People

Benefits from a Golden Rule

/ James Browning / 2 Comments

Today finds me at LaGuardia Airport in New York waiting at the gate for a flight to another major hub that hopefully will connect me to a second flight to home.  We have been told there are storms in the Midwest that is affecting flights in and out of Chicago where my connection is, but so far my flight is listed as only leaving a few minutes late.  The second leg of my travels currently is showing it will depart 25 minutes late.  With a little luck I will get home fairly close to when scheduled.

As I sit here close by people in line at the counter are grumbling at the gate agents as they try to re-route some people whose flight delay will cause them to miss a connection.  Two have been down right rude.  Once upon a time I might have been one of those people, but something that happened about 20 years ago taught me better.

I had flown from Denver to Los Angeles for the day concerning a job interview.  Upon arrival I got a rental car and drove to my appointment which went well, but long.  Traffic in LA is always a variable and driving to the airport I was concerned that I might not make the flight home.  I hustled through the rental car return and security then ran to my gate.

Upon arriving all sweaty from running to the gate I saw five angry people unloading on the gate agent.  He saw me and asked if I was on the flight to Denver which I confirmed.  He said “Sorry Sir, the flight is overbooked.  I’ll get you rebooked as soon as I can”.  I responded with something like “that’s OK.  Not your fault.  It’s been a hectic day.  I am gonna sit down, cool off and read for a while.  Motion to me when you’re ready to work on getting me on a different flight”.

With that I sat down, got a book out of my bag and began reading.  Over about 10 minutes the gate agent either got people on different flights or else sent the rudest ones to the main desk for rebooking.  As the gate cleared out the gate agent came over to me and said “Sir, come with me quickly!”  We trotted to the jetway door; the agent input a code to open it as he said “There’s one seat in the very back of the plane.  You have a safe journey home.”  I smiled at him and said “I am really grateful.  Thank you”.  The seat was in the very back of the Continental flight in one of those seats that did not recline.  I did not care though.  I was headed home on time.  I only got the gate agent’s first name and wrote a letter to the airlines thanking him for his good service to me.  I hope at the least he got a pat of the back.

Had I not been so tired that day in LA I could easily have been one of those being abrupt and terse with the gate agent.  By not acting that way I benefited from my treatment of the gate agent.  He could have selected any of the other people bumped from the flight in that seat toDenver, but he put me there.  The moral of the story:  Gate agents have no control on flight schedules and being mean to them gets you no where.  If you are cordial and patient many, if not most, gate agents will do their best to help you.

At least a half dozen times since the first episode I have benefited from treating airline workers as I would like to be treated.  A year ago I had three gate agents working to reroute me at one o’clock in the morning.  In spite of being exhausted I smiled, told a joke and socially interacted positively with the agents.  They ended up calling a supervisor over who bumped someone from a sold out flight.  I regret someone got bumped but grateful I made my destination in time the next day for a critical business meeting.  The airline employees did not have to help me as they did.  At the end the agents told me the only reason they did what they did was that I was an exceptionally patient and understanding passenger.

Rarely is being unkind, angry or mean to anyone a benefit.  I read once that being angry at someone is akin to taking poison and expecting the other person to die.  To me that explains it all.

Being nice does not always work and there are times where stating your piece pointedly will help.  I consider it a last resort.  I am convinced that nice guys (and girls) finish ahead more often than not by simply treating others the way he or she would like to be treated.  I am grateful for that lesson I learned long ago at LAX.  That wisdom has served me well.

Life is mostly froth and bubble,

Two things stand like stone,

Kindness in another’s trouble,

And courage in your own.

Adam Lindsay Gordon

I Love New York City (a little)

/ James Browning / 2 Comments

From the vantage point of my 14th floor hotel room I look just across the street and see a high rise apartment building probably 30 stories tall.  Sitting here eating a room service breakfast in my view are balconies attached to most of these apartments.   Each one seems to tell a unique story. 

As I study the contents of the balconies I notice some are empty although through the sliding glass doors the apartments appear occupied.  The most common balcony accessories are chairs.  More often than not there are two side by side appearing to be for people who like to sit together.  Other times two chairs are separated giving rise to the thought they are for two people who don’t enjoy sitting together or else for one person who likes to sit in two different places.  Then there are the balconies with 4 or even six chairs causing me to wonder if there is a family living there or if the person(s) who occupy the apartment like to entertain.  

