Goodbye Old Friend

There is something very special about a man's relationship with his car.  It's a magical thing, really.  An intimate bonding occurs as you spend time with your vehicle.  It can become an extention of you; an expression of your personality and your take on the world.  The body style and color are only a part of the equation. The handling on the road and whether you can drive with the roof open or the windows down adds to the expression.  Certainly the power of the sound system intensifies the experience.  What starts out as a schoolboy infatuation can soon become a robust romance between man and machine.  Such has been my 8-year relationship with the Jetta.

But without constant renewal, any relationship can take on excessive wear and that's exactly what happened to ours.  Unlike the relationship with the missus that keeps growing and changing week after week, month after month, year after year, always getting better and more engaging, the Jetta's ability to evolve was stifled.  She was who she was, and was never going to change, except to grow old and tired.

And that's essentially what happened.  Sometime after passing the 100,000 mile mark, the joie de vivre imperceptibly began to slip away.  It started slowly and with little fanfare.  First an intermittent failure in the power locks, and little pock marks from flying pebbles emerging on the hood like embarrassing acne at the Senior Prom.  Then repeated problems with the front bumper and nagging challenges with bulbs and wiring.  I attempted to ignore the problems and nurture the relationship along, overlooking the wear and tear as much as I could, going as far as using duct tape to fasten the sagging bumper to the rest of the body.  But in the end, we both knew it was a fruitless exercise to stop the advancement of time.  I needed to say goodbye and move on.  She needed to to go wherever worn out and used up vehicles go; to the nursing home equivalent for cars, or perhaps even a cemetary of long ago memories of literal travel in the fast lane.

So that's what happened yesterday.....

It was a beautiful summer day on an Oregon holiday weekend.  I hadn't premeditated at morning's break to do the dastardly deed, but over the last two weeks in the recesses of my conscienceness the sorting process had already begun.  Other makes and models were catching my fleeting glance.  I was eyeing their shapes and lines in ways I hadn't previously, and with increasing frequency was allowing my gaze to linger on a few healthy specimens that continued to catch my eye.  I remember saying to myself, "I need to research that one on the internet" although the impression was so faint and translucent, it never resulted in real action. 

But then on Saturday morning, as I was driving through town on one of the only days in recent memory that I wasn't pushed to stay within the parameters of a tight agenda, I drove by a car lot and caught a glimpse of the object of my recent affection in the corner of my eye.  I pulled into the lot with the intention of walking around the car, looking in the window with hands cupped around my eyes, and just "learning a little more".  That was my innocent intent; however, I would soon learn someone else had a dramatically different plan.

(This is a post in progress.  More to come....)

Favorite colors

There is something about the colors blue and red, especially when visualized together in the same image, that inspires me.  I don't know why.  Yes, I enjoy images of the American flag, but it isn't so much the flag per se as it is the colors of the flag.  The vivid red and blue, juxtaposed with white, gives me a sense of peace and at the same time exhilaration.  The experience is nearly identical whether it's the flag of the United States, Britain or France.

Growing up as a "redhead" was a distinctive social burden.  The only thing worse than being called "carrot top" was being called "Bucky Beaver", but I had the dubious distinction of owning both monikers.  Even then, I loved the color red and remember as a young boy wanting my Mom to buy or make me red shirts.  I also remember her oft quoted answer:  "You can't wear red", meaning with my complexion and hair color red didn't go well.  It was always dissappointing to hear that message.  (Little did this pre-pubescent Trekkie realize how often she probably saved my life!)  To the point that I can still remember a learning on this topic being uttered by my dance coach, Miss Celia Burley.  (In fact, it's the only thing I can still remember her saying.)  It was a reply to my statement about not being able to wear red.  She stopped what she was saying with a quick retort, "Oh that's ridiculous.  You can wear whatever you want to."  It stuck in my mind as long-awaited permission from a "grown-up" that I no longer needed to restrict my clothing choices to a pre-approved palette of uninteresting hues.

