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Making
things happen - with integrity. A weekly CyberMemo designed to keep you on task. Monday November 25, 2001 Volume III Number 48 |
FOCUS - Rockwell
Carolyn and I are recovering nicely from the Fourth Annual Extended Family Thanksgiving Feast and Sleepover. The count was thirty-one.
As we bid farewell to this tribe of moms and dads and rascals of all ages and the proud Matriarch of the clan, and the caravan of Mini-vans and SUVs made their way back down the two lane country road heading home, we all agreed, there will be a Fifth.
Our homes are scattered all over the landscape, and this long weekend provides us the opportunity to be us… gathering for an extended stay, measuring the growth of nephews and nieces, the emergence of gray hair and facial wrinkling, the chance to show-off new cars and pocket gadgets and camera gear, motorized scooters and footballs and photo-albums from the summer vacations. We set up the borrowed tent trailer and inflated the mattresses and picked straws to determine which lucky family got the neighbor’s motor-home parked beside the garden, and around a crackling out-door fire-place, joked and reminisced over days gone by and generally let the blessings of family flow.
Norman
Rockwell never did win the approval of the art world. Particularly the
critics. In fact, during his lifetime, he didn’t call himself an artist. He
was an “illustrator.” More sophisticated art enthusiasts considered Rockwell
too, well, schmaltzy. To them, his emotionally charged scenes seemed to
exploit a version of Americana that was blatantly ideal. Someone’s wish maybe,
but no one’s reality.
Rockwell’s illustrations donned the cover of the wildly successful weekly magazine, Boy’s Life, and then later the Saturday Evening Post.
America disagreed with those art critics. Apparently those guys never knew the America portrayed in Rockwell’s vast collection like the rest of us. It’s a shame. His work to this day is celebrated in local museums and collectors shops all over the country. In 1977, a year before he died at age 84, President Ford awarded him the Medal of Freedom.
Rockwell’s Thanksgiving portrait is one of my favorites. He called it “Freedom from Want.”
I celebrated my first Thanksgivings at
Grandpa and Grandma’s house in the big city. Grandpa then was younger than I
am today… he was a national sales manager for a food company. He traveled a
lot and kept a small duplex house on McVicker Avenue out there on the edge of
the great metropolis - Chicago. We have a photograph on our wall that looks
strangely reminiscent of Rockwell’s vision. There were only five (there would
eventually be seven) of us kids then, along with my uncle and my mom’s parents
and my dad’s mom. I had all four of my grandparents there around the table
with my mom and dad and brothers and sisters in Nineteen Fifty Nine, a moment
memorialized by my grandfather (rarely seen, because he took all the pictures)
and his 35mm Leica. It captured us all in our dress-up clothes around the
table for the ceremonial carving of an extra-large golden brown turkey, my dad
wielding a sharpened steel blade and oversized fork with handles carved from
elephant tusks. (I wonder what ever happened to those little treasures.) He
sat at the head of the table with a big smile and a butch cut and a white shirt
and a necktie, and all the rest of us grinning at the camera from our place
around the table, bountiful with steaming serving dishes and real unsalted
creamery butter and thick hot gravy from grandma’s kitchen… it always seemed to
me like we were posing for a Rockwell illustration destined for the cover of
the Post. (That’s me in the bow-tie.)
Rockwell’s America always suited me just fine. I believe that people should smile for the camera. Look it right in the lens. Show their best side. Go ahead and pose. Dress-up once in awhile. Use a little make-up to cover the blemishes. Maybe there is a place for the dark side to get equal time. A place for despair. For brutal honesty. Catharsis. Maybe it’s important to vent pent up anxieties. Maybe we ought to explore the dark and dank alleyways tucked away in the underworld of our psyches.
But not on Thanksgiving Day. Please.
Give me Rockwell.
* * * * * * *
There are perks to aging, I’m learning. Not that I really know age yet. I’m starting to experience the symptoms, but only starting. It’s a little too soon for me to call myself old. It’s a fact, I am experiencing some of the inevitable deterioration, but I’m also discovering some of the benefits.
With Dad gone, and still the firstborn, and now in line and awaiting the soon to be bestowed, coveted title - “Grandfather,” I’m finding that I do play a role when the family gathers.
Most of the Twenty-Two grandchildren were here for Thanksgiving and they know me as “Uncle Ken.” The oldest. I remember when my sister, the first of our clan to bear a child, told me that I would soon be an “uncle,” it felt awkward. It was a new concept. I wondered if it would ever seem natural. Now, it just rolls off the tongue. Uncle Ken. Yep, that’s me.
The first nephews and nieces to employ that phrase when addressing me are now full grown adults. Ready themselves to bear children. One of them, a home owner. A couple of them, married. Several of them, crankin’ out college degrees. The Twenty-Two’s span of years extends from adulthood down to toddler-hood, the youngest just turned two. Listen to a recitation of their names, and you’ll hear references to our ancestry, their names given as a prize to new incoming children, calling up memories of those who have gone before. It’s good and it’s right that tribute be paid in this way to those who would have reveled in such a gathering as this, but now watch smiling from their frame on the wall, their portrait a reminder of their great gifts to the family.