Some of the high rise apartment balconies have two bicycles which lead to the assumption that most likely a couple lives there.  Then there is the one apartment balcony that appears to have four bikes for a family and another that has one bicycle for a lone occupant. 

As I study further the contents of the balconies become more unique.  There is one that has flower boxes all over it filled with young plants and a single tomato plant in the middle.  Another balcony has a large wooden Indian on it and nothing else.  I wonder what the story about that is.  Several other balconies are adorned with living houseplants while at least two are decorated with faded and fake assorted greenery.  On and on as I look I am struck by the thought that each balcony is as unique as the renters who occupy each apartment.  I realize that it is these small individual differences that help give this large city some contrast and keeps everything from looking the same.  Only now after looking for a half hour do I finally see a single live human sitting on a balcony.  As I watch she is sitting alternating between drags on her cigarette and holding their head.  It must have been a long night!

From walking yesterday I remember life here in this huge city is a jumble of people, cars and buildings with none quite having ample space.  There is a faster pace than most places in everything from the velocity of cars to the speed of people walking (and there are LOTS of people walking).  While I knew somewhere around were packed public buses I don’t recall seeing one.  Under my feet was the subway used by thousands every day but something I have never been completely comfortable riding.  I guess I have seen too many things in movies to feel safe there.  

In city getting a cab is inconsistent.  Once in a while a taxi begins to pull over for me before my arm is completely up to hail the taxi.  At other times cabbies drive by over and over ignoring my existence.  Still others will stop momentarily and ask where I am going to decide if the fare is healthy enough to warrant use of their time and gas.  What is consistent about cabs here is the driving. 

There are few amusement rides that can compete with a ride in a taxi in this city!  Whether speed, rapid acceleration or deceleration, rapid moves or the rush of adrenaline as the vehicle swerves to miss pedestrians, bicyclists and other vehicles there is never a dull moment.  Adding to the experience is that few of the cab drivers seem to have command of the English language yet somehow manage to understand what I am saying even if I can not comprehend much of what is being spoken to me.  It’s all part of the experience within a city population created in a stirred melting pot.  

My hotel is near, Central Park, the only substantial patch of green in the city besides balcony plants and occasional street planters dotting the landscape.  The park is striking in its contrast to the surrounding concrete buildings and streets especially here in late spring.  Besides the green of the park and the near monotone shades of the buildings the most dominant color here is the bright color of the dozens of yellow cabs in view at most any moment.  

The room service I have been enjoying between typing and looking out my window cost about $40 for bacon, eggs, toast, coffee, juice, tip and delivery charge.  Like everything in New York City, living here is expensive.  

In my 20’s I lived in the heart of a major city in a high rise.  At first it was a major thrill and I thought I had really made the grade to be there.  Over time though I began to notice little things like there was no where I could hook up a hose and wash my car.  The big grocery stores were all out in the ‘burbs’ and in town were just small markets with large prices.  The color of anything in living green began to be noticeably absent replaced by concrete gray and asphalt black unless I wanted to walk many blocks to a park.  And even there I was often put off by doggie “do” and homeless residue.  

This morning I realize how blessed I am to get to travel as I have.  There is much gratitude within to have witnessed many places most will never see.  From the wilds of the South and Central America, to the cultural contrast of Eastern Europe to Western Europe, from life on an island to that between London and Zewatinaho I am lucky to have witnessed what I have seen and experienced.  

Where it has all brought me is to a hearty appreciation of where I live and of the life I lead daily.  I am grateful to live in a medium sized city with 90% of the advantages of a major metropolitan area and only about 10% of the headaches and troubles.  Nor am I deafened by the silence and solitude found in a remote area like where I grew up.  It is life in the “middle” that suits me best and for it I am so very grateful.  However, I am further thankful that anytime I need to lose myself in the quiet of the country or the noise of a city I have the ability to visit there. 

I truly do live a magnificent life with so much good fortune I am humbled by it all.

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts.  Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.  Mark Twain 

Purveyors of Love

/ James Browning

There are probably few men who truly enjoy a good love story more than me.  For movies a few favorites off the top of my head are: Casablanca, Time Traveler’s Wife, Pretty Woman, City of Angels, Before Sunrise, Hope Floats, Sommersby, Notting Hill, and The Lake House.

Love stories unfolded in books I have enjoyed include:  The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks, A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway, The Bridges of Madison Country by Robert James Waller, Love Story by Erich Segal and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte.

Then there are the poets whose delicate weaving of language and love have touched me.  A few of them are Emily Dickenson, Lord Byron, Wendy Cope, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Sara Teasdale and William Butler Yeats.

