Pushing Spring

It's been a long, hard winter for most of the country and everyone seems anxious for spring to arrive ASAP. Hard winter or not, we have a history of pushing spring at our house and because the winter has been so tough, I'm willing to share my pushing spring strategies with of all of you.....for free. That's right, it will be my gift to you. All you need is a little bit of open-mindedness and some optimism.

We start pushing spring by taking our lawn mower into the shop to get serviced early. Really early. This year the date will be March 8th. That way but we can beat the rush. The guys at the lawn mower shop probably take bets or have an office pool to see who can guess the exact date we show up with our mower.  Taking your lawn mower in early to be serviced is not only good planning, but I think it helps spring to get here sooner.  It might even make the grass grow faster. You skeptics out there should try it.**

Also on the list of things to do to push spring is to haul out most of our patio furniture in early March, just in case a 70 degree day comes along. If you think about it, that furniture can sit out on the deck and patio just as easy as it sits in the basement. Besides, the early putting out of patio furniture, combined with the early servicing of the lawn mower, increases the odds that spring will arrive sooner.  Again, if you are skeptical, just try it yourself and see. **

Pots of bulbs who want sunshine.

Pots that got sunshine

And if that wasn't enough, I am also planning on hauling the 20 pots planted with spring bulbs from the garage out to our deck on the weekend of March 8th.  Every December, I plant pots with tulips, daffodils, crocus and grape hyacinth and leave them in the garage to cook, I mean cool. By the first of March, they are crying to get out into the sunshine and spring to life, gracing our deck with a splash of spring color by early April. And did you know that spring bulbs are very competitive? That's right. When the bulbs in the pots on the deck start blooming, the bulbs planted in the garden below get agitated and try to catch up.

Cleaned-up garden

You can add early garden clean-up to your list of  pushing spring strategies. Last year, we had some warmer days in late February, around 50 degrees and I  managed to tear down 5 trash cans full of Sweet Autumn vine that covers our fence.  The 5 cans went out on the curb one  for the garbage guys to haul away. I put out 3 more cans of garden waste the next week after I just had to go out and start cleaning up the flower garden. You see, putting out your yard waste early also helps spring get here sooner.  But beware, the garbage guys might take umbrage with this strategy.  There has been years when we can hear the garbage guys muttering under their breath... wondering what would possess someone to put out garden waste so early. They are skeptics of my pushing spring strategies.

These are not illegal plants

One final strategy. In mid-March  I will get the seeds started and put under the grow lights in the basement again this year.  That, along with the earlier review of seed catalogs followed by a robust order of seeds for the vegetable garden, are sure to coax spring to arrive early.

So you can see that we have a well-conceived, multiple option strategy at our house, all intended to push spring. And of course, the results speak for themselves. Sort of. Alright, maybe I've exaggerated just a bit. 

Spring will get here soon enough, this I have learned. Being a gardener teaches you that Mother Nature runs on her own time.  And on her own terms. Like so many things in life, the more you try to control it, the less control you realize you have. Mother Nature wins every round.  She is undefeated. I keep trying to out wit her. But to no avail.

Look at it this way. Even if spring arrives later than you would like, when it does arrive, your mower is ready and your garden is clean. And while your neighbors are barely waking from their long winter naps, you'll be relaxing on your patio or deck.

** The above results are not typical and are based on the writer's overly developed sense of optimism. You assume full responsibility for pulled muscles, irritated garbage guys and periods of depression that may result as a result of spring not arriving early.

An Unexpected Opportunity To Serve

There was a time in my life when I afraid of funerals. Now I've gotten used to them. Well, maybe not used to them, per se,  but I have gotten used to speaking at them. Most recently when I spoke at my brother Tony's funeral this week in San Diego.

You might be wondering how someone gets into the funeral speaking circuit.  Or you might be wondering why someone who isn't a minister or priest would volunteer for such a role. I was thinking about both of those questions on Tuesday morning when I put the final touches on the words I was going to share in a few hours. I was beginning to wish I hadn't accepted the role. It would be easier to just sit in the congregation with everyone else. This one was going to be hard.

I'm one of the few people, it seems, who doesn't have the # 1 fear of most adults, the fear of public speaking. Whether extemporaneously or in a prepared speech, speaking in front of groups has always been easy for me. It's how I've made my living much of the time. That being said, there is nothing easy about speaking at the funeral of a loved one. Walking through your own grief while attempting to eulogize a brother or parent can be a little dicey.

