DOING THE RIGHT THING AT THE RIGHT TIME FOR THE RIGHT REASON …

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She was so tiny. And she had the kind of cute that could melt the coldest steel in seconds. My heart doubled in size to take her in and keep her safe and protected. She was my little girl and I was her daddy.

And then she was in high school. (Yeah, I know, right?)

I liked to tell myself that she still needed my protection, but we had raised her to be strong and independent and she practiced what we preached. She had brains and beauty and was equally able to run with the best of crowds as well as the worst of crowds, and still remain true to herself.

And then the Vice Principal called. I needed to go down to the school because “my little girl” had been in a fight with some guy in the school cafeteria and she was facing expulsion for violating the zero tolerance rule about violence.

When I walked into the Vice Principal’s office, he looked as stern and no-nonsense as she did firm and no-bullsh*t. He explained that she had picked a fight with some kid in the lunch room. She half-whispered that that was not what happened.

She explained that one of the school’s bullies was picking on some defenseless kid. She stepped in the middle of it and told him to stop. He made the mistake of trying to shove her out of the way. She shoved back. Apparently with enough force that he went head over heels over the table.

We looked at each other, eye-to-eye and heart-to-heart.

“Did you start the fight?” I asked.

“No, dad,” she said, “I just ended it.”

“Okay. I believe you.”

I looked at the Vice Principal and flatly told him that I would not allow her to be expelled from school for defending some kid who was being bullied and shoving back at the bully who had tried to shove her. She had been raised to protect herself and others, when necessary, and that she had done the right thing.

He feebly attempted to argue the point, as if he too believed she was telling the truth, but the zero tolerance rule had to be enforced, blah, blah, blah.

He lost the argument.

She stayed in school.

And I drove back home, secretly admiring her strength and conviction to doing the right thing.

That’s my girl.

FROM CUDDLY TO UGLY IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE …

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“This is Private FrooFroo,” the drill sergeant said, and he held up the cutest little white bunny with adorable pink eyes I had ever seen. “Pay careful attention because Private FrooFroo may one day save your life.”

In the next blink of an eye, Private FrooFroo was dead, his neck broken by a quick snap of the drill sergeant’s wrist. The training instructor then proceeded to show us how to skin the rabbit to effectively make a fur-lined glove, and how to prepare the rabbit for eating.

For my less-steeled readers, I understand that this post may seem inappropriate if not cruel in some ways. For those who have been through military or survival training, it was just another lesson we needed to learn.

I will admit that I was particularly bothered by this training exercise. I questioned why it was necessary to use a cute, white bunny and to name it “FrooFroo.”

I never asked the question, of course, because Special Forces trainees do not use language like “cutest little white bunny ever.”

That training was many years ago, and yet, I remember it with the clarity as if it had happened yesterday. And while I’ve never had reason to use that lesson in real life, I wonder if I would still remember it as well if it had been done with some nondescript brown rabbit. Somehow, I don’t think so.

Sometimes life’s lessons are ugly and sometimes they’re cute and cuddly. What ultimately matters is that we learn from them.

WHAT TO DO WHEN LIFE HANDS YOU ROTTEN LEMONS …

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It was supposed to be our regular Friday lunch together. We’d been doing it for years. Because we each had strengths and weaknesses that the other did not, we sort of considered each other mentors, able to advise the other whenever we hit an unfamiliar hurdle. Nothing ever earth-shattering or life-changing, but we served as good sounding boards for each other and it helped as we worked upward in our corporate struggles.

The past months, however, had been mostly fun lunches. Neither of us had experienced any real problems we needed counsel for and so the lighter side of our friendship had the opportunity to grow. We truly looked forward to our end of the week updates as an oasis from the hustle and bustle of high-stakes business.

But last Friday, I was taken aback by my visibly shaken friend as he sat down at our table. Gone was his usual smile and confidence and in its place was confusion and fear.

“Are you okay, Steve?” I asked, genuinely concerned for him.

“No, I’m not,” he said. “I’ve just been downsized out of my job and I don’t know what to do. What do I do? I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Our usual lunch hour became three hours. And while I did offer the usual reassurances, I tried mostly to be a great listener. Nonetheless, he left still shaken and afraid, although slightly less so. We agreed to meet Monday morning for coffee.

