ribs? And the kids were unimpressed by the dinosaur shaped nuggets.
We then told them they weren’t eating nuggets anymore. These were new. These were different. These were chicken nuggettas. They’re different and better and that bought us a little time.
Then we added a small dollop of ketchup on the side of their plate and…boom. The kids loved the nuggets with the ketchup. They wanted more ketchup. And more. Soon it became a plate full of ketchup with chicken nuggets somewhere underneath. I told my wife that the word KID was an acronym for Ketchup Infusion Device because that’s what the nuggets became.
We bought the ketchup at the warehouse clubs. Three giant bottles shrink wrapped together, wondering how long the ketchup last before we’d need more. We’d walk through the back door with the bottles of ketchup over our heads like warriors returning with the spoils of battle. The kids saw it and knew everything was going to be ok.
The kids liked chicken nuggets with ketchup so much that my wife and I began calling everything we cooked chicken. We’d have pork chicken, beef chicken, turkey chicken, each of which was served under ketchup. We tried weaning our kids off the ketchup but when food hit the kitchen table, they’d be looking for the bottle. We wondered if we’d gone too far but…they were eating and they weren’t complaining which, if you’re a parent, you understand.
If my kids were like trees and we could cut them in half and count their rings, their inner most rings would be made entirely of chicken nuggets and lots and lots of ketchup.
And then last Sunday night, I bring the hot burgers in from the grill and start putting the toppings on the countertop and…no ketchup. Not even the secret reserve bottle which we keep in the back of the pantry for emergencies. None. And when I announced we had no ketchup I braced for the blowback. Years ago, this news would have fueled an insurrection. Instead, they shrugged and fixed their plate.
My goodness, how things have changed, thank the Lord.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.
It just feels like everyone's hand is out, asking for more for simply doing what they were asked to do.
It was a convenience store. Just like all the convenience stores you’ve seen. I grabbed a drink from the refrigerator, walked to the counter and handed the drink to the guy at the register. He scanned the bar code, I give him my card, he processed the card and handed me the receipt to sign. And there it was, big as day – a line for me to add a tip. A tip. For buying a drink at a convenience store. I froze. Really? Asking for a tip for buying a drink at a convenience store. The store offered no foodservice, no delivery assistance, nothing that traditionally begs a tip that would explain the tip line on the receipt. He simply scanned the drink, swiped my card. I wanted to ask him about it but the line was getting pretty long so I signed the receipt, put no tip, and walked out shaking my head. My buddy was waiting outside for me. “Can you believe they wanted a tip to sell us a drink?” he asked. He saw it, too, and was as taken aback as I was.
Is it me or does everyone seem to want a tip these days? For simply doing the job they’re there to do, like selling me a canned drink at a conveniences store. That guy behind the counter likely had nothing to do with the tip line on the receipt, but I assume he would be the beneficiary of any tips he got that day. I don’t know what to think about it, but my initial reaction was, “that’s offensive.”
I took an Uber from my hotel to the airport in California a few weeks back. A hotel employee jumped in front of me as I reached for the car door and opened the door for me. I climbed in and he stood there with the door open for a moment or two looking at me. I assume he was waiting for a tip. As soon as the Uber got started towards the airport, the Uber app on my phone asked if I wanted to tip the driver and we had hardly started rolling. There was a note on the counter in my hotel room asking me to consider tipping the housekeepers. A club where I’m a member once forbade tipping in cash. Now tipping in cash is done openly everywhere, and employees seem to expect it though the rules remain unchanged.
I understand the need for tips on some jobs – those tips provide necessary income for the people doing the job. And the origin of the word Tip, as I understand it, is “to insure promptness.” However, that’s not the case in most places where tipping has become expected, like the convenience store.
To change the subject a bit, I also understand there’s a reason we’re called grumpy old men. It seems, as men age, we find new things that make us grumpy and for me, tipping is the thing du jour. It just feels like everyone’s hand is out for simply doing what they were asked to do.
By the way, if you liked this commentary and agree, please feel free to Venmo me a few bucks to show your support.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
Nearly the whole house is suffering.
A slew of fall and winter maladies has infiltrated our home. ‘Tis the season after all. I sat in the emergency room with my favorite oldest daughter early last Wednesday morning as she suffered with what we think were cluster headaches. Right now, my favorite youngest daughter is home from school, in bed with a stomach bug and my favorite oldest son just walked back inside after dropping his brother off at school. He felt bad when he woke up, but his head began pounding when he got active, he returned home, and he’s now back in bed. Cold and flu season is here. And I mean right here.
I, myself, was in the orthopedist’s office yesterday. I had a meniscus repair a couple years ago and should have addressed it when I first felt the pain. Instead, like a testosterone poisoned male, I kept going and tried to push through, hoping that I’d arrive at the other side of the pain and be pain free. Well, the surgical procedure lasted only a short time a few months after realizing there was no other side to push through to.
A similar pain is now in the other 50% of my knees and I went to the doctor in short order after having learned my lesson. He took X-Rays, examined it thoroughly, and said “I think you have a sore knee.” I said, “Yep. That’s why I’m here.” “No,” he said. “I can find nothing wrong with it. When’s the last time you stretched after your workout?” “Oh,” I said, “Maybe last year or the year before that.” “Go home and stretch and let me know.” So, I did. And, no knee pain today. “Don’t forget how old you and your knees are,” he said as I stood to leave and then he said, “Hey, let me check your prostate.” I’m kidding. He didn’t really say that.
Last night at 2AM my wife sent me to the kitchen for Advil. A mysterious foot pain surfaced in the middle of the night and, as of this morning, is thankfully gone. And our dog, Lucy, started showing a limp after long walk over the weekend. At this moment there is only one of us living here not suffering some sort of ailment. But, it’s just a matter of time. He’ll catch the “something’s wrong with me bug” soon once he sees all the school his siblings are missing. Stands to reason, he’ll want in on it, too.
I’m a pro-vaxer. Covid, Covid-boosters, flu shots every year for well over a decade. I’ll schedule a shingles vaccine as soon as I can find time on my calendar. Vaccines won’t help my knees or my wife’s foot but if there were one, I’d get it. I’m all for science, it’s good stuff. Until then, though, if you see me or any of my family, stay away. We’re all in in pain, in bad moods, or contagious or all of the above. Avoid us. Just come close enough to drop off a casserole. We’re plugging a refrigerator in on the front porch so you don’t have to ring the doorbell.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
I think by talking too much about my superstitions, I ended up jinxing the team.
Well, I think I jinxed them. My sons’ football team fought hard all season and last Friday night they were bested by a very fast and athletic opponent. The boys were gloomy for just a little while. They quickly realized they had overachieved and then they held their heads high. I’m very proud of them.
I guess a jinx and a superstition are two different sides of the same coin. Superstitions are proactive and meant to bring hoped-for results. I once carried a tiny single serving bottle of Tabasco in my travel computer bag because I had never died in an airplane crash as long as it was in there. Superstitions are intentional. And it is my considered opinion – meaning I’ve thought about this for about thirty seconds now - that jinxs bring bad luck and are a realized in hindsight. Such as me talking so much about my superstations for my sons’ football team actually jinxed them. It’s in hindsight that this has now become abundantly clear.
Since it’s the Friday after Thanksgiving you’re wondering if the food hall-pass you gave yourself yesterday to eat and drink much more than a responsible human should is still active. Well, it is. That hall pass lasts until midday Sunday. So, yes, go get the mashed potatoes and a half-dozen Sister Shuberts for breakfast. Dinner, too! Carbs don’t count until midday Sunday. Myself, I’ll be cooking a pound of Bill E’s bacon in the oven and putting it on my Sister Shuberts. It is my considered opinion that Bill E’s Bacon is the best in the world. They’re based in Fairhope. Please don’t even consider raising your voice to argue. I won’t have it.
It's the Friday morning after Thanksgiving that I carefully go through yesterday’s family conversations and try to remember if I offended anyone. Happily, that rarely happens anymore. The whole Marston family - seventeen of us - will have been under one roof last night. Those tight quarters along with the delirium of a food comma and, perhaps, a glass of wine too many may have caused me to run off at the mouth. Friday mornings I retrace my conversational steps and begin rehearsing my apologies if needed. I’ve learned that one pre-emptive apology at 2pm Thanksgiving Day for everything that I might say later in the day or that night doesn’t count. I wish it did.
However, my family seldom goes down those paths anymore. We’re able to keep controversy out of the celebration or, more likely, avoid dangerous topics. And it helps when you really like your family, your in-laws, and your nieces and nephews, and I genuinely do. I don’t want to get sideways with any of them. The same is true with my wife’s family gathering every summer on the Carolina coast. We had sixteen people under one roof for a week last summer and everybody got along. I kinda miss the days when there’d be a misunderstanding, someone would get angry and, if we got lucky, they’d blow up and make a scene. It offered some wonderful diversions from good cheer and wholesome togetherness and family bonds and all that.
Aww, heck. I’ve probably just jinxed myself again.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
I don't believe in superstitions unless they work.
When I told my wife the topic of today’s commentary, she warned that people are going to get tired of hearing me talk about this. However, I feel I’m kind of obligated to discuss it. Let me explain.
I think it was Dr. Gerald May - who’s an author, psychiatrist, and theologian - who wrote in one of his books that superstition is best defined as “trying to control the magic.” And I like that definition. And I like that a guy who is both a medical doctor and theologian acknowledges magic, almost admitting that magic exists. Seems very out of character for a person with these qualifications.
So, why is superstition important and what does it have to do with today’s commentary?