Here's a sampling of the funerals I've spoken at:

• At my brother-in-law's service in 1993, where I spoke without preparation along with several others.
• When my wife's mother died two weeks after we were married in 1997, and she asked me to represent her family and give the eulogy.
• In 2002, I delivered the eulogy at my dad's services, ironically at the same mortuary where my brother's visitation was held this week. That was a tough one to deliver.
• When our daughter-in-law passed away from lupus in 2010, my step-son Mike asked me to facilitate her services which were held outdoors in El Cajon, CA. It was the least I could do.
• Same thing at my sister Katie's services which were held at a mortuary in Queens, NY in 2011. I facilitated the service and delivered the eulogy.

And I probably would have done more of the same when our mother passed in 2012, except she didn't have any services. That's another story for another day.

In all those situations, there were points in the deliver where I was almost overcome by emotion, choking back tears and yet, pressing ahead.  I was always able to hold it together enough to deliver the message intended to honor the lost loved one and comfort those who were sitting in front of me.  And when family and friends tell you afterwards that your words touched them and helped them through their grief, I've experienced a feeling of gratitude and usefulness that is deeply meaningful.

When we arrived in San Diego last weekend, I was expecting to sit this one out. Tony was having a Catholic mass at his home parish and everything was planned. But when Tony's wife mentioned that there was an opportunity for someone to speak for about 5 minutes just before the closing of the Mass, and would I be interested, I'd said yes. Again. It was least I could do for her. And for my brother.

As soon as I said "yes", my mind immediately began to sketch out the message, even before I sat down to write it out. And for the next day a half, I was writing his eulogy in my mind, in between visiting with family, dining out and going for a run in the beautiful San Diego weather. Finally, I got my Ipad out and began to write out the 5 minute message I was going to deliver.

At Tony's visitation on Monday afternoon, I met the woman who was coordinating the services.  She reminded me that 5 minutes was enough time and offered a piece of advice. "No fishing stories." Apparently some eulogizers have told fishing stories. I politely thanked her and said I would keep my words in the right context.

Tony's funeral was held in a modern Catholic church where the altar is open and slightly elevated. His parish priest  who led the Mass had a warm and comforting manner.  Just after communion, he introduced me as the family member who was going to share some words about Tony.

With Ipad in hand, I stood up from my pew and immediately could feel the emotion welling up inside me. Oh boy, breathe deep. Breathe. I noticed that each of the lay people who had delivered readings, paused momentarily at the edge of the altar and bowed their head before stepping up to the lectern. I did the same and took another deep breath. Then I calmly (on the outside) stepped up to the lectern, opened my Ipad where my words were written, and delivered the eulogy.

I think I spoke for about 5 minutes, maybe a little more. The hardest part was the last 4 sentences.

"So rest in peace, little brother. You lived a blessed life. You made us all better people. And your faith will live on inside all of us."

 I lost count of the people who told me afterwards how much my words meant to them. Several asked me what I did for a living. Most meaningful were those who said I captured the essence of who Tony was. And the words of gratitude from Tony's wife, Patti, and daughter Laura, will stay with me forever.

 The women who told me "no fishing stories" caught me outside the church and said it was the best eulogy she'd ever heard delivered in that church.  Good thing Tony didn't love fishing, I thought.

It was never my intention to be a funeral speaker. It is not my intention to find another funeral to speak at. But you never know when an opportunity to be of service will present itself. And if that opportunity presents itself, I'll take a deep breath and step up to the podium. It's the least I can do for those I love and who love me back. And it's the least I can do as an expression of gratitude for the gifts I've been  given

          

I've done enough.....but I'm not finished.

I had a great week of work last week. And it almost spoiled things for me.

You see, I'd much rather have had a crappy week at work so I could justify my desire to retire from  full-time work at the end of this year-like my wife, who is doing her her victory lap after nearly 26 years at her current, and soon to be ex, job.

At the of 2014, she  gets to retire and sail into her golden years by starting her day with coffee, the paper and no time clock telling her to get in the car and hit the road, there's work to be done.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I probably need to provide a little more information here.

She gets to retire because she's earned it...in more ways than one. First off, she's turning 65 and will qualify for Medicare and Social Security, which she's paid into for over 45 years. Second, she's commuted an hour each way the past 10 years after we moved here for my job and I've never heard a peep of self pity out of her.

But most importantly, she's ready. She's leaving nothing behind on the shop floor. She's maxed out her time and talents at her company and it's time to pass the baton. Enough said.