However, there is nothing filmed or published that stirs my soul more than the love story of Victorian poets Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning. Barrett received a telegram from an admirer named Robert Browning. He wrote, “I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett…”   This began a secret courtship, conducted primarily in frequent letters back and forth, that was kept from Elizabeth’s wealthy father, who did not approve.  Elizabeth and Robert eloped and were married on September 12, 1846.  As soon as he learned of the wedding, Elizabeth’s father promptly disinherited her.

The marriage was happy and Robert fawned over his wife, encouraging her work and taking care of her. While she never completely recovered from an illness that began in childhood, Elizabeth’s health improved a great deal during the 15 years of their marriage.  On June 29, 1861, Elizabeth Barrett Browning died at the age of 55 in the arms of her husband.  Robert was devastated and for a long time was inconsolable.  He lived another 28 years and never remarried.

There is a two volume set of the letters between Elizabeth and Robert published by their son in 1898.  The majority of  the content of the letters is written about day to day life and people they knew, often in what I would call “old-speak”.  But also contained are expressions of emotion that seem contemporary even today 160+ years after they were written.

Elizabeth to Robert Sept 25 1945:  You have touched me more profoundly than I thought even you could have touched me.  Hence forward I am yours for everything but to do you harm…

Robert to Elizabeth on Oct 30, 1845:  This is my first song, my true song, this love I bear you.  I look into my heart and then let it go forth under that name – love.  I am more than mistrustful of many other feelings in me:  they are not earnest enough; so far true enough.  But this is all the flower of my life which you call forth and which lies at your feet…

Elizabeth to Robert on Nov 27, 1845: You have come to me as a dream comes, as the best of dreams come…

Robert to Elizabeth Dec 20, 1845:  I do not, nor will not think, dearest of ever ‘making you happy’.  I can imagine no way of working that end, which does not go straight to my own truest, only true happiness…

Elizabeth to Robert Jan 9 1846:  If you were to leave me even, to decide that it is best for you to do it, and do it, never should I nor could I regret having known you and loved you…

Robert to ElizabethJan 26, 1846:  My love for you was in the first instance its own reward…

Elizabeth to Robert Feb 16, 1846:  I was decided from the first hour when I admitted the possibility of your loving me really I am more thine than my own.  It is a literal truth and my future belongs to you.  If it was mine, it was mine to give, and if it was mine to give, it was given…

Robert to ElizabethApril 18, 1846:  I do adore you, more and more, as I live to see more, and feel more… 

Elizabeth to Robert August 26, 1846:   How I wish for two hearts to love you with, and two lives to give to you, and two souls to bear the weight worthily of all you have given to me.  But if one heart and one life will do, they are yours.  I can not give them again…

Today and as I sit here and write it is the gratitude for the purveyors of the sentiments of love that I feel.  When I have doubted if love was real or possible or suffered most from the pain of loving they are the ones who have kept the spark in my heart.  There is much thankfulness within me for the authors, actors, letter writers and poets who have picked me up when I needed it.  It is they who enabled me to keep my belief in love from withering and dying.

What lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Into the Sunset

/ James Browning / 1 Comment

What do the following people have in common?  Ed Asner, Jim Backus, Ralph Bellamy, Charles Bronson, John Carradine, Robert Culp, Bette Davis, Bruce Dern, Angie Dickinson, Sam Elliott, Harrison Ford, Jodie Foster, Anne Francis, Dennis Hopper, George Kennedy, Martin Landau, Strother Martin, Ricardo Montalbán, Harry Morgan, Leonard Nimoy, Nick Nolte, Kurt Russell, Burt Reynolds, William Shatner, Tom Skerritt, Loretta Swit, Lee Van Cleef, Jon Voight, Lesley Ann Warren,  and James Whitmore.

They were all were on the TV show Gunsmoke at one time or another along with at least a hundred other faces most people 35 and above will recognize.  Gunsmoke started in the mid-50’s in black and while and moved to color about half way through its twenty year run.  It became the longest running, prime time series of the twentieth century.

Growing up in the 60’s and early 70’s I remember well the cowboy shows on television:  Wagon Train, Rawhide, Maverick, Bonanza, The Rifleman, Have Gun Will Travel, The Virginian, Wild Wild West and many more.  But there was only one Gunsmoke.   Doc,  Festus, Chester and the unrequited love between Miss Kitty and Marshall Dillon.  Even today I watch reruns occasionally on cable’s Encore Westerns.  Seeing it is as comforting and American as “Mom and apple pie”.