Well, they won again. My sons’ football team. They won again. Another upset. Two weeks in a row of outperforming all expectations after winning in a season in which they weren’t supposed to win hardly at all. For those who need catching up, my two sons are on their high school football team, and they’ve made it through the first two rounds of football playoffs and play again tonight against the state’s top ranked team in their division. My sons’ team, by the way, is playing up two divisions. Pundits have picked them to lose all season long and…they’re still playing. Against all the odds, they’re still playing. Well into the post season. They are the little engine that could with nothing to lose. And it’s teams like this with attitudes like this that strike fear in their opponents and they should and it appears they have.
Which brings me back to superstition. For the past two weeks I’ve mentioned my sons and their football team in this commentary the Friday morning and afternoon before their game that night and…they’ve won. Is me mentioning them and their team what’s making them win? Of course not, but maybe. Maybe. I would never discredit the team’s hard work, their long hot hours of summer practice, the hours the coaches spend planning practice, watching game footage, creating new defensive schemes and new plays for the next game. That’s certainly where the wins are coming from.
So maybe I’m just superstitious and I’m just trying to control the magic. That this mention somehow mystically, cosmically, superstitiously helps. And it is magic. The smiles on my sons’ faces last Friday night after their win was magic. The hugs that I got and gave my sons who were so dirty and smelly was magic. The parents were beaming, too. Can you believe it, we said. This is amazing. And it was amazing. And it felt like magic.
I don’t believe in superstitions unless they work. And so far, this one’s working. As I’ve said for the last two weeks, my oldest son is a senior and each game may be the final one of his football career, which my wife and I have loved. So I’m mentioning my sons and their football game and their football team here, now, one more time.
I’m Cam Marston and it may be too much to ask, but I’m just hoping for one more week – of magic.
My sons won their football game last Friday night in an upset giving parents like me one more game and...it's a home game.
If you heard last week’s commentary, you might like to know that my sons’ football team won their playoff game in an upset in Montgomery Friday night. My favorite oldest son – a wide receiver – made a nice catch on a screen play and was tackled from behind by a savage mountain of a full-grown man. My son said it was a clean hit and was all good but…I can’t bring myself to like that guy. I’m going to have a hard time liking anyone that smashes my favorite oldest son to the ground. My wife and I both said, at nearly the same time, “Wow. He got walloped” and that’s because what we heard when my sweet little boy got hit by a mountain of a full-grown man sounded like WALLOP. My son bounced to his feet and trotted back to the huddle hoping the ball would come his way again. My wife and I sat frozen in the stands hoping it wouldn’t.
When they upset last week’s opponent, parents like me felt like we were awarded with a bonus week plus a home game. Like last week, this week could be the last game of their season and the last football game of my senior’s career. If tonight is the last game, it’s only fitting that it finishes on the field where the seniors began playing as children years ago. It was a while back but only a flash in my memory. Wearing their helmets, they looked like bobble head dolls.
A friend counsels professional and elite collegiate athletes on their transition from sports into the everyday world. When their careers end, many of them struggle with identity. Without sports, who am I, they ask? What do I do with my time? What’s my purpose? I fear for some of this with some of the kids on the field tonight. They’ve played this game on this team with these people since they were about eight years old. What happens when it’s over? Some will have no problems with the transition, eager and curious about their next chapter of life. Others will struggle to let it go. You see them today as adults, living vicariously through their children who are out there on the field. That identity must be a powerful hold. I was never an athlete so I can’t really relate.
However, I’m not immune. When my favorite oldest daughter played her final volleyball match, I sighed and then went on to the next in line. What happens when my favorite youngest son and favorite youngest daughter are done with sports? When they transition out? So much time has been spent cheering for them on the sidelines that I worry a little about myself. It’s become a part of my identity, too. Who will I become? What will I do with all this newfound time?
I don’t know. I guess acknowledging that an inevitable transition is ahead is valuable in and of itself. Until then, though, I’m all in.
Good luck tonight, boys. I love you both. I’ll be in the stands with many others just like me, screaming my head off, hoping for all of us that tonight won’t be the last night.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
I used to complain about the amount of time I spent on the sidelines of my children's sports. Today I worry that those days are running out too quickly. And - a special think yo to a listener.
Randy Fowler came to my house Saturday morning with his daughter Julie. Randy was in Mobile from Tuscaloosa to see his grandson’s football game and wanted to meet me – his daughter, Julie, lives a few doors down. Randy listens to these Keepin’ It Real commentaries each Friday morning sitting in his car outside 5 Java in downtown Tuscaloosa and then goes inside to visit with his buddies. I assume he’s listening right now his car, so…
Good morning, Randy. Thanks so much for your kind gift. I’ve not opened it yet, but I will soon, and I plan to save some of it for the two of us to share when I’m next in Tuscaloosa. My oldest son will be a freshman there in the fall and I suspect I’ll be in town from time to time. Your gift was generous and a complete surprise and has lifted my spirits all week. Again, thank you so very much.
That son of mine, by the way, is my favorite oldest son. I’ll say it again so you get it – he’s my favorite oldest son. Anyway, he’s a high school senior and he begins pursuit of a football championship tonight. He’s a wide receiver. It’s the playoffs and anything can happen. If tonight is his last game, I’ll be very sad for him and his classmates and, frankly, for my wife and me. We’ve loved watching him play. Each time the ball winds up in his hands my heart swells with pride and my body clenches in fear that he’ll be hurt. No different than any other parent with a child on the field, I suppose.
After the game we’ll find him on the field after the team huddle and take a picture. It’s what we do. He’ll offer us very few words about the game and he’ll be covered in dirt. Bruises will be forming that, by tomorrow, will be a deep eggplant color. My wife, me, my favorite oldest son, and my favorite youngest son. He’s a freshman on the team. His uniform will probably be clean – his playing time has not yet arrived. We’ll be shoulder to shoulder for the camera. My wife and me smiling, regardless of the game’s outcome. My son’s expressions will depend entirely on the scoreboard.
If it’s my oldest son’s final game, I’ll be so sad to not be able to watch him Friday nights anymore. He’s the very best version of himself on that field. He has a charisma that surfaces when the game starts and I can feel it all the way in the stands.
However, at the same time, it will be one season closer to watching my youngest son step into the role of a difference-maker on the field which he’s working hard for. His time will come and it’s getting closer.
I’m regularly surprised by how much parenting can be such a rapid-fire complex mixture of emotions. Happy. Sad. Eager. Reluctant. All at the same time. I used to complain about how much time I spent on the sidelines of my kids’ sports. Now I fear that those days will be over too soon.
Oh, if you’re wanting a shout out on one of these commentaries, a nice bottle of scotch helps. Thanks again, Randy.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just Keepin’ It Real.
Sometimes when escaping the rat race you find yourself becoming a rat.
Air travel brings out something in people that, in normal life, stays hidden. It’s the combination of the expense, non-negotiable departure times, lots of uncertainty, and lots and lots of people packed into tight confines. Then add travel disruptions, crying babies, potentially rude airline staff and it escalates the tension. During air travel you see who people really are. And you may learn some unpleasant things about yourself.
Years ago, I watched a father change his baby’s diaper while laying his baby across two tray tables during a flight. That scene has never left my mind.
Yesterday, I listened as an older man complained loudly about his wife who, he said, was constantly late. “She’ll be late for her own funeral,” he repeated over and over to the gate agent for us all to hear. His wife was shopping and when she arrived, he blasted her. She blasted back saying she was not late, they had plenty time and we heard their fight go all the way down the jetway and onto the plane.
There’s gamesmanship over arm rests. No words, no looks, but an aggressive passive aggressive competition over a two-inch wide piece of elbow space.
Larger people raising the arm rests saying they’re painful and dig into their sides. Passengers pushing the arm rest back down saying, “Sorry. I bought this whole seat and don’t want you spilling into it.” Loud snorers having their seats violently shaken to wake them up. People missing flights and having meltdowns so loud that security has to come take them away.
Once in Atlanta, a passenger from my flight confronted me in the terminal, screaming at me inches from my face. I’d never seen this person before, and people were forming a circle to watch. I kept asking who he was and why was he so angry. He kept hollering and finally walked off. I was terrified. Turns out I was upgraded to a first-class seat, and he thought I had sabotaged his upgrade. He started drinking and got off the plane looking for a fight.
Now this sounds so self-righteous but I’m no saint. I’ve flown nearly three and a half million miles and, at one time, I felt the airlines owed me. I made demands, I raised my voice and I’m embarrassed by who I was back then. Today I try to stay quiet and grateful. However, I still fail. A few weeks ago, fifteen minutes from landing in Mobile, the flight turned around and flew back to Dallas due to a mid-flight mechanical issue. I got off the plane and asked a few questions and their answers, I felt, were unsatisfactory and my body language showed it. Imagine a person miming disgust. That was me. We went through three planes that day, all with mechanical issues, until we found one that finally got us home seven hours late.
I love being in new, far-away, places which makes air travel necessary. But getting there can be awful. It’s unfortunate that sometimes in the process of escaping the rat race you find yourself becoming a rat.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
Sometimes when escaping the rat race you find yourself becoming a rat.
Air travel brings out something in people that, in normal life, stays hidden. It’s the combination of the expense, non-negotiable departure times, lots of uncertainty, and lots and lots of people packed into tight confines. Then add travel disruptions, crying babies, potentially rude airline staff and it escalates the tension. During air travel you see who people really are. And you may learn some unpleasant things about yourself.
Years ago, I watched a father change his baby’s diaper while laying his baby across two tray tables during a flight. That scene has never left my mind.
Yesterday, I listened as an older man complained loudly about his wife who, he said, was constantly late. “She’ll be late for her own funeral,” he repeated over and over to the gate agent for us all to hear. His wife was shopping and when she arrived, he blasted her. She blasted back saying she was not late, they had plenty time and we heard their fight go all the way down the jetway and onto the plane.
There’s gamesmanship over arm rests. No words, no looks, but an aggressive passive aggressive competition over a two-inch wide piece of elbow space.