I, on the other hand, don't turn 65 until 2017 so there's a slight problem with paying for health care if I don't have a full-time job. But even if I could find a reasonable solution to that dilemma, the stock market closed today at 2014 lows and our bronze years (forget the golden years) may turn into rust years if things continue in this direction. Every month I keep working reduces the likelihood that we don't get put out into the street until at least....uh, around 75 years of age.

So I'm working on accepting the idea that I will have 3 more years of full-time work while my lovely spouse gets to sleep in, eat bon-bons and watch soap operas. Except without a poodle on her lap since we have a beagle. 

OK, more full disclosure here. She has never been one to sit around and do nothing- job or no job. Even with her commute and full-time job, she manages to keep our house running like a top, including making home cooked meals most nights of the week, and then some. So I would expect that bon-bons and soap operas will give way to refined household management. She is also is talking about getting a part-time job doing something to keep her engaged while I trudge off to the salt mines.

Truth be told, I've done enough work for this lifetime. And I've not gotten cheated. Starting at age 16 at McDonalds, teaching music for 10 years, working as a counselor, traveling the country as a management consultant...I've had a great ride. I've done enough, but I'm not finished. Not just yet.

And I had a really good week last week. Lots of conversations with some our best, brightest young leaders. Spending 2 hours facilitating a session with our executive team. Some good hallway yaks and informal chats. Nothing negative. All positive and productive. 

I'd call it a dream week but I'm a little cynical of "dream" statements. "Dream house!" "Dream vacation!" "Dream job!"  That sounds  game-showy to me. "What's behind door #3, Bob?" "A work week of your dreams!"

But I'd take "Excellent week!" Useful week!" "Fun week!" And I did.

So where does that leave me? For starters, I'm going to applaud and celebrate my wife's victory lap and be as supportive as I can as she transitions to her new lifestyle.

And I'm not going to get too far ahead of myself when it comes to surveying the wreckage of my  future.

I'm going to look forward to having more good weeks,. Heck, I may even get a surprise and have a "dream week".

And I'll mutter the mantra "I've done enough, but I'm not finished" under my breath as often as I need to.

So if you will excuse me, I've got some muttering to do.

Even Grace, the beagle, is planning her retirement.

Accepting Acceptance

I pulled myself out of bed this morning at 4:57 just before the alarm was set to go off. Grace had waken me several times during the night by sitting up, looking around, then finding another position to curl up in as she resumed her slumber. I kept waiting for her to jump out of the bed and wander over the sliding door, where she might mitt on the vertical blinds, her way of telling me she wants to go out.

Today was an exercise day, running to be exact. And because I'm meeting the guys at 6 PM for pizza followed by a meeting, I'm up to run at 6 AM. In the basement. On a treadmill. I hate the treadmill. 

OK, maybe hate may is too strong of a word, after all,  I've logged over 6,000 miles on that machine since 2003.  Say nothing for the miles I've run in exercise rooms of hotels, those 12 years I traveled for Gallup. All this coming from a guy who said he'd never run on a treadmill. Period. Foolish me.

But before I lumbered down the basement steps, I sat and read the paper and enjoyed a cup of coffee.   

That took me an hour so now it's 6 am and I'm on the machine, with CNN blaring and the close caption scrolling  (I need both), and I'm telling myself, "just get the first mile in and you can go from there." I might as well have been Richard Gere in "An Officer and  a Gentleman" doing push-ups while Lou Gosset screams at him, "You can quit anytime you want, Mayo!"

Maybe it's that I've had a cold/sinus thing that has lingered for over 2 weeks now or that it's dark and cold outside and I'd really rather run outdoors, or that ....no, it's really none of those things. It's because I'm lacking acceptance right now. I want things, some things, not everything, to be different. I want what I want when I want it. And that's not acceptance.

Sure, I'd feel better if I could run after work instead of before work, but I'm committed to my meeting and the pizza thing. So I get up early. And sure, if it was April or May, I'd be out enjoying the fresh spring air at 6 am. And sure, if I had my own running track in the McMansion I don't own, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Or whatever it is that we are doing now.

But wait, there's more. If I didn't still have to go work everyday, I could get up later and linger over coffee and the newspaper then run In the daylight at 9am. And take my time. Or take Grace the beagle for walk like I see my retired friends on Facebook doing. It just isn't fair.