Deep rich blue brings peace to my soul.  And not just mine.  It brings peace to the inner spirit of many human beings.  I remember feeling that when I toured the inpatient psychiatric unit at Salem Hospital and first observed their "Blue Room".  They had perfected a treatment model they called "Sanctuary" that abhorred physical and chemical restraints in favor of more humane treatment.  I was fascinated when I saw they had a special room painted a rich and vivid blue that was used for very agitated patients.  Research had shown that spending time alone in the "Blue Room" would often create a calming effect on the otherwise very disturbed mind, and would allow the patient an opportunity to regain control of their actions in a safe and natural environment.  Perhaps my love for blue emanates from my own buried psychosis.  Could that be the reason?

There was something wonderful about having a majestic flagpole in our front yard when we lived in Lincoln, California.  I enjoyed seeing the colors of the stars and stripes waving from one of the several windows in our home or from driving into our beloved Dunbar Court.  There were times when I would lie on the couch in the living room at an angle where the flag was clearly visible and just drink in the colors for relaxing stretches of time.  It created feelings of stability and belonging that I have not often experienced since.  And seeing the colors in motion, as when the breeze would create gentle ripples in the flag's fabric, was a particular delight.

Time has passed, and continues passing, but I now find myself deliberately introducing my favorite colors into my surroundings.  My car is a deep blue.  The logo of my business is red, white and blue.  The new logo I selected for our clinic is built around white and red.  The ad campaign we are running on busses and billboards is anchored on a wide red stripe.  My tie rack is dominated by reds and blues.  My t-shirt drawer is filled with selections that are dominated by these colors.  My favorite jacket is a Tommy Hilfiger creation in red, white and blue.  My favorite windbreaker is a red and white sale item from The Nike Store. 

It's interesting how these things just happened.  These selections weren't the result of some pre-determined master plan.  It just happens that it's these colors that are consistently perceived as attractive to me.

So thank goodness for vision and color.  How less interesting the world would be if it was only shades of grey.  My frequent selection of reds and blues are vivid symbols of the intensity and peace I enjoy most about the wonder that is living every day.

Mont Blanc pens & professionally laundered shirts

There have been a few times in my life when I've stumbled upon something I've really come to love.  Something that makes me feel good, consistently time after time.  One of those things is a Mont Blanc rollerball pen.

There is something really cool about a Mont Blanc pen that is interesting to describe.  Part of it is the weighty feel of the pen in your hand.  Another is the consistently smooth twist function of the shaft of the instrument that exposes or conceals the writing tip.  Another is the boldness of the marks that come from the medium point rollerball.  I love this pen.  I carry it with me everyday to work and carefully stow it on my nightstand when it's time to relax.  Perhaps it's knowing the cost of the pen that adds to it's attractiveness, I don't know.  But what I do know is when I am writing with my Mont Blanc, I feel good.  I feel substantial.  I feel authoritative.

Similarly, there is something really appealing about newly laundered shirts, fresh out of the cellophane plastic covers.  With just enough starch to make the shirt look crisp, but not so much that the fabric is scratchy, putting on a professionally cleaned shirt made mostly out of cotton is a daily ritual that prepares me to take on the day, no matter what challenges await.

I remember the first time I felt justified in sending my shirts out to the cleaners.  It was in 1990 after I landed my first job in hospital administration as an Administrative Resident with Mercy San Juan Hospital in Carmichael, California, an unincorporated neighborhood in Sacramento County.  We had just finished grad school in Arizona and found what would become our first home in an older sub-division affectionately called the "Duck Pond".  Most of the streets in the neighborhood carried the names of different species of ducks.  Ours was "Speckle Way", and we were very excited to finally be homeowners.

I purchased a couple of suits for the job.  One was from Dillards, a Macy's-look alike department store in Arizona; the other was from my previous employer, J. C. Penney.  Together with a few Stafford shirts (Penney's store brand) I was ready to take on the world.  And then, I decided to splurge and have the shirts laundered for $1.50 each.

The professional laundry we chose was in a little strip mall a 5 minute drive from our house.  The shop would close at 7:00 pm and I remember the first symptoms of my addictive workaholism surfacing as I found myself programming their phone number into my cellular phone so I could call the owner and ask him to wait a few minutes while I raced to his shop after work.  For some reason, getting there before 7:00 was often a challenge.  Little did I know that getting home at a decent hour would become a lifelong struggle.