Larger people raising the arm rests saying they’re painful and dig into their sides. Passengers pushing the arm rest back down saying, “Sorry. I bought this whole seat and don’t want you spilling into it.” Loud snorers having their seats violently shaken to wake them up. People missing flights and having meltdowns so loud that security has to come take them away.
Once in Atlanta, a passenger from my flight confronted me in the terminal, screaming at me inches from my face. I’d never seen this person before, and people were forming a circle to watch. I kept asking who he was and why was he so angry. He kept hollering and finally walked off. I was terrified. Turns out I was upgraded to a first-class seat, and he thought I had sabotaged his upgrade. He started drinking and got off the plane looking for a fight.
Now this sounds so self-righteous but I’m no saint. I’ve flown nearly three and a half million miles and, at one time, I felt the airlines owed me. I made demands, I raised my voice and I’m embarrassed by who I was back then. Today I try to stay quiet and grateful. However, I still fail. A few weeks ago, fifteen minutes from landing in Mobile, the flight turned around and flew back to Dallas due to a mid-flight mechanical issue. I got off the plane and asked a few questions and their answers, I felt, were unsatisfactory and my body language showed it. Imagine a person miming disgust. That was me. We went through three planes that day, all with mechanical issues, until we found one that finally got us home seven hours late.
I love being in new, far-away, places which makes air travel necessary. But getting there can be awful. It’s unfortunate that sometimes in the process of escaping the rat race you find yourself becoming a rat.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
A young man asked "My customers keep telling me I remind them of their children. What should I do?"
A young man approached Tuesday after my seminar in Orlando. “I’m twenty-four years old,” he said “and when I’m making sales calls, people say I remind them of their son. How am I supposed to take that?” he asked.
He felt he wasn’t being taken seriously. He worried that he wasn’t doing a good job. And, he felt it was kind of an insulting to say.
I remember being in his shoes. I launched into my career intending to kick tail and take names. I wanted promotions, bonuses, raises, awards, recognition, and celebrity. My job was selling food to restaurants in eastern North Carolina. I went door to door in each town’s restaurant row with Thermoses full of heated samples, a bag of small souffle cups and plastic spoons to offer tastes. I sold cheese sauces, and gravies, corned beef hash, chillies, coffee, and tea. The list goes on.
Today I see the interactions that young man told me about differently. I told him to smile then say, “Tell me about your son.” Listen and smile and ask one follow-up question. “They’re giving you a compliment,” I told him, “It’s not an insult. And people love talking about their children so let ‘em. And then gently guide your conversation back on track.”
Like most people his age, I was in what psychiatrist Carl Jung and Franciscan priest Richard Rohr call the ego-building stages of my life. I was trying to shape how people saw me and how I saw and felt about myself. I was working to build an impressive image and, wow, how I’ve changed.
Sometime after about age thirty-five for most people, image building begins to matter less. You don’t stop doing it, it just matters less. A new search then begins for something to replace that image-building feeling that had been so important. The new search signals a shift in identity, it can arrive as a mid-life crisis, and has been known to reveal, for some, a God-shaped hole in their life.
According to Jung and Rohr, a satisfying replacement to image building can only be found by reversing course. Becoming less noticeable instead of more noticeable. Less image conscious instead of more image conscious. According to Rohr, the first half of life is about building your container of who you are and what you stand for and then filling that container. The second half of a life well lived is about draining that container and then destroying it. A full complete reversal from ego building to ego abandonment.
It’s been this way for eons. The young warriors seek fame and glory. They whoop and holler and conquer. The elders shower them with praise and rewards for their work and their bravery. Conquering is the job of the warriors. Praising is the job of the elders.
“I can tell you take your work seriously,” I said to the young man. “I bet you’re an asset here. Your boss is lucky to have you.” “Well,” he said, “maybe, yeah, I guess.” We shook hands. He walked away smiling from the compliment. I walked away smiling from giving it to him.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
A young man asked "My customers keep telling me I remind them of their children. What should I do?"
A young man approached Tuesday after my seminar in Orlando. “I’m twenty-four years old,” he said “and when I’m making sales calls, people say I remind them of their son. How am I supposed to take that?” he asked.
He felt he wasn’t being taken seriously. He worried that he wasn’t doing a good job. And, he felt it was kind of an insulting to say.
I remember being in his shoes. I launched into my career intending to kick tail and take names. I wanted promotions, bonuses, raises, awards, recognition, and celebrity. My job was selling food to restaurants in eastern North Carolina. I went door to door in each town’s restaurant row with Thermoses full of heated samples, a bag of small souffle cups and plastic spoons to offer tastes. I sold cheese sauces, and gravies, corned beef hash, chillies, coffee, and tea. The list goes on.
Today I see the interactions that young man told me about differently. I told him to smile then say, “Tell me about your son.” Listen and smile and ask one follow-up question. “They’re giving you a compliment,” I told him, “It’s not an insult. And people love talking about their children so let ‘em. And then gently guide your conversation back on track.”
Like most people his age, I was in what psychiatrist Carl Jung and Franciscan priest Richard Rohr call the ego-building stages of my life. I was trying to shape how people saw me and how I saw and felt about myself. I was working to build an impressive image and, wow, how I’ve changed.
Sometime after about age thirty-five for most people, image building begins to matter less. You don’t stop doing it, it just matters less. A new search then begins for something to replace that image-building feeling that had been so important. The new search signals a shift in identity, it can arrive as a mid-life crisis, and has been known to reveal, for some, a God-shaped hole in their life.
According to Jung and Rohr, a satisfying replacement to image building can only be found by reversing course. Becoming less noticeable instead of more noticeable. Less image conscious instead of more image conscious. According to Rohr, the first half of life is about building your container of who you are and what you stand for and then filling that container. The second half of a life well lived is about draining that container and then destroying it. A full complete reversal from ego building to ego abandonment.
It’s been this way for eons. The young warriors seek fame and glory. They whoop and holler and conquer. The elders shower them with praise and rewards for their work and their bravery. Conquering is the job of the warriors. Praising is the job of the elders.
“I can tell you take your work seriously,” I said to the young man. “I bet you’re an asset here. Your boss is lucky to have you.” “Well,” he said, “maybe, yeah, I guess.” We shook hands. He walked away smiling from the compliment. I walked away smiling from giving it to him.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
My friends and I attend an organ recital together each week. It's not what you think...
The pickle ball bug has bitten. A buddy put together a group of guys all about the same age to play each Wednesday evening not long ago. We all showed up, most of us knew each other, debated the rules for a while, and we got started. It’s now a regular thing.
Each time we gather we shake hands, we catch up and bit, and each of us, whether we’re asked or not, goes through what’s called The Organ Recital. It’s a part of what happens when men of a certain age or older gather. Maybe women, too, but I can only speak to what the men do. We talk about what hurts on our body, how well or poorly we’ve been sleeping, who we know that is sick. We talk about digestion. About what foods are kind to us and which ones we struggle with. Which spices upset out stomach. Which medicines help and which ones don’t seem to do anything at all. It’s the Organ Recital. It doesn’t last long. Usually someone says, “Hey, enough. We sound like old men. Let’s play.” And that ends it. And then we start putting on knee braces, patella tendon straps, and tendonitis sleeves. It’s so sad.
My father has a golf group that has set up rules around their Organ Recitals. He and his buddies have played golf every Friday morning for the past decade or more. Their rule is that once the last putt falls into the cup on the first hole, the organ recital must end. It’s a rule they’ve all embraced. However, my father says, many of his friends are now nearly deaf and they keep giving their organ recitals anyway because they can’t hear anyone telling them to stop. It’s the rare privilege of the hard of hearing – not being able to hear when you’re being admonished.
My dad is quite the pickle baller himself. He plays several days a week at the Via Senior Center in Mobile. He’s got a regular crowd and they pair up to play and then they swap teams and they do it for hours. Men and women. He invited me a few weeks back. I guessed I’d be the youngest person there, which was true, and that I’d have an unfair advantage because of that, which was untrue. I got my tail beaten repeatedly. These so-called seniors are savage pickle ball players and what they may lack in speed they make up with precise ball placement. At one point my 85-year-old father and I were playing together and across the net was an 83-year-old lady and her sixty-ish year-old daughter. Father son versus mother daughter. The mom had a wicked serve and at any time could place the ball within a millimeter of wherever she wanted it. My dad and I just barely won, and I walked off the court laughing at the thought that my youth – which is very relative – would create any advantage.
At some point in the match, I lunged for a well-placed shot from the 82-year-old mother and pulled something in my lower back. I soldiered on, unwilling to admit to myself that an 82-year-old was making a fool of me on the pickle ball court. I, of course, dutifully reported my injury the next week at my pickle ball group’s Organ Recital. But when asked about the opponent who did this to me, I kept things a bit vague.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
My friends and I attend an organ recital together each week. It's not what you think...
The pickle ball bug has bitten. A buddy put together a group of guys all about the same age to play each Wednesday evening not long ago. We all showed up, most of us knew each other, debated the rules for a while, and we got started. It’s now a regular thing.
Each time we gather we shake hands, we catch up and bit, and each of us, whether we’re asked or not, goes through what’s called The Organ Recital. It’s a part of what happens when men of a certain age or older gather. Maybe women, too, but I can only speak to what the men do. We talk about what hurts on our body, how well or poorly we’ve been sleeping, who we know that is sick. We talk about digestion. About what foods are kind to us and which ones we struggle with. Which spices upset out stomach. Which medicines help and which ones don’t seem to do anything at all. It’s the Organ Recital. It doesn’t last long. Usually someone says, “Hey, enough. We sound like old men. Let’s play.” And that ends it. And then we start putting on knee braces, patella tendon straps, and tendonitis sleeves. It’s so sad.