And then there is the issue of retirement. While Georgette is doing her last lap this year, my retirement isn't scheduled for at least 4 more years. Surely there has to be a plan B that I could conjure up that would free me from the burden of having to be a professional for 4 more years. All my guy friends retired years ago, some in their late 50's. 

So what does all this have to do with acceptance anyway, you might be asking. Acceptance, for me anyway, starts with accepting reality. Just the facts, ma'am. I can't change the fact that my body isn't as limber or resilient as it was when I was 30. 61 isn't the new 41 either so don't even try to go down that path. I need more rest and more recovery time between long runs. And running at the same intensity I did 34 years ago would risk injury. So while that's something I could try, it's just not a good idea.

And I can't change the fact that I did nothing to start planing for retirement until I was into my 40's  other than to have a job and pay into social security.

After accepting reality, acceptance means spending my time and energy on solutions and POSITIVE things I can control. Note the emphasis on the word positive. Spending time on strategies to get even isn't acceptance. Trying to change another person isn't acceptance. Giving up isn't acceptance, nor is "throwing the baby out with the bath water." Modifying my exercise plan based on reality is acceptance. Giving up exercise and feeling sorry for myself is not acceptance.

Here are a couple of other things acceptance isn't:

Acceptance doesn't mean that what I find unacceptable  is right or fair or just.

Acceptance doesn't mean I would wish whatever is troubling me on my worst enemy.

Acceptance almost never means that I like or approve of what my reality is.

Finally, staring at or obsessing on something I find unacceptable, be it person, place or thing, is not an act of acceptance.

On a practical level, I've learned that the best way for me to being the process of acceptance is to talk about whatever with another person I trust. Someone who also knows how to practice acceptance. Someone who won't let me wallow, but will listen and then redirect me. Then it's up to me to take the action that leads to acceptance.

I've also learned that to reach acceptance on some things takes a while and isn't something I do once and I'm done.

It's early in the New Year and I've already been given several situations to work on. I guess I'll have to accept that acceptance is going to be part of of my life from here on out.

There's hope though- it's supposed to be 50 degrees tomorrow. Maybe I can skip the treadmill and run outside.

I'll leave you with the prayer of acceptance:

"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

And a sense of humor for when I don't."

Which is like everyday.

OK,  I'll stop talking now.

Another New Year's Gig

At the stroke of midnight, I'll be playing the tenor saxophone in a big band and we'll be playing a swing arrangement of Auld Lang's Syne. Sound like fun? It is. Making music is something I've been blessed to be able to do since....1963, I think. That's when I started to learn the saxophone, an old Conn alto that my Dad rented from Miller Music in Des Moines, Iowa. And the rest is history, my musical history, at least.

Pep Band gig, 1971. I'm in the middle
front row with the groovy neckstrap.

It dawned on me the other day that I've been playing the saxophone for 50 years in 2013. And in those 50 years I've had a litany of fun, interesting, challenging, ordinary, weird and memorable gigs.  

In junior high, I organized a combo that was called the "Burnished Brass" and we played a lot of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass songs. Our claim to fame was playing for Nelson Rockefeller in 1968 at the Iowa State Fair when he was running for president. That was a cool gig.

With few exceptions, for most of the last 50 years I've had a gig to look forward to. A concert band gig, a Dixieland gig, a rock n' soul band gig and like tonight, a big band jazz gig. I've played in glorious auditoriums, on football fields and baseball stadiums, in tawdry bars and smoke-filled nightclubs and in hotel ballrooms. In the Skybox suites at Memorial Stadium in Lincoln, NE, in city parks, Elks Clubs, Moose Lodges, Legion clubs, and small town ballrooms in the middle of nowhere. I played the Surf Ballroom in Clear Lake, Iowa where Buddy Holly played his last gig. I've played at weddings, funerals, birthday parties, dances, and at pretenous county club and high society affairs. I've played for pay and I've played for free.

I've played Glenn Miller's "In the Mood" so many times I can play it in my sleep. At an Elks Club gig years ago, a crusty old tenor player sitting next to me named Tuffy Epstein muttered under his breath as the crowd squealed with delight when this song was announced, "I hate this F'ing song". That pretty much sums up how I feel about that tune.

Same thing goes for Mustang Sally or Midnight Hour when I played in an oldies band a few years back. These are classic songs until you've played them one too many times in front of an inebriated crowd where the drunk guy tries to convince you that "you play better than Clarence Clemmons" as you head for your car.