But, back to the shirts.  The look and feel of the freshly pressed shirt was something that spoke "important".  I liked the crispness of how it looked and how the starched collar always looked sharp without any wrinkles.  In fact, I remember a time later in life when we were experiencing some hard times and needed to trim back our budget.  The question of going back to washing and ironing my shirts at home came up, but was quickly dismissed.  I would never go back to that willingly again.  It was a symbol of having garnered some ritualistic achievement I didn't ever want to let go of.

No doubt there are a few other things in life that are of similar importance, or rather that have a similar effect in making me feel good about myself and life, but it's funny I can't think of any at the moment.  And with that, I will offer a request for those who'll be making decisions once I'm dead and gone...

Bury me in a white medium starched cotton shirt.  An oxford button-down from Norstrom would be nice.  Then pass one of my Mont Blanc pens down to each of my sons.  While it will probably be unperceived by the onlookers, you can rest assured as I lie there motionless, that I will be feeling like I've accomplished something.

Our Missionary Sons

Our two oldest sons are currently serving two year missions for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  Kyle, shown here in the front row (in front of the woman) is serving in the Arizona Phoenix Mission speaking Spanish.  This photo was taken the day he arrived in Arizona after nine weeks learning Spanish in the Missionary Training Center (MTC) in Provo, Utah. 

His twin brother Adam, was called to serve in the Germany Hamburg Mission.  Currently, he is in the MTC preparing to go to Germany.  Most missionaries called to speak a foreign language remain at the MTC for nine weeks, but Adam's German is good enough he is going overseas six weeks early. 

We are extremely proud of our two missionary sons.

Our Daughter's December Wedding

Our daughter Megan got married the week between Christmas and New Years at the Portland Oregon Temple of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  Here is a brief clip of the magical day.


Portland Temple Wedding shoot in the snow! from Jensen Films on Vimeo.

It'll Make You Smile

I love this little video.  Such a simple message, sure to make you smile.  But after all, you are great!!




more about "Validation", posted with vodpod

When One Door Closes..., Part 1

Back when I learned my Vice President position at Salem Hospital was being eliminated, I tried to see it as an opportunity.  Sure, it would be a little inconvenient not knowing where I would land for the next few months, but I was certain I would land in a good place, either as a Vice President again, or if I played things right, I might actually be able to leverage this change into a better job as a Chief Operating Officer or even a Chief Executive Officer of a smaller hospital somewhere.  So I decided to face the future as an opportunity in the making.  The question was what hospital would I land at, and in what capacity?  The idea of leaving hospitals altogether never entered my mind.  How could it?  You see, it wasn't that I "did" hospital administration for a living, I had "become" a hospital administrator. 

Salem Hospital

(Salem, Oregon)

My beloved career had become my identity and even though I hadn't realized it, I had become trapped......trapped in an environment where I had allowed my success or failure to be determined by others, by my boss, by the budget, by the decisions of people I really didn't even know on the Board.  And "their" decisions, whoever "they" were, had the power to determine not only who I was, but what I thought of myself and what I felt.  I can now see it was a place no one should ever go.  It was a place of utter helplessness.

So, when the message came that I was no longer needed at the hospital, a flurry of emotions rose to the surface.  "What do you mean?"  "Don't you remember it's me that gives 150% to this place, that works late, that volunteers to come in and serve the staff on Christmas Day, that has the highest employee satisfaction rates of any member of the senior leadership team?"  But what I quickly came to realize is it was indeed me, and all that other stuff, things a "loyal up and comer" does, really didn't matter.  The budget needed to be cut.  I had fallen out of favor.  My number was up and I was gone.  End of story.

As I left my office that last day, with my personal trappings neatly packed into three cardboard boxes, I left rejected but invincible.  I was determined this wasn't going to be the end of MY story.  And in fact, it wasn't.  It was only the beginning.

I'll tell you more of the story next time, but here's a visual preview of the final chapter.

Welcome to My Blog!

So, I guess it's time.  My daughters Megan, Cecily and Allie all have blogs, and two of my sons Kyle and Adam have blogs.  So, I've finally decided it made sense to create my own.

I'm not promising much, but once in a while, there may be a few nuggets or at least provocative thoughts here to stir your thinking.