My father has a golf group that has set up rules around their Organ Recitals. He and his buddies have played golf every Friday morning for the past decade or more. Their rule is that once the last putt falls into the cup on the first hole, the organ recital must end. It’s a rule they’ve all embraced. However, my father says, many of his friends are now nearly deaf and they keep giving their organ recitals anyway because they can’t hear anyone telling them to stop. It’s the rare privilege of the hard of hearing – not being able to hear when you’re being admonished.
My dad is quite the pickle baller himself. He plays several days a week at the Via Senior Center in Mobile. He’s got a regular crowd and they pair up to play and then they swap teams and they do it for hours. Men and women. He invited me a few weeks back. I guessed I’d be the youngest person there, which was true, and that I’d have an unfair advantage because of that, which was untrue. I got my tail beaten repeatedly. These so-called seniors are savage pickle ball players and what they may lack in speed they make up with precise ball placement. At one point my 85-year-old father and I were playing together and across the net was an 83-year-old lady and her sixty-ish year-old daughter. Father son versus mother daughter. The mom had a wicked serve and at any time could place the ball within a millimeter of wherever she wanted it. My dad and I just barely won, and I walked off the court laughing at the thought that my youth – which is very relative – would create any advantage.
At some point in the match, I lunged for a well-placed shot from the 82-year-old mother and pulled something in my lower back. I soldiered on, unwilling to admit to myself that an 82-year-old was making a fool of me on the pickle ball court. I, of course, dutifully reported my injury the next week at my pickle ball group’s Organ Recital. But when asked about the opponent who did this to me, I kept things a bit vague.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
Lots of talk about "quiet quitters" with my clients these days. Here's what I'm learning about them and about the companies who aren't having any problems with them.
Quiet quitting is all the talk with my corporate seminar clients these days. Many don’t understand it, nor do they understand why someone would do it. My clients could, of course, go through some extra effort to ask their employees about quiet quitting but most won’t because it’s too much work. Which is, ironically, what quiet quitting is all about – not willing to go the extra mile because of the extra work required and its dubious benefit. It’s easier to believe a popular narrative than actually sleuthing it out, getting some answers, and fixing it.
For those unaware, quiet quitting is where employees simply refuse to hustle, refuse to step up to extra challenges or opportunities presented by workplace leaders. The employees have serious doubts if the extra work or hustle will lead to anything beneficial. The phenomenon is largely affiliated with the youngest elements of today’s workplace, roughly those under about 28 years old.
For generations the workplace assumed the youth would bear the brunt of the hardest work. Called apprentice to master, pay your dues, whatever, the young ones are supposed to arrive early, stay late, and work hard so that they can get ahead. However, many young employees today – the quiet quitters – don’t believe that bargain exists anymore. It appears, they say, the system is about lining the pockets of those at the top with little thought paid to those doing the entry level, grunt work. There is little reason to believe that “pay your dues” will ever pay off, they say. It’s the way of the past, not of today.
Here's what I’ve seen recently. The workplaces loyal to a pay your dues model struggle with young employees. They’re workplaces full of quiet quitters. Any suggestion of pay your dues is met with a quiet response of “this place is probably not for me.” The Covid pandemic, like pandemics before it, took what was eventually coming and put it into our laps right now here today and this workplace attitude is one of them. Others are mental health awareness, virtual meetings, and working from home. They were being discussed, they were on the horizon, but now, post pandemic, they’re right here in our laps.
My clients not experiencing the quiet quitters are early adopters of what they saw was coming. Many employers aren’t aware of it, or they sense it but are unwilling to accept it. What is it? Simply, the workplace model has flipped. In the thriving, non-quiet quitter workplaces, the senior workers – who were once served by the junior workers – are now serving the junior workers. They’re asking, “What do you need to be successful here and how can I facilitate it.” Pay your dues inverted. The reason? Technology. Parenting trends. Schooling. Lots of things. Fight it if you want but you’ll eventually lose. The traditional workplace has flipped, and it is, like it or not, the future.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
Lots of talk about "quiet quitters" with my clients these days. Here's what I'm learning about them and about the companies who aren't having any problems with them.
Quiet quitting is all the talk with my corporate seminar clients these days. Many don’t understand it, nor do they understand why someone would do it. My clients could, of course, go through some extra effort to ask their employees about quiet quitting but most won’t because it’s too much work. Which is, ironically, what quiet quitting is all about – not willing to go the extra mile because of the extra work required and its dubious benefit. It’s easier to believe a popular narrative than actually sleuthing it out, getting some answers, and fixing it.
For those unaware, quiet quitting is where employees simply refuse to hustle, refuse to step up to extra challenges or opportunities presented by workplace leaders. The employees have serious doubts if the extra work or hustle will lead to anything beneficial. The phenomenon is largely affiliated with the youngest elements of today’s workplace, roughly those under about 28 years old.
For generations the workplace assumed the youth would bear the brunt of the hardest work. Called apprentice to master, pay your dues, whatever, the young ones are supposed to arrive early, stay late, and work hard so that they can get ahead. However, many young employees today – the quiet quitters – don’t believe that bargain exists anymore. It appears, they say, the system is about lining the pockets of those at the top with little thought paid to those doing the entry level, grunt work. There is little reason to believe that “pay your dues” will ever pay off, they say. It’s the way of the past, not of today.
Here's what I’ve seen recently. The workplaces loyal to a pay your dues model struggle with young employees. They’re workplaces full of quiet quitters. Any suggestion of pay your dues is met with a quiet response of “this place is probably not for me.” The Covid pandemic, like pandemics before it, took what was eventually coming and put it into our laps right now here today and this workplace attitude is one of them. Others are mental health awareness, virtual meetings, and working from home. They were being discussed, they were on the horizon, but now, post pandemic, they’re right here in our laps.
My clients not experiencing the quiet quitters are early adopters of what they saw was coming. Many employers aren’t aware of it, or they sense it but are unwilling to accept it. What is it? Simply, the workplace model has flipped. In the thriving, non-quiet quitter workplaces, the senior workers – who were once served by the junior workers – are now serving the junior workers. They’re asking, “What do you need to be successful here and how can I facilitate it.” Pay your dues inverted. The reason? Technology. Parenting trends. Schooling. Lots of things. Fight it if you want but you’ll eventually lose. The traditional workplace has flipped, and it is, like it or not, the future.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
I had a seven hour delay home back from Dallas last week. While I waited, I finished the biography of Alabama-born biologist Edward Wilson and began applying Wilson's research to the mess I was experiencing with the airline.
Let’s talk about ants. Not females, like Aunt Martha. But bugs. Ants create complex colonies where every one of them exists to support the growth and safety of the colony. Ants can’t help it. It’s not their choice. They’re driven entirely by instinct. No ant finds food and considers keeping it for themselves. They turn and tell the colony and then lead the colony back to the food. This instinctual, non-selfish, altruistic behavior is the reason for the species’ remarkable success.
I learned this reading the biography of biologist Edward Wilson on a flight one week ago today that was ultimately delayed seven hours trying to get from Dallas to Mobile. Wilson has deep Alabama roots. He may not be the most famous person from our state, but he may be the most influential. His achievements are remarkable, and he is, clinically speaking, a bad ass.
Wilson also said that selfishness has value, too, but only in individuals. A selfish person will win against an altruistic person. But selfish groups will fail. Altruistic, non-selfish groups, will grow, they’ll succeed. They’ll eat and breed and survive and thrive.
Ants don’t have a choice in the matter. But people do. And our bias, our instinct, is towards individual selfishness. We must work to overcome this instinct, bond as a group, and become altruistic. It’s hard, but it works.
We’ve seen this play out on grand stages. I listened to Nick Saban discuss the loss of the national championship a few years back because some of his players played selfishly as they were thinking about their NFL draft position.
And we see this nationally, as our once unselfish nation has moved towards selfish goals and selfish politicians. As a result, no one can deny that our nation, once described as the shining light on the hill, is dimming.
Now, I’m a workplace consultant and I can’t help but try to apply these lessons to what I experienced on last Friday’s flights. I read about one airline who has begun a new way to compensate flight attendants in a way that benefits the attendants. The airline finds ways to help their passengers, their pilots, their gate agents and on and on. That’s the airline I fly the most and I’ve had zero issues on my nearly forty flights this year. Zero.
And two of my three flights on this current airline this year have had significant delays. Are they selfish? I don’t know them well enough to know. But it sure appears so. All of Wilson’s research on selfish groups and their demise played out in front of me over those seven hours of flight delays. And I wish someone could get this message to their CEO and send him outside to study ants.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
On this week's Keepin' It Real, Cam Marston tells us about the Three Poisons and the three good things taught to us by the Buddha.
About 2500 years ago, the Buddha listed the three things that bring unhappiness. They’re referred to as The Poisons and these things, he essentially said, will put you into a pit that’s very hard to get out of. My take on it is this: any harm caused between humans comes from these three things. What are they? They’re Anger, Greed, and Ignorance. I can say, with confidence, that any harm I’ve done to others has come from one or more of these emotions, feelings, or attitudes – I’m not exactly sure what they are. All the oldest religions and philosophers that I’m aware of say much the same thing – anger, greed, and ignorance brings bad stuff. That’s certainly part of the messages I get on Sundays.
Thankfully, the Buddha also provided an antidote - they are compassion, generosity, and wisdom. Any goodness between humans comes from one or more of those three. The three poisons and the three good ones are written on my office white board so I can remind myself from time to time to do more of those on the right side of the white board and do less of those on the left side. It’s nice to boil down so many of life’s complexities into two simple groups of words, though actually living them is a completely different story.
It’s fascinating that these ideas were written 2500 years ago and remain highly relevant today. I sit in an airconditioned room, typing on a computer that’s capable of umpteen thousand calculations per millisecond or something like that, we’ve put a telescope in space a million miles from earth that’s trying to take a picture of the beginning of the universe, I can poke at my phone and a pizza shows up at my house, yet our modern society can’t shake the same problems Buddha was addressing 2500 years ago. In some respects, we’ve come such a long way as a species yet, in others, we haven’t moved the needle in 2500 years.