But for everyone of those comical, routine and nonchalant experiences,there have been  grand and glorious musical moments. Playing Carmen Dragon's classic arrangement of "America the Beautful" never gets old. Nor does Percy Graingers's "Irish Tune from Couny Derry", which never fails to give me goosebumps.

Swingtones Big Band, mid 1990"s
I'm the second from the left in the front row.

Tonight, I'll be playing in an 18 piece big band at an event in downtown Omaha from 9:30 to midnight. I've played with this group, the Swingtones, since 1988. These are old friends as well as fellow musicians. The crowd will be dancing to the sounds of "Fly Me To the Moon", "Pennies from Heaven" and "Moonlight Serenade". There will be a waltz or two, a polka, a samba, even "The Bunny Hop".

Truth be told, there is a part of me that would just like to stay home with Georgette and Grace to bring in the New Year in a quiet, warm and serene manner. But I'm also aware that these gigs won't last forever. Someday I will play no more. Whenever and however that last gig comes to be, I will have had a marvelous ride through this musical life of mine, playing the saxophone and looking forward to the next gig.

So if you are still up at 11:55 pm, CST, hum a few choruses of "In the Mood" as we play that song, one  more time. And as I usher in my 51st year of playing the saxophone.

Unless of course, you hate that F'ing song.

Happy New Year and have a blessed 2014.

Swingtones at Stinson Park, 2012

Remembering Katie

This picture was taken on Christmas Eve, 1957 in Oskaloosa, Iowa. From the left is Tony, Shelley, Joe and me.

Like so many of those earliest Christmases, I don't remember much about this one. What I do remember is my Dad coming home that evening  and telling us we had a new baby sister. Katie, who given name was Katherine Mary, was the fifth of what was to be 8 children in my family of origin. She was our Christmas Eve baby, a gift that I'm sure we older children ever appreciated as much as we could have. I'm quite sure I was more captivated by the stethoscope from the toy doctors kit I received than by the arrival of another sibling.

What I wouldn't give to have another Christmas with Katie. She left us much too soon when she passed away in November of 2011.  The innocence and simplicity portrayed in this black and white snapshot reminds me of the joy that Christmas brought to our young lives before life got serious...before we all had to grow up too soon.

As the 5th child out of 8, I'm sure Katie had a different version of what it was like to grow up in a large, somewhat chaotic family,  than I did. I remember her being the ringleader of the 3 siblings that followed her.  She was also the ringleader for numerous stray neighborhood kids and stray neighborhood cats of the feline variety. She had a unique way of getting people to do things for her.

Katie spent most of her career in the restaurant industry, the last 25 of it in Manhattan, New York. To see her in action in the small restaurant she managed down in the Cooper Square area of lower Manahattan was a sight to behold. Speaking a blended combination of Midwest English and whatever language one of her cooks, waiters or other staff spoke was part comedy and part genius. There were times when I think she just made words up and relied on her gestures and inflections to do the rest. Either way, she was a master manager or master manipulator, depending on your personal point of view.

There was the night in the late 80's when my brother Joe and I were visiting my older sister, Shelley,  who lived in Park Slope, Brooklyn.  We had spent the day wandering around Manhattan ending up in Katie's restaurant for the evening. After a late evening of drinking and dining, we needed to get back to Brooklyn. It was around 2am so instead of taking the subway, Katie said she would hail us a taxi. It wasn't long after we crossed the East River that I realized we were lost. Katie, who rarely left Manhattan, had given the cab driver the wrong directions and we were smack dab in the middle of an area we had no business being in. The driver, obviously new to driving a taxi, was getting nervous and so were we. Finally a deliver driver pulled up next us at a red light and gave us directions that sent us in the right direction and eased our panic. What should have been a $20.00 cab fare ended up costing us about $50.00. We never told Katie.

Katie eventually went to work for an Itialian restaurant on the Upper East side as the office manager. She met and married Ivan and they moved to Queens. They adopted a son, Andres, from Columbia, South America, Ivan's home country and life seemed to be going well. And it did for a while.

But as life has a way of doing, what seems to be the good life can slowly and insidiously turn into a tragic life. Katie actively struggled alcoholism, at least the last 10 years of her life. Her first treatment was in 2002, I think. She knew I was sober and every now and then she would reach out to me for a listening ear. In 2010, she entered another treatment program, having lost her job and was separated for her husband. She struggled without work and with limited income. But in May of 2011, she sent me an e-mail that had "Look what happened the otherday on  my journey through life" in the subject line. In the message was a picture of a cake presented to her by her AA sponsor on her one-year sobriety birthday. The cake had the words "Miracles Happen" written on it.