I am grateful for the many hours of entertainment Gunsmoke gave me.  There is also gratitude within for the basic morals and standards the show portrayed.  Yes, people got shot fairly often, but it was the embellished “old west” and as a kid I knew it was all make believe.  Yet, I knew the “fiber” of the show was real.

The star of Gunsmoke and a childhood hero of mine, James Arness, died yesterday at the age of 88.  I feel like I have lost a family member like a distant great-uncle.  Mr. Arness wrote this letter to be released upon his death this past Friday, June 6, 2011:

Hi friends, 

I decided to write a letter to you for Janet to post on our website in the event I was no longer here. 

I had a wonderful life and was blessed with some many loving people and great friends. The best part of my life was my family, especially my wife Janet. Many of you met her at Dodge City so you understand what a special person she is. 

I wanted to take this time to thank all of you for the many years of being a fan of Gunsmoke, The Thing, How the West Was Won and all the other fun projects I was lucky enough to have been allowed to be a part of. I had the privilege of working with so many great actors over the years. 

I was honored to have served in the army for my country. I was at Anzio during WWII and it makes you realize how very precious life is. 

Thank you again for all the many letters, cards, emails and gifts we received from you over the years. You are and always have been truly appreciated. 

Sincerely,

Jim Arness 

The gratitude Mr. Arness expresses in his letter is touching.  I always thought he was that kind of guy and it does my heart good to know in reality he really was.

The very first episode of Gunsmoke was introduced by John Wayne:

Good evening. My name’s Wayne. Some of you may have seen me before; I hope so. I’ve been kicking around Hollywood a long time. I’ve made a lot of pictures out here, all kinds, and some of them have been Westerns. And that’s what I’m here to tell you about tonight: a Western—a new TV show called Gunsmoke. No, I’m not in it. I wish I were, though, because I think it’s the best thing of its kind that’s come along, and I hope you’ll agree with me; it’s honest, it’s adult, it’s realistic. 

When I first heard about the show Gunsmoke, I knew there was only one man to play in it: James Arness. He’s a young fellow, and maybe new to some of you, but I’ve worked with him and I predict he’ll be a big star. So you might as well get used to him, like you’ve had to get used to me! And now I’m proud to present my friend Jim Arness in Gunsmoke. 

So now Marshall Matt Dillon has ridden off into the sunset to join Marshall ”Rooster” Cogburn.  To both gentlemen:  thank you both for all the wonderful hours I wandered the old west in spirit with you.  And Marshall Dillon… I hope you and Miss Kitty finally can get together now!  Thank you Mr. Arness.  I will not forget you.

I know it’s hard but please don’t cry

Fer I’m now ridin’ God’s trails high up in the sky

(from “A Cowboy’s Last Request by Terry Ike Clanton)

In Memory of Strangers

/ James Browning / 1 Comment

Yesterday was a beautiful day in Boulder.  The sky above was the deep Edgewood blue that Colorado is famous for and underneath to the horizon was a wonderful day to be outside.  My son and I walked around Pearl Street, had lunch and went for ride up nearby Flagstaff Mountain.

The trees are starting to sprout leaves and the ground is greening-up I noticed from my vantage point on the passenger side.  Blissfully lost in the sights and beauty of the day my attention was pulled to a simple little sign attached to a curve warning sign.  It looked liked it belonged there and simply read “In Memory Of Amber McDonald”.  As we continued driving my mind wandered and the questions came.  Who was Amber McDonald?  Was she young or old?  Did the location of the sign have significance?  Was Amber a lover of the mountains?  Did she spend a lot of time outdoors?  Did she ride her bike up Flagstaff  Mountain Road?  Lots of times?  Was she single or married?  Did she have children?  Brothers or sisters?  

Later I spent about an hour searching on the Internet for clues as to who Amber McDonald was.  I found the first and last name combination is fairly common.  Sifting through them all I could not find that name with any ties to Boulder.  Lacking any definitive history I invented some.  

Based on absolutely no facts the story I created and settled on was Amber McDonald was probably a college age girl (University of Colorado Campus is close by).  She was a bike rider and a successful student just about finished with her Master’s studies.  I imagined Amber as single and happy.  Thinking that someone who loved the scenery at least as much as I do could no longer see what I was seeing made me appreciate the mountains more than usual.  It was a gift I got for remembering Amber McDonald through my made up story. 