The APR fund drive has only been going on for two days now, though it may feel like 2500 years for us regular listeners. And the challenges facing APR are the same challenges we hear about a couple of times each year. Funding for the station comes through listener donations.
Last month I sent APR money to be used towards a matching grant during my morning and afternoon Keepin’ It Real broadcast. My challenge to you is this - If you enjoy my Keepin’ It Real commentaries, toss a little money towards the station. I did. The station needs your help to keep going.
And, I think the Buddha would agree, your donation shows your compassion, is an act of generosity, and reflects your wisdom. It won’t guarantee you a spot in heaven or enlightenment or whatever, but it might help. And I know some of you that are listening, and frankly, you could use some help.
I’m Cam Marston, and I’m just trying to help APR keep going.
On today's commentary, I share a little bit of my family's history and, maybe, a bit of my family's future.
My grandfather, George Allen wrote a weekly column in the Mobile Press Register from 1967 to 1975. He was chief of the Seafoods Division for the Alabama Conservation Department. He proposed the column after the many unsafe boating practices he witnessed. After about a year his columns meandered into personal stories and memories. The paper let him keep going. And even after moving to Atlanta, the Press-Register kept his columns, called Adventures with Old Cap. He died in 1979. I was about ten. I remember him but we never really connected.
In 1986 for Christmas, I received a collection of his Old Cap columns which my uncle had painstakingly gathered, retyped, and bound. It’s next to me as I write this, Post It notes tagging my favorites stories, old family photos pressed into the binding, and my own early writing folded and included between pages, hoping my grandfather’s writing talent would somehow osmose into my early stories. Reading the stories, I feel a slight connection with him. He references me as a baby in some of them, which brings a smile each time I read them.
My grandfather’s oldest child was my mother. Mom had a column in the same newspaper in the eighties and early nineties. Hers focused on professionalism, business etiquette, and customer service. She also did short local TV and radio broadcasts at different points in her career focusing on those same topics. My mother died about six months ago in early March. Lots of the kind notes I received said that my mother will live on in me, like, I suppose, my grandfather lived on in her and now in me through her. At the time it all sounded like mystical mumbo jumbo.
Singer songwriter John Hiatt asks this: “Is it true we are possessed by the ones we leave behind, or it is by their life we are inspired?” I think it’s both. And that’s partly why I write and record these commentaries. It’s hard to put into words how much I enjoy doing them and why. It’s been a complete surprise. I feel the spirit of my mother and my grandfather as I write. The family tradition makes me feel like I can and, to a degree, that I should write them. And, like I said, I can’t quite explain how much I enjoy it. I get to express myself, tell stories, and I’m keeping the family tradition alive.
Friday afternoon my phone rang. It was my college daughter from Oxford, Mississippi. “Dad,” she said, “I just got out of class and I had to tell someone what just happened. I turned my paper in on Monday and today the professor read it to the whole class. He said it was so good he had to read it and is going to try to find a publication in town to print it.”
A lump formed in my throat, and I smiled so big. So did my mother. So did my grandfather.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
My wife and I have done this twice before and we can do it again. I think.
A ballistic object is defined as something that behaves like a projectile. However, when you and I refer to a ballistic object we usually mean something that goes fast and when it hits something else it causes lots of damage. Ballistic missiles come to mind.
A car can become a ballistic object. They can go fast and if it collides with something else the damage can be awful. And mature drivers know this, and self-preservation keeps their automobile ballistic object running safely and under control.
However, I’m writing this in my head while in the passenger seat of my car, my feet pressing against the floorboard, hands grabbing for anything secure, and my mind racing: “Should I grab the wheel? This has to eventually get less scary, right? I just gotta survive, show confidence, and find things to compliment.” Behind the wheel is my fifteen-year-old daughter.
A rite of passage for every teen is learning to drive. A rite of passage for every parent is teaching a teen to drive. No amount of handling a car in an empty parking lot or on a dirt road prepares a teen for their first merge onto a busy interstate at 65 miles an hour. Nothing prepares the parent for this, either. No amount of explaining that hand over hand is the best way to turn the steering wheel can make a teen understand that it’s safe to accelerate out of a turn and unsafe to accelerate into one. Only the horrifying feeling of the car being nearly out of control teaches that. And the parent feels it, too.
In my yard one early one morning many years back, I watched a car come slowly around the corner and run right into my mailbox. From the passenger seat came a man who began apologizing profusely. His face a combination of embarrassment and anger. Behind the wheel was his fifteen-year-old daughter. They were driving quiet streets early in the morning to teach her to manage the car. He’ll have the mailbox repaired Monday, he said, and he’s very, very sorry. I smiled, told him my day was coming, and not to worry. He thanked me, embarrassment still all over his face, and they drove away, still way too far on the right side of the road.
Well, my day is now. It’s right now. It’s right now. My wife and I have already done this with our two older children. We can do it again.
My daughter pulls into the garage. “How did I do?” she asks. “Better,” I say. “Much better.” It’s the truth. She climbs out. I stay put, and in climbs her twin brother.
“Let’s do this!” he says, a little too full of energy for my comfort, throws the car into reverse and starts rolling. “Stop!” I say, “Look over your shoulder and at the back up camera before the car even begins moving.” And it begins again. My feet pushing holes in the floorboard.
I’m Cam Marston, just trying to Keep it Real. Have a wonderful Labor Day weekend, everyone.
My wife and I have done this twice before and we can do it again. I think.
A ballistic object is defined as something that behaves like a projectile. However, when you and I refer to a ballistic object we usually mean something that goes fast and when it hits something else it causes lots of damage. Ballistic missiles come to mind.
A car can become a ballistic object. They can go fast and if it collides with something else the damage can be awful. And mature drivers know this, and self-preservation keeps their automobile ballistic object running safely and under control.
However, I’m writing this in my head while in the passenger seat of my car, my feet pressing against the floorboard, hands grabbing for anything secure, and my mind racing: “Should I grab the wheel? This has to eventually get less scary, right? I just gotta survive, show confidence, and find things to compliment.” Behind the wheel is my fifteen-year-old daughter.
A rite of passage for every teen is learning to drive. A rite of passage for every parent is teaching a teen to drive. No amount of handling a car in an empty parking lot or on a dirt road prepares a teen for their first merge onto a busy interstate at 65 miles an hour. Nothing prepares the parent for this, either. No amount of explaining that hand over hand is the best way to turn the steering wheel can make a teen understand that it’s safe to accelerate out of a turn and unsafe to accelerate into one. Only the horrifying feeling of the car being nearly out of control teaches that. And the parent feels it, too.
In my yard one early one morning many years back, I watched a car come slowly around the corner and run right into my mailbox. From the passenger seat came a man who began apologizing profusely. His face a combination of embarrassment and anger. Behind the wheel was his fifteen-year-old daughter. They were driving quiet streets early in the morning to teach her to manage the car. He’ll have the mailbox repaired Monday, he said, and he’s very, very sorry. I smiled, told him my day was coming, and not to worry. He thanked me, embarrassment still all over his face, and they drove away, still way too far on the right side of the road.
Well, my day is now. It’s right now. It’s right now. My wife and I have already done this with our two older children. We can do it again.
My daughter pulls into the garage. “How did I do?” she asks. “Better,” I say. “Much better.” It’s the truth. She climbs out. I stay put, and in climbs her twin brother.
“Let’s do this!” he says, a little too full of energy for my comfort, throws the car into reverse and starts rolling. “Stop!” I say, “Look over your shoulder and at the back up camera before the car even begins moving.” And it begins again. My feet pushing holes in the floorboard.
I’m Cam Marston, just trying to Keep it Real. Have a wonderful Labor Day weekend, everyone.
Some tactics used by masters of propaganda back in some dark times are still in use today and remain very effective.
Leni Riefenstahl is known today for her savvy efforts at creating Nazi propaganda during World War II. She constructed images that deeply influenced the masses. And today, many organizations who are hoping to gain followers, whether they know it or not, copy her manipulative techniques.
Big bold colored banners placed in highly visible places showing the symbols and emblems of their group. Pictures of frenzied crowds wildly cheering their leaders who stand waving, smiling, showing quiet confidence, their expression saying, “you should want to be with us. We’re the powerful. We’re the influential.” It’s incredibly manipulative.
I am, of course, talking here about sorority rush. My daughter arrived on her campus a week before rush began to assume her role as banner committee co-chair. Her team worked until the wee hours every morning painting the banner for use the follow day which was then hung from her sorority house’s balcony. Mind you - there were no rush-ees on campus.
The sorority sisters gathered on the house lawn in front of the banner late each afternoon. They wore costumes in the theme of the banner – Disney, Wizard of Oz, the Circus - for the sole purpose of taking pictures to post on Instagram. They were hugging each other, cheering, horsing around while laughing and smiling gratuitously. From what I saw, their goal was ten million pictures each day. The banner was then removed, crumpled and thrown in a corner, and the process began again for the next day.
Meanwhile on Instagram, the freshman females were stalking - figuring out which sorority looked most fun, which had the prettiest girls, which one they should aspire to. This whole tableau was done by each sorority to try and get an edge. They wanted to be the “cool” sorority. The leader. They wanted the freshman girls to want them so that sorority could have the “pick of the litter,” so to speak.
It was exhausting my daughter said. And bear in mind, rush hadn’t started. The next week, when the freshman arrived, the intensity escalated.
This manipulative persuasion campaign, this carefully manufactured veneer, yielded a bumper crop of new best friends for my daughter’s sorority. It was a raging success. Bid day squeals, heard from far away, have become an Instagram meme, like 5000 car tires simultaneously skidding to a stop. It’s insanity. But, I loved hearing about it.