I can't begin to describe the joy and elation I felt for her when I read that e-mail. I called her and we had a good conversation and she sounded really good for the first time in a long time.

The summer passed and we didn't talk again for a while. I just assumed everything was alright. I was wrong. On the last Sunday in October, a Sunday, Katie called me. She had relapsed in August and ended up in the hospital again, but had a few days or weeks of sobriety, I'm not really sure. I listened and encouraged her to pick up where she left off, that she had earned a year on we before and that she could do it again. And we talked a lot about her son, Andres, who was now a sophomore at Stanford. Oh, how proud she was of her son.  That was the last time I spoke with her. 

Katie passed away alone in her apartment sometime during the next weekend. And when I led her funeral service held at an. old neighborhood funeral home in Queens later that week, I heard myself telling those who had gathered that has she had simply run out of time.  

The truth is there Is nothing simple about alcoholism and there wasn't much simple about Katie's life.

Her death haunts me from time to time, not only because she was the first sibling we lost, but because she and I shared a common disease with a common solution. "But for the Grace of God, there go I" couldn't ring truer for Katie and I. Her passing has only strengthened my resolve to achieve my only remaining life wish-to die sober.

So on this Christmas Eve of 2013, I will ponder and remember my sister Katie, who left us too soon and who left behind a wonderfully gifted and kind son, Andres, who I know misses her immensely.

My Name is Dan and I'm an.......

Got your attention? This probably isn't headed where you think it is. But I hope it will give you  something to think about. It did me.

I attended a holiday function earlier in the week for a professional organization I belong to. It's a good group of folks who work on the field of organizational development, which is a fancy term for what some would consider a "non-job". Our guest speaker was a storyteller and she was delightful. But that's not what this story is about.

Before the storyteller was introduced and after we had done the perfunctory mingling and small talk while noshing on the over-sized breakfast burritos, we went around the room and introduced ourselves. You know the drill- your name, where you work and what your job title is. Seems simple enough. Been there done that.

If you've been through one of  these rituals before you probably have noticed that some people, in my humble opinion, have a tone that some might describe as...shall we say...pretentious. Admit it, you've thought that, haven't you. "I'm the executive director of people strategy, human capital and corporate jargon maximization".  "I'm the project lead for enterprise agility, nimbleness and silly talk". No wonder people think we have "non-jobs". 

Then  there is the person who tries too hard to be cute or make their job title sound cutting edge. "I'm the zen master for creative energy and people realization" Stop it. I'm going to barf if you keep it up.

I'm happy to say that no one in this group went that far over the edge. Most simply repeated what their company had titled them. But when it came time for me to introduce myself, I said, "Dan Kingkade, Blah-blah-blah company. I'm am encourager." Said it pretty straight forward...I didn't even milk it for a laugh.

A few people chuckled. A few nodded in approval. And I'm sure a few probably thought "He's being pretentious" or "He's trying too hard". Or maybe they thought, "That guy is annoying". But I was serious about what I said. "I'm an encourager."

Here is a list of the job titles I've had in my lifetime: Crew member, corn detassler, gas station attendant, stockroom clerk, band director, department manager, human resource manager, manager of training and development, employee assistance counselor, consultant, guest speaker, learning consultant, senior learning consultant, organizational development manager.....and there are more that I haven't listed but you get the picture. I've had lots of jobs and lots of titles. And in just a few more years, I will step away from the world of fancy titles and job descriptions-the ones that someone else decides for you.

I've been really fortunate that my talents and strengths lie in the area of working with people. The jobs I've had have always put me in situations where I've been able to be helpful to others, sometimes in  ways that weren't on my job description or in my job title. In the last couple of months, I've had several people describe me a mentor and I find myself seeking out even more situations where I can be encouraging to others. 

Just before I wrote this, I left a young man who I mentor weekly at a local high school. I'm having lunch today with a friend I've known for 23 years. Yesterday afternoon, I sat and listened to one of our nurse managers who is struggling with her team. It's a good gig.

So when the opportunity came to share  my job title, I picked the one that fit who I am and who I will continue to strive to be-with or without a job. "I'm an encourager"

Someone I know was laid off from her job this week, after 20 years of service. I hope that when she thinks about what she does next, she is able to continue to do what she does best, with or without a job title or job description.