I thought a lot about what I could say when again we meet. The internet is laden with thousands of tips and websites full of advice, and I’m sure Steve will do more than his share of searching for “what to do.”

So for all the “Steves” out there who find themselves without bearing, lost in the sandstorm of a life turned upside down by circumstances beyond their control, I respectfully offer the following:

First. Be Still and Breathe. Too many times, when people face a crisis they become frantic and when that happens, the ability to think clearly and powerfully becomes dulled. They focus too much on the problem and the possible solutions become lost in muddled worries. Stop. Do nothing. Breathe deeply. Allow clarity to re-assert itself in your life.

Second. Be Grateful. Yes, I know. It’s hard to feel grateful when life has just kicked you hard in the gut and laid you on your back, but do it anyway. Your circumstances notwithstanding, you have much to be grateful for. Figure out what it is, big or small, and acknowledge it. There is something powerful that happens when we practice appreciation for the people, places and things in our life.

Third. Write Out A Plan. Assess and evaluate what you have and what you need. Do this as un-emotionally as possible. Gather your information, count the cost and put together the best written plan you can for going forward.

Fourth. Listen Wisely. Seek the counsel of individuals you respect and whose wisdom has shown their advice to be fruitful. You can find such individuals in real life, in books or tapes/CDs/MP3s/DVDs/etc.

Fifth. Laugh. Tha-a-at’s right. Laugh. It’s good for the soul. It’s good for the body. It’s good for the mind. It’s good for your family and friends to hear you laugh. Laughter truly is good medicine and can lighten a burden more than you may initially think.

Sixth. Move. The last thing you want to do is become immobile. Move your body. Move your mind. Move your plan. Inactivity breeds stagnation, worry and depression. Activity leads to strength, confidence and success.

Seventh. Rest. At the end of the day, as at the beginning, you want to be still and breathe. Allow what went right to restore you and be grateful for it. Allow what went wrong to pass from you. The day is done, so be done with the day.

HEY BUDDY, GOT A CRAYON I CAN BORROW …

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As a writer, I have used many, many pens over the years. And occasionally I get asked, as I was today, what the “best” pen is.

From plastic stick pens that cost pennies to gold-plated and jeweled fountain pens that cost thousands, I’ve loved and loathed more than the average man’s share.

Bic, Mont Blanc, Fisher, Cross, Sheaffer, Parker, Pilot, Rotring, Waterman, Krone, and the list goes on. Pens that only write right-side up to others that can write upside-down. From permanent, to erasable, to invisible inks, they all have their proper time, place and use. Thin barrels, thick barrels, barrels with finger rings and some that are sans barrel, it all depends.

As to what the “best” pen is, the answer is almost as varied as the pens themselves. Context always plays an important part in the answer. Are you looking for the best cheap pen or the best gift pen? Is it a “first pen” for a kid, or a “last pen” for a 50-year corporate executive? Do you need it to write underwater or out in space? Do you want to make an impression or mark an expression?

Whatever the “best” is, it is rarely as objective as it is subjective. And there is no one “best” answer.

Except, perhaps, for this.

The best pen is that one which works best for the writer at that moment. Even if it’s a sharp stone making a mark on a cave wall.

YOU CANNOT DREAM YOURSELF INTO A CHARACTER. YOU MUST HAMMER AND FORGE YOURSELF INTO ONE. Henry David Thoreau

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It was an old upright Grand piano. About sixty years old and rather plain, it had particularly good, clean sound. All the keys played smoothly and the pedals worked flawlessly. The wood needed to be conditioned, but that was a small concern. The price was almost a steal at $35 and they were willing to deliver it for another $20. It would look good in the living room where the acoustics were the best: old-world plaster walls and hardwood floors.

I had thoughts that once the piano arrived, I would begin playing as regularly as I did as a child and maybe even begin composing again.

I didn’t.

Perhaps I had been singing and songwriting too many years with the guitar or maybe I simply lacked the self-discipline to practice the way I did as a kid, but in either event the piano didn’t get a lot of workouts. At least not by me.

My daughter, on the other hand, seemed truly fascinated by it.

She started just plinking and plunking. Eventually figuring out how the keys worked, she then graduated from plinking and plunking to actually playing simple songs. I showed her how to read sheet music, but I think she might have figured that out on her own as well.