Those long hours, those late nights, and those friends working together forge the long-lasting friendships and memories my daughter and her friends will share. They’re the stories they’ll tell and retell throughout their life. Whenever people work together for a common goal and sacrifice to achieve it, a bond is created. My daughter told stories of the work she and her friends did. What I heard are the memories she’ll relive over and over again.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
Some tactics used by masters of propaganda back in some dark times are still in use today and remain very effective.
Leni Riefenstahl is known today for her savvy efforts at creating Nazi propaganda during World War II. She constructed images that deeply influenced the masses. And today, many organizations who are hoping to gain followers, whether they know it or not, copy her manipulative techniques.
Big bold colored banners placed in highly visible places showing the symbols and emblems of their group. Pictures of frenzied crowds wildly cheering their leaders who stand waving, smiling, showing quiet confidence, their expression saying, “you should want to be with us. We’re the powerful. We’re the influential.” It’s incredibly manipulative.
I am, of course, talking here about sorority rush. My daughter arrived on her campus a week before rush began to assume her role as banner committee co-chair. Her team worked until the wee hours every morning painting the banner for use the follow day which was then hung from her sorority house’s balcony. Mind you - there were no rush-ees on campus.
The sorority sisters gathered on the house lawn in front of the banner late each afternoon. They wore costumes in the theme of the banner – Disney, Wizard of Oz, the Circus - for the sole purpose of taking pictures to post on Instagram. They were hugging each other, cheering, horsing around while laughing and smiling gratuitously. From what I saw, their goal was ten million pictures each day. The banner was then removed, crumpled and thrown in a corner, and the process began again for the next day.
Meanwhile on Instagram, the freshman females were stalking - figuring out which sorority looked most fun, which had the prettiest girls, which one they should aspire to. This whole tableau was done by each sorority to try and get an edge. They wanted to be the “cool” sorority. The leader. They wanted the freshman girls to want them so that sorority could have the “pick of the litter,” so to speak.
It was exhausting my daughter said. And bear in mind, rush hadn’t started. The next week, when the freshman arrived, the intensity escalated.
This manipulative persuasion campaign, this carefully manufactured veneer, yielded a bumper crop of new best friends for my daughter’s sorority. It was a raging success. Bid day squeals, heard from far away, have become an Instagram meme, like 5000 car tires simultaneously skidding to a stop. It’s insanity. But, I loved hearing about it.
Those long hours, those late nights, and those friends working together forge the long-lasting friendships and memories my daughter and her friends will share. They’re the stories they’ll tell and retell throughout their life. Whenever people work together for a common goal and sacrifice to achieve it, a bond is created. My daughter told stories of the work she and her friends did. What I heard are the memories she’ll relive over and over again.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
Take no offense. It's just that simple. Just don't.
Years ago, my father-in-law hit a poor golf shot. It wasn’t what he had intended but the ball went forward and ended up not far from the pin. He said to me, “Cam, that shot is called a son-in-law.” “Oh, really?” I said, “Why is that?” “It’s called a son-in-law,” he said, “because it wasn’t exactly what I had in mind but, it’ll do.”
I have laughed at that for ten years or more. He delivered it perfectly. I remember thinking “I could choose to be offended, but I’m going to decide to not be offended and, instead, laugh. It was a joke. It was at my expense. I know the man likes me and, dang it, it was funny.” That was the first time I realized I have the choice to be offended by things or not. Being offended or not is in my control and has always been in my control and until that day, I didn’t realize that it was a decision. It was up to me. And, if you’re the type of person who offends easily, realize this – you can choose to not be offended by things and, wow, how much nicer the world becomes when you make that decision.
My wife tells a similar story. Her realization came at a bible study when the leader said about something controversial, “I’m going to choose to not be offended by it.” My wife says she remembers thinking, “Wait a minute! You mean it’s my choice to be offended or not? I have control over this?” Later she told the bible study leader that one comment changed her life. Pretty cool stuff.
The communication apps on my phone are buzzing as my kids are back in school and parents and teachers and coaches and administrators are struggling to find their routines and communicate with everyone about what needs to be done and which parent’s turn it is to do this and that and all that. Lots of quick communications. Tons of messages. Lots of messages being repeated many times over for the ones who missed them the first time around. Lots of words flying through cyberspace without the benefit of context or the benefit of tone of voice or facial expressions to help us understand the messages which can easily be lost or completely misunderstood without those things.
And in the process, some folks might interpret something incorrectly and allow themselves to be offended. Because that’s what it is – they’re allowing themselves to be offended. I see it daily – we all see it daily. Offence is a big part of the news cycle. Offence thrives in social media. You’ll have the chance to be offended many times before this day is over. Do yourself and me and the rest of the world a favor: Choose to not be offended. Just let it go. When you feel it building up, just drop it. It’s awesome.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
Friday is yet another first day of school. We will get the kids to pose on the front steps like we always do.
It’s 6:30am Wednesday morning. The house is quiet except for the non-ending, dripping rain that’s been a part of this very wet summer. In twenty-four hours, this kitchen will be buzzing. Tomorrow is the first day of school and my kids will return to their morning rituals that we’ve known so well for so many years – making lunches, packing backpacks, gathering clothes for practices, and looking for shoes that were accounted for last night but somehow, overnight, have been “stolen.”
My wife and I have taken a picture of our kids on their first day of school every year since our oldest daughter, now a college sophomore, started Kindergarten. The kids lined up and smiled for the camera. Their faces were full of excitement for their older sister as she started school. They leaned towards each other, hugging and holding hands. Tomorrow there will be only three of them in the photo – their sister has returned to college -, and they’ll wear different expressions as they’re forced to pose for the same picture yet again this year. They’ll not be leaning into each other; they’ll not be holding hands. They’ll say, “This is so stupid. Can you please hurry. We’re going to be late.” My wife and I will force them to stand there – asking for a smile is redundant – and then proudly post the picture just like parents everywhere do these days.
Looking back on the old photos, I’m sentimental about those days. We had little kid problems then. Now we have the challenges typical of teenagers. Back then we hoped their teachers would send them home with a smiley-face sticker and a good behavior report. Now we’re lucky to learn anything about their day at all. We used to hear about their friends, and they’d show off their artwork at the dinner table every night. Now we schedule family dinners four or five days in advance due to busy schedules and we have to remind the kids that they’re required to be there.
Tomorrow I’m playing pickleball with my father and his buddies right in the middle of a busy workday. I already feel guilty not working but down the road I won’t remember working on a Thursday. I will however, remember, saying, “I’m sorry, Dad, I’m just too busy” to the many times he’s already asked me to play. He’s eighty-five and tomorrow at lunch I’ll be his playing partner.
He'll show me off to his friends like he always does with my brothers and me, and he’ll tell a little bit of my story and hug me and smile. He’ll quietly think back to the days when I was much younger and wonder where time has gone and how much longer he and I have together. Just like I’ll have done tomorrow morning as I watch my kids walk from their first day of school picture, climb in the car, and head away.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
Sometimes I quickly conceive a brilliant idea and quickly make plans to execute that idea and I realize I'm smarter than I give myself credit for.
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Several years ago, I arrived at the neighborhood pool early one morning to swim laps. It was a habit I had gotten into that summer and the week before, my buddy Josh and I had talked about our workouts – how we warm up, how we keep track of laps. Stuff like that. I was going to try some of his ideas and it was early that day, but someone was already in the pool, putting in their work – head down, strong kicks, big flip turns.
I put my towel in a chair, put my googles and my pennies - which I use to count sets - in a neat little pile at the end of an open lane at the edge of the pool. I started stretching and took a look at the other swimmer. It was Josh. He has an unmistakable balding pattern that was clearly visible in the water as he headed down his lane towards me. “Oh,” I thought, “this is going to fun.”
When Josh made his flip turn, I had backed away so he wouldn’t see me. I kept stretching and by the time he was headed back towards me and got close to the end of the pool, I took four or five running steps and I launched and tucked into the tightest cannonball an unlimber, middle-aged man could tuck in to. My launch was high, my angle was perfect, my timing was perfect, and I rolled slightly backwards to hit the water on the small of my back to make the biggest explosion possible right next to him. I saw a hole in the water form around me. I saw the water rise up on either side of me and then cave in back down on top of me, and I felt that wonderful concussion one feels when the water slams down on you after executing a flawless cannonball.
It must have thrown Josh ten feet in the air. I imagined him air born, mid-stroke, staring wild-eyed through his goggles wondering what in the world had just happened. Who did this? I heard big drops of water still hitting the surface and as I came up and I was gasping for air because I already laughing.
Most events in my world take careful and deliberate planning. But every now and then I have a quick and brilliant idea and I throw together a quick and brilliant plan that works flawlessly and I surprise myself at how well I’ve done. I tell myself that I’m smarter than I give myself credit for. Usually when I rush things, things go wrong.
Josh stood up, looked at me with his mouth wide open, ripped his googles off and…it wasn’t Josh. It was someone I had never met before. Someone I didn’t know.
I just stood there. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t form a word. And I finally just muttered “Oh. Sorry,” and swam away as fast as I could and didn’t stop swimming until he had finished his workout, left the pool and I had seen him drive away. It was awful.
Quick planning did it to me again.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
It's a rediculous question I ask when getting to know another couple. Their answer tells me a lot. . .
When my wife and I meet new couples, there’s always a series of get to know you questions. “How did you two meet?” is a standard one. “Tell me about your children” is another. But a question I enjoy asking that tells me most of what I want to know about a couple is this: “Do you change your voice when you talk to your dog?” “Do you have a dog voice?”
If the couple say that they don’t have a dog, or that they only have cats, or that they don’t have a dog voice, I’m going to be on the fence about whether these people are worth getting to know. And I understand if you feel my position is an extreme rush to judgement over a silly “get to know you” question. And you’re right. It is. But there’s something about dog people and their admission to having a dog-voice that makes me think “These people are just the right kind of crazy.”