“Hey Uncle Ken!” I’ll hear above the buzz of conversation and it’ll be one of the Twenty-Two wanting to show me something. “Look at this!” and I’ll see a trick jump on the skateboard or a turn-about on the scooter or a football thrown high and far over the head of the receiver or watch as one puts her head underwater and holds her breath. And I’ll say something profound like, “No way!” Or “get outta town!” Or “Unbelievable!” And I’ll comment on how it simply cannot be that he or she has made such progress in life, and that it only tells me one thing… that this single accomplishment is but a sign of the great things yet to come. And I guess it sounds genuine, because, well, I really do believe it.
And I’ll ask them questions about how things work. They’ll show it to me, and then let me give it a try. I’ll stumble through it then give it back for a real live demo. The way it’s supposed to be done. They’ll out-class me and be proud of it. And so am I.
It goes on like this. For two days straight.
And given the chance, I’d do it all over again. In a heartbeat.
* * * * * * *
Three particular gifts remain with me. I’m not sure anyone else would understand. But they mean a lot to me.
James gave me flying lessons. Grayson taught me to edit videos. Ben built me a computer.
OK, so they are all computer related.
When I met my son-in-law, he knew little about those magic boxes with Intel Inside. Today, he’s cutting edge. On his own, he’s become a master of the digital age. I mentioned to him that the computer at home needed upgrading. In a single afternoon, he converted it from a horse and carriage into a flame throwing rocket ship. It’s a screamer. It can handle anything Bill Gates and his legion of programmers can throw at it. With ease.
Of course, the way things go in these days of planned obsolescence, it’ll require a return visit from Ben before long. But he’ll be there, ready with the next generation of motherboard and memory chips.
Grayson is eleven years old. I told him that Ben built me a computer powerful enough to edit my home videos. Grayson said, “Cool!” And then he took to the keyboard. He showed me how to connect up my video cam, capture the clips, line ‘em up on the story-board, insert the fades and wipes, throw in a couple of animated titles and then add the sound track. I watched him manipulate the mouse and the keyboard like it was second nature. An extension of his active, inquisitive mind. I had a few questions for him. He handled ‘em like a college prof. “No problem,” he’d say. “We can do that…” and then he’d click on an icon and voila, done. “Here,” he got out of the chair, pointing to the keyboard, “give it a try, Uncle Ken.”
“Thanks, Gray,” I said.
I had my own personal tutor.
Did I tell you he’s eleven?
James (age fourteen) knows that all my life I’ve wanted to be a pilot but never got ‘round to payin’ for the lessons and flight time. He knows I’ve taken solace in virtual flight, and that I’ve owned about every version of Microsoft Flight Simulator since edition one. I fly my computer. He took the cue, I guess, and mastered the program on his own. Whenever we get together now, we share flight stories. This weekend he asked me if I had mastered GPS yet. “GPS?” I asked. “You mean it’s on the program?”
He grinned and nodded. “Yep.” It seemed he liked knowing something I didn’t.
“What’s GPS?” someone asked, overhearing our conversation.
“Global Positioning System,” James said, matter of fact. “It’s the latest navigational method used by all the airlines. It’s even available now to private pilots.”
So we fired up the computer, and sitting on the runway of Meigs Field on Chicago’s Gold Coast in a state of the art Lear Jet, James clicked on the instrument panel and opened up the flight plan window. “Where d’ya wanna go?” he asked.
“Denver,” I suggested.
“Great,” said James. He punched in the code… and up popped the flight plan with the list of VORs from Chicago to Denver, complete with locations and frequencies. Then he showed me the Global Position for Denver International. “Punch in the number here, Uncle Ken,” he said, “and it’ll fly you there direct. When you get airborne, set your cruise speed and altitude, your rate of climb and then click on the AutoPilot… like this.” And he connected it up and there before my wide eyes was a mapping system I’d never seen. It looked like the screen of an air traffic controller and opened up a whole new level of flight. A quantum leap in flight simulation.
“That is too cool, James,” I said. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem,” he said. And he turned over the controls to his uncle. Me. As I took my place in the cock-pit, well, that would be the computer chair, he high-fived me. “Go for it,” he said.
Three gifts.
They’re still with me.
* * * * * * *
It’s Monday morning. You are a leader.
You may think this wonderful family of ours is kind of like the prime time television families from the fifties. Ozzie and Harriet. The Cleavers. Donna Reed. No problems. Text book all-American. You may be surprised to know that we have our share of challenges and struggles just like everyone else. But somehow, on Thanksgiving Day, we set those things aside. Let the good come to the surface. And when we thank God for his good gifts, we just look around the room.
I hope you can say the same. You’re back in the office again. Lookin’ at another week of meetings and deadlines and duties and obligations. With an early Thanksgiving, you’ve got a little more time than usual between now and Christmas, but already, you are realizing that one more year is coming to a close.
Norman Rockwell’s America is alive and well. Tuck away the memories of this week, and let the joy and the laughter energize you one more time.
Think about those youngsters you watched over the weekend. They are tomorrow’s leaders. They depend on your belief. Let them know you’ve got confidence… they will do well. They will make their mark.
You’ll be their greatest cheerleader.
They need you.
© Copyright Kenneth E. Kemp 2001
LeaderFOCUS is brought to you by Good Stewardship Associates
Special Thanks for Design by my good friend David Belcher, owner of Rhino Media Group and creator of WisdomGram
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