She practiced completely on her own. Sometimes playing the same song over and over and over and over and … yes, over and over some more. I vaguely remember yelling at her once to stop playing so much because I “couldn’t take it any more” and I think I really hurt her feelings. I’m sure I apologized to her later, after the damage had already been done, but fortunately it didn’t stop her from continuing to practice and play.

Within a year, she was playing so well that she was being asked to play accompaniment with singers at her school. From classical to contemporary, she plays with accomplishment and soul, and without ever having taken a formal lesson.

She was one those gifted few who literally taught herself to play music, and she did so through sheer determination, practice and perseverance. Hour after and hour, day after day, week after week, month after month.

Frankly, I don’t know how that young girl had such tenacity, especially after her dad was such a jerk to yell at her about it, but it has indeed served her well through the years. And I don’t know if I ever told her how proud I am of her accomplishment, but if not, let me do so now publicly.

Well done, Griz, well done.

IF YOU DON’T WANNA, DO YOU HAFTA …

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“I don’t get it,” she said rather angrily. “Why would anyone want to hire someone like her?”

I looked up from my cup of coffee to see who was speaking.

Her blaze-orange hair, tousled and spiked, was the first thing I noticed. Followed by her black lipstick, the three rings pierced through her lower lip, and the dark purple t-shirt emblazoned with the words, “if i don’t wanna, i don’t hafta.”

“I mean,” she continued, “she’s just not real. She’s like, all perfect and all that and like not a hair is out of place. And like you can’t even tell if she’s like wearing makeup or maybe not, I can’t even tell, you know? I mean, who’s like that, you know? Nobody I know, you know? And she talks like, you know, she says, ‘Oh I’m so grateful for this opportunity’ and stuff and like she sounds like my mom or something.”

Because what manager wants a clean, appropriately-dressed, well-spoken and enthusiastic employee.

THE NEXT TIME YOUR DOG POOPS, THINK ABOUT THIS …

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She pulled into the parking space as neat and clean as her new silver metallic, 2010 Volvo XC70 T6. She opened the hatchback to let her dogs out to play in the dog park. Two strong-looking German Shepherds, who immediately jumped out then sat on the pavement and waited for her command. She gathered some things to take with her into the dog park, including the requisite plastic bags to pick up any dog poop that her companions were likely to deposit.

She closed the hatchback and I couldn’t help notice the three bumper stickers that she had neatly placed on it.

One said, “Recycle.” The middle one said, “Simplify.” The third one said, “Recycle Again.”

As she walked toward the gate, she simply said, “Adolph, Wolfgang, come.” And they did, quickly and quietly. They followed her inside and stayed with her as she walked to a bench to sit. As she sat, so did they. These were some very well-trained dogs.

Finally, she said, “Adolph, Wolfgang … play,” and they were immediately off and running.

I watched as the dogs did their dog park thing for about ten minutes. Then I saw something I’ve never seen before.

One of her dogs assumed the pooping posture (and yes, I have seen that before). He did what he needed to do and then, (and here’s the part I hadn’t seen before), barked twice and sat next to his deposit.

“Are you kidding me?” I thought. Who the heck trains their dogs to tell you when they’ve pooped and then wait next to it so you know exactly where to pick it up?

She walked over to the dog, said, “Good boy, Adolph,” and dutifully picked up his deposit. She tied the plastic bag well and put it in the park’s garbage can.

But, wai-i-it a minute. This is a young lady who apparently believes in recycling so much she put two bumper stickers on her new and expensive car. She proclaims that we need to, not just recycle, but to recycle again. But she just put biodegradable dog poop into a non-biodegradable plastic bag, then put that bag into a regular garbage can which will ultimately end up compacted and dumped into a landfill where it will, that's right … not degrade.

Wait. What?

Dog poop, which is a biodegradable waste product and can be safely flushed down a toilet the same as human waste, was being put into a plastic bag to be preserved for a thousand years buried in a landfill somewhere.

And then the numbers started building up. An average German Shepherd weighs about 75 pounds and produces about 500 pounds of waste per year. She owned two dogs, who would produce about a half-ton of poop per year, which she was preserving instead of recycling.

There are an estimated 77 Million dogs in the U.S., according to the Humane Society. Those dogs produce an estimated 29,000 tons of poop, according to FlushDoggy.com.

Twenty-nine Thousand TONS, most of which is not recycled but is wrapped up in little plastic bags and thrown in landfills.

Not exactly recyclable behavior, is it?