I can tell when any member of my family is talking to our dog, Lucy. Each one of us has a distinct “Lucy-voice” and no two are the same. Lucy, of course, does not care what voice anyone uses so long as it leads to attention or a scratch or food or a walk.
A well-known part of Presidential polling is that Presidents, or Presidential candidates, who have a dog get increased favorability ratings because of the dog. People tend to like Presidents who have dogs. Remember the number of times Joe Biden was pictured with his beautiful German Shephard, Champ, during his campaign? Those two were all over the media and that was no mistake. Champ got votes for Biden. According to an article on the Huffington Post, dogs make voters think, “He seems like a guy I could have a beer with.” And there’s probably some truth to that.
According to that same article, the first president in over 150 years who did not have a dog was the same guy who orders his steaks cooked well-done and then covers them in ketchup. You can guess who I’m talking about. Amazing what these preferences tell us about people, myself included.
At dinner the other night, I asked my dog voice question to a couple we’ve been friends for a while. They did not answer Yes to the dog voice question, they immediately began talking in their dog voices about their dog. They didn’t think about it, they didn’t hesitate, they instantly replied in their dog voices and begin telling us about their English bulldog, Louise, and how they talk to her and how they treat her and on and on.
My wife joined in talking about our dog, Lucy, using her dog-voice and the three of them talked for a while about their dogs, using their dog voices the whole time.
I observed. I said nothing. And I thought, “Now these people – including my wife – might just be on the other side of crazy.”
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
I say it all the time: "Turn off your lights when you leave your room!" It's yet another way I've become my father.
I heard myself say it and I could hear my father’s voice coming out of my mouth as it happened. “Please turn off your lights when you leave your bedroom,” I said to my teenage son. “There is no need to leave those lights on if there’s no one in there. Ceiling fan, too. Turn it off or I’m taking money out of your allowance.”
I remember as a child my father saying this to me. As I’d leave for my walk to school every morning, my parents would pester me to turn off the lights. They’d remind me that electricity costs money and replacing light bulbs does, too. I’d shake my head and roll my eyes and wish my parents would worry about things that really mattered, not about light bulbs and a little bit of electricity. One of my neighborhood friend’s father worked for Alabama Power back in the day and I remember the father telling me that the cost to run an one-hundred watt light bulb for a day was about fifty cents or something like that. And I’d remind my parents of that as I made a huff about turning around, going back into my bedroom, and turning off the lights.
Well, I have now become my father in yet another way. I now remind my own children, and one child in particular, to go back and turn off their lights when they leave their room. Whatever light is on, if they’re leaving their bedroom for any reasonable amount of time, turn it off. It’s a waste of money, I say, to light an empty room. Besides that, the power rates are higher in Alabama than average and the LED bulbs that I buy to replace the old bulbs cost a good bit more, too. These new LED light bulbs are impressive with how little electricity they use and how long they’ll last, by the way. It’s somewhat strange to know that at my age of fifty-three years old I’m buying light bulbs that could very well outlive me. I tell my children that these light bulbs are the only inheritance they’ll get from me so treat them well. These light bulbs will be my memory.
However, my urgings and reminders and pestering and threats do little to get my kids to turn their lights off. Nothing I do or say works. My wife reminds me that they’re teenagers and their brains are full of hormones and random thoughts and confusion and it’s just a jumble in their heads at this age. She says I need to give them a break. My reply is that there doesn’t appear to be anything at all going on in their heads these days if they’re incapable of simply remembering to turn off their lights.
Which is, I’m guessing, exactly what my father said about me about forty years ago.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just Trying to Keep It Real.
It's not uncommon for me to consider something only after I've said it aloud which is the opposite of how it should happen. It usually leads to awkward moments...
I asked a new acquaintance of mine, in a voice that was, perhaps, too loud, if his son was given the name Carson because he was conceived in a car. His wife overheard me, turned and looked at me with an expression of shock and disgust. My acquaintance however, turned to me, smiled, and started nodding. His wife then turned to him with a more severe look of shock and disgust. I could see an awkward moment brewing between them, so I told them, in a voice that was, perhaps, too loud, that I was only curious because my wife and I had initially planned to name our oldest son Plane-son. My wife overheard me turned and looked at me with an expression of shock and disgust mixed with the expression of “you and I are going to have a talk later”. And this is how my wife and I began meeting the other parents on my son’s middle school baseball team.
Have you ever had a thought that, the first time you consider it, is after its left your mouth and is “out there.” Where you say it out loud and then wonder, “Where did that came from?” And you wish that your brain would give you a moment or two to edit what you’re thinking before it escapes and you watch as expressions quickly change and you realize a boundary line has been crossed or a sense of decency has been breached. It’s a condition I live with and at least once a week I realize an inappropriate and unedited thought has introduced itself to me too late based on the expressions of those around me. It’s the reason I find myself rushing client calls. I fear saying the wrong thing before I think about it and having it spoil a work opportunity.
I’m the first to forgive anyone who says something off the cuff and it turns out inappropriate. I can relate and I assure them no offense was taken. I’m surrounded by friends who understand my malady and as many times as they’ve told me to first engage my brain before engaging my mouth, I think they’ve finally understood that there are times I’m a passenger on my own train with no idea where it’s going, only that it’s quickly and unexpectedly left the station.
And my wife is patient. Whether it’s things I’ve said, ideas I’ve had that I hold too tightly to, or whatever, she realizes that this brain of mine never intends harm or offense, but can run amok and warrants her persistent calm attention. I may dig in on an idea, but usually, in the end, I realize my ideas were rushed, and poorly thought out. Like our youngest son’s name. I fought for it but in the end I’m grateful my wife convinced me that the name Canoe-son was not a good idea.
I’m Cam Marston and I will never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
There are some parts of human evolution that have not changed. What made a kid happy a long long time ago is the same stuff that makes kids happy today. And what made a parent happy a long time ago remains unchanged, too.
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"My fifteen-year-old twins will have been at camp for nearly a month when I pick them up late next week. It will be wonderful to see them again. All my kids have loved Camp Mac and my oldest kids, who haven’t been to camp for a few years, still stay in touch with many of the friends they made there.
Listening to parents and teachers and the media talk, Camp Mac is not a place one would think young teenagers would enjoy. It has no air conditioning in the sleeping cabins – just widows with screens. No cell phones are allowed, in fact no electronics are allowed at all. A few times over their four-week term they hike into the Talladega National Forest, pitch tents, start fires, and sleep outdoors and at some point on that hike, they skinny-dip under a waterfall. During the days they play games outside, they wait in line to eat in the mess hall, they have girl-boy dance parties where, I’m told, they dance with each other. They attend patriotic flag raisings, and dress in all whites for their weekly Sunday service. According to the stereotypes, none of these things sound anything like “fun” for today’s young teenager. Kids today like comfort and instant gratification. But my kids love Camp Mac, and they’ll quietly cry when I drive them away late next week.
There’s an assumption that kids these days are different and there certainly are some differences. I remember as a kid blushing any time I even spotted a girlie magazine on a magazine rack far behind the counter at a service station. There was nothing in that magazine that any child today can’t find in twenty seconds on their cell phone. So there are certainly some differences. But, deep down, I don’t think we’ve changed all that much. As people, even as a species, we’re still very much like the way we were way way back in the past.
I’m betting one hundred years ago when a city kid went camping, they got excited about it. It was fun. And I’m betting it might have been the same two hundred years ago and the same maybe two thousand years ago. We like to think we’ve evolved and advanced as a species, but I don’t think we have. Child or adult, we’re still much the same as we’ve always been. Our tools have changed and by using these tools, we’ve changed our environment, but what made kids happy a long long long time ago is what’s making kids happy today. Not what gives them pleasure, mind you, but makes them happy. What made adults happy and sad a long long time ago is what makes adults like you and me happy and sad today, too.
I don’t know why but there’s great comfort in knowing that these things are unchanged. Like the happiness I’ll feel seeing my twins this time late next week.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real."
Father's Day is Sunday. I've done some brilliant things on Father's Day and Mother's Day. And I've made some bone-headed mistakes.
Transcript:
Father’s Day is Sunday. I hope all you fathers have a wonderful, celebratory, appreciation filled day. And I hope that you with fathers still alive offer the same yours. My newly widowed father simply wants a phone call. That plus a year’s supply of casseroles.
I remember a conversation with my mother years ago. My children were entering their teens, and I asked my mother at what age does a child become grateful for the extraordinary amount of work parents do for them. At what age will my children turn to my wife and me and say, “Thank You for all you’ve done.” And my Mom’s reply? “We’re still waiting,” which stung a bit.
Speaking of mother’s, I remember a Mother’s Day when I was a teen. My father and mother told my brothers and me that on the Sunday of Mother’s Day, Mom didn’t want much, just something to acknowledge her – something that reminds us of her, and they left it up to us. When Sunday morning came, my brothers and I had done nothing. We just never got around to it and, wow, what a mistake. I remember my mother’s oceans of tears, and I remember how upset my father was and I have never missed a Mother’s Day and, in fact, today I over-prepare for the Mother’s Days in our household.
I used to take my kids to a florist and tell each of my four kids to pick out five flowers that make them think of their mother. My wife would get a large random arrangement of twenty flowers that was not particularly attractive, but each flower had a story of why it reminded one of my children of their mother and the kids would go through each one of the flowers one by one with her.
My brothers and I have given my father fruit trees for Father’s Day for as long as I remember. None of them ever survived. And by now his camp in Clark Country would be full of mature fruit trees but the soil or the climate or something kills them every time. We’ve stopped and now just make a sincere and grateful phone call which I’ll do early Sunday morning.
Around my house this past week, my wife and children have been finding sheets of paper with a short list of Father’s Day gift ideas on it. I’ve printed about ten of them and placed them in strategic places – on toilet seats, in cereal boxes. Some items are very practical – for example a couple new pair of short pants, some are helpful – like a full detailing of my car, and some are highly aspirational, like a bottle of Macallan 18 scotch which is both crazy expensive and hard to find and I’d feel guilty that that much money was spent on me for something that will be slowly, deliciously, intentionally, and reverently consumed only on perfect days with choirs of angels singing from the heavens in the background.
It would be, though, the perfect way for my family to say “thanks, Dad.” Are you listening?
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
I feel like the world is on fire right now. The discord and the shootings won't stop. We need to change something and it must begin with you and me.
Our Memorial Day Weekend day trip to Perdido Bay to float with the family didn't turn out as we had hoped.
A doctor friend lost his practice due to an anonymous social media accusation. Awful. Absolutely awful.
Travel is picking up and that's a VERY good thing. I love dropping into new routines on the road and I love dropping into my cherished tried and true routines when I return home.
My father has a bravery that's hard to find. He's never found an experation date on a bottle or jar or jug that has intimidated him.
My teenaged son tells me nothing. Absolutely nothing. I want a little more information, but not too much. However, I've learned that he's a delight to his friend's parents and I guess that matters for something.
I'm pretty sure after God got done with all that creation business on the seventh day he sat down with a cup of Homemade Vanilla Blue Bell Ice Cream topped with fresh picked blackberries.
An old college buddy is coming through town tomorrow night and I simply can't wait to see him. I just need to make sure he and I don't tell any college stories in front of the kids.
When my image popped up on 1000 computer screens across the world, they saw a middle- aged white guy trying to teach them something. And baby, I was so careful about everything I said.
A man stood in line at the pharmacy and when he finally got to the front he asked the pharmacist, in nearly a whisper, if she had anything for hiccups.
The young engineer couldn't read the schematic. The owner of the company had no idea how to do the software update. Individually, they were helpless.
My first golf tournamanet revealed quite a few things about me and my people that I'd prefer to not acknowledge.
(This commentary disappeared off the Keepin' It Real podcasts and I'm repostiing it at the request of a friend. Originally posted 9/16/19.)
If you feel you're owed an apology from me from my antics around Mardi Gras, get in line,
Mark Twain said we all need to get out of our own little corner once in a while. I couldn't agree more.
Making friends is hard. But a panelist at a recent event offered a very simple recipe for it.
An author repeated this phrase several times and I wasn't sure I understood. Then an email arrived from a woman I hadn't spoken to in fifteen years or more.
I watched bucks chase does for four hours. I had only ever heard about it. Seeing it was something completely different.
My office roof has leaked for a year. The issue has become less about the leak and more about the person I aspire to be. Yet, what do I do?
There's a picture taking satellite the size of a tennis court orbiting earth four times further than the moon. How did they do that?
The last commentary about my wife's Uter-Pot did not go well in some circles. I called my friend in the diversity and inclusion space and asked her what I missed. She explained. I understand. Onward.
Welcome to Keepin' It Real. I hope you'll take a moment to listen to this short commentary and consider adopting these commentaries for your public radio station. They've aired on Alabama Public Radio since 2018 and have developed a loyal following. Reach out for more info.
I have a pretty good idea for how to reintroduce the dodo bird, dinosaurs, and the mastodon to society. Place them into my wife's amazing uter-pot.
NOTE: This commentary was not broadcast by Alabama Public Radio. It was, in their opinion, offensive. There's only been a few of the 150ish commentaries I've written that have been veto'd and it stings a bit each time. To hear the lessons learned as a result of this commentary, search for one called Onward We Go that is / will be posted some time the week of 12/13.
I told my sons there was a job they'd be required to do a job that is not fun but is necessary.
My wife and my discipline of our children may be quite unorthodox but it will certainly be memorable. Let's hope they won't want revenge.
When we say someone appears to be doing well, we're talking about the stuff they've collected. A life well-lived is quite different, and should be our goal.
The Great Resignation from the workplace is on. People want a better life for themselves and that's great. But I just want a pizza on Saturday night and can't get one.
Visible hard work, accepting no shortcuts, and talking with conviction and passion about your goals increases your luck surface area. It works. I'm seeing it happening around me.
Maybe I should accept help from my neighbors when the cool fall air makes me want to get out an exercise again.
We all secretly want to be discovered. Partially for the fame. Partially because it may shortcut the hard work needed to be successful.
Alabama Power removed two giant old oaks in front of my office last week and I'm sure they did it in the name of progress. But I disagree.
Companies are canceling their ad campaigns because there is no labor to fulfill the sales the ads generate. It's crazy!
A hurricane in the Gulf is going to make landfall somewhere. Destruction is inevitable. How should I feel about not wanting it to hit me and go somewhere else?
I had thought that when my wife left college coaching things would get easier. Not so. Coaching high school is strange.
I dropped my first child at Ole Miss this past weekend. I've not had one leave the nest before. It wasn't easy.
The luckiest and unluckiest thing that ever happened to me was when I caught two redfish on three casts. I was convinced I was the best fisherman in all the land.
A tribe of hunter gatherers saw another tribe for the first time. They labeled them "them" and it's been that way ever since. Which brings me to politics...
Finding things to be proud about in our nation is getting harder. They're out there, though. They're in the little, small, meaningful things that we may have overlooked in the past while we're cheering "U-S-A!" at the Olympics.
I watched as two friend tried to convince each other of their view of religion; to be right. I watched, happy I was no longer consumed with talking up arguments like this.
When a friend's father pulled me from a party onto his patio to say something to me, I was nervous. What he said has impacted me to this day.
Since January the 6th I've been working to change the tone where I can. It's become my mission.
Some people chose to spend their time vacationing in places where their senses are muted and they can relax. Not me.
I hope she learned that when she is in the position to help the vulnerable, she should step up and do so. It's a lesson that's landed on me.
Why can't I make the small behavioral changes that will make my just a little bit better? I don't know. It bothers me.
The hummingbird at my feeder arrived from Mexico or Central America. He flew over the Gulf of Mexico and is refueling at my feeder. He decided to come. It's what they do.
So many thing feel as if they just happened, like it was yesterday. Why? Because I cherish the memory or because I wish I were fully present while it was happening?
Run to trouble before it escalates. It prevents larger problems. Therefore it's a good idea to schedule arguments with your spouse.
This year my wife and I added some new blood to break up our spring break routine. Will it work?
A colleague pointed me to someone on social media who had created a huge following. What she was posting was an insight into her soul - it was her vulnerability.
Whether it's speaking in front of 14,000 eyes or a foul shot to send the team the next game, those are not butterflies. They're jet fighters. It's go time.
Walt Hayes bought a car about 3:30 in the afternoon while his daughter was getting a root canal. It was not a coincidence.
I've resigned to the fact that I've become my father. And I'm giddy at the fact that my kids will become me.
The same message landed three times in but a few days. It was enough to make me take a close look at what it was telling me.
My clients call asking me to lead a seminar designed to fix their people. It never works. What works is "you'll be OK with the world when you realize that the world is OK.'
If we could drop out of our mission focused trance we'd find a lot of things that a make us feel good.
Do you have a puppet-master and other important questions answered in the brief moments of a handshake.
The older my kids get the more my wife and I are forced to do their punishments with them.
It took me a while, but I finally found some Christmas music that I really like. My wife and kids? Not so much...
Cool air has finally arrived in south Alabama and it brings me back to a camping experience from long ago.
I wish I had reacted sooner. But did they need to arrest the woman? I mean, she had just been on fire.
My wife's Covid test came back positive. The fridge is outside next to the front door. Leave food. Don't ring the bell.
As quarantine revisits my home, I hope God whispers in my ear like he did to Abraham when Isaac was on the table. I need to hear from him soon.
With a heavy dose of snark and pith, I attack recent political news and other current events.
*Alabama Public Radio declined to air this commentary claiming it was too controversial.
I had hoped to write this commentary while waiting for an oil change on my car but the noise inside the dealership...
I recently was made aware of something I didn't know. And I didn't even know I didn't know it.
The most frustrating experience I have is when my kids come to me and say, "Dad, the internet is out again" and just stare at me...
The President's team seemed pleased to report that he registered a positive number on his IQ test. The Democrats, though, would not be outdone...
I don't think our generation is capable of solving the problems we've created that are facing today's youth. My hope is they'll embrace the challenge to do so. And it starts with them voting in November.
Over two months into this new Covid lifestyle and I still can't get used to the new behaviors. I'm struggling.
Remembering the lessons I learned when I joined a boot camp workout five years ago and the importance of those lessons today. We can shoulder the suffering together.
My priest's sermon was on how, in times of crisis, we may create false idols. "Strange," I thought as I went to fill my coffee...
The reason I've never been asked to be a high school graduation speaker is probably because it may sound something like this...
In the past two week's MawMaw's grocery order has changed. Maybe she's on to something. Maybe she knows something I should try to learn before I'm ninety-four years old.
I'm seeing lots of versions of the truth. And people's reactions to "the truth" that they prefer.
Lots of crimes being solved, lots of parents being discovered, lots of family histories exploded due to quick cheap DNA tests.
Once rare in my household, family dinners are happening a lot around here due to Covid-19. Does Pizza Hut deliver to my bedroom?
Hard to find a yardstick these days. But they're worth their weight in gold on a road trip.
My father tells the stories about catching, killing, and cleaning them. My kids order them from Shipt. Wow, how times have changed.
They spend their days and nights focusing on their kids - often fully grown men and women but the parents have nothing better to do.
Is it right that I hold these people to the same standards that I was held to back in the day?
This commentary won the State of Alabama AP Commentary of the Year for 2018
It's been a long time since I've taken my kids to school. During those rides I made them listen to music I selected. They remember those songs. I wonder if they're still listening to their father.
Normal people go bananas over a rubber chicken when I show it to the crowds from atop my Mardi Gras float.