As it turned out Amber McDonald paved the way for me to “meet” another woman.  When we stopped to take in the view at scenic overlook close to the top of the mountain I noticed a bench with a small plaque made into it:  “In Loving Memory of Judy McMillan Feb. 27, 1941 – Feb. 5, 1997”.  Judy lived until shortly before her 56th birthday.  Was she a wife?  A Mother?  A Grandmother?  Was this scenic point special to her?  I filled in a few blanks and felt she was all of the above.  I added in my thought that the spectacular view where the bench was located must have been her favorite.  I felt like she came there often. 

Adapted from “I Am Not There” – Mary Elizabeth Frye

I give you this one thought to keep –
I am with you still – I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in the morning’s hush
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not think of me as gone –
I am with you still – in each new dawn. 

Knowing almost nothing about the two women, but spending time with their memories made my day better and more memorable at a unique level.  I honored the wishes of those who put the signs up for the Amber and Judy to be remembered.  It made me more grateful to be alive. 

It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.  Henry David Thoreau

Temporary Friends

/ James Browning / 1 Comment

A couple of days ago I flew to Colorado to visit my son.  When I arrived at my home airport I saw long lines in front of the counter of the airlines I was flying.  My first thought was this flight was going to be a hassle.  It turned out the lines were backed up from another airline.  Although storms had caused all sorts of cancellations to the east, those going westward as I was were unaffected.  The journey started well.

Once on board in my aisle seat I was soon joined by a late 20-something young woman in the window seat beside me.  She was attractive in an unaffected way and dressed simply in jeans.  She seemed happy, smiled a lot and stuck up a conversation with me.  In a pleasant conversation I learned she was married and had two children:  one a 12-year old stepson and another 7-year old son she and her husband had together.  They lived in Denver and she was returning after visiting family in Tulsa.  Prior to takeoff we talked for about five minutes before the flight attendant moved some people around for weight and balance on the small commuter jet and she was one of them.  For those few minutes we really did relate to each other as we talked about our families and reasons for our trips.  And for that short while she became another on my list of “temporary friends”.  I am grateful to have the conversation logged away with the beaming face of a happy young woman stored with it. 

When interacting with strangers most often all that happens is the waitress or guy at the checkout goes by the script of the customary things they are supposed to say.  Or the person sitting beside you is mentally somewhere else  and in 90 minutes speaks only 10 words:  hello, how are you, fine, excuse me please and thank you .  Outside of the mechanical, necessary word exchange nothing of meaning is spoken and little if any part of the encounter gets logged to memory.  There have been other times on a flight or similar situation where I have had a seat next to someone who drones on and on speaking lots of words and saying next to nothing.  I rarely retain any memory of these non-connections except possibly in a negative sense.

There are also those unique and rare times when real connections happen.  Maybe with a waiter for a minute where there is real eye contact and interpersonal interaction.  These I think of as “momentary friends”.  Or once in a while on an airplane two compatible complete strangers find connection and the minutes float away without awareness as a “temporary friendship” is enjoyed.

I recall the 80-something gentleman who I talked with for three hours on a flight to California.  I was flying out for a job interview and found out he had relocated for his work quite a few times.  As I was considering a move, I asked was all the moving worth it.  He said something like “Yes, at the time.  But looking back now it really wasn’t worth it”.  I have reflected on his statment and his following explanation several times when presented with job prospects that required moving.  It helped. 

In clear memory is an hour of conversation with  the woman in the next seat that resulted in a still practiced long distance friendship.  Through emails from time to time we still stay in touch although we met on a flight 15 years ago. 

And there was the software consultant from Norfolk who was a wood carver, the grandmother from Atlanta who knitted as we talked, the retired NASA worker from Florida who knew the first crop of Astronauts, the college aged newly weds sunburned and giddy from their Cayman honeymoon, the anthropologist who was coming home to see his family after several years in Africa, the dentist from Cleveland flying to Dallas for Superbowl week, the business executive from New York City who talked about her love of horses, the flight attendant returning home to Denver who was excited about both her children coming home for Christmas and all the other “temporary friends” who don’t immediately come to mind at the moment.   To each and every one, I am grateful for the small threads you became within the fabric of my life.  Thank you all for giving me that little piece of yourself.  

There are no such things as strangers, only friends we have not met.  William Butler Yeats

Miss Annie Maude Upchurch

/ James Browning / 1 Comment

Many people have made a positive impact on my life, but few as much as a handful of teachers.  I don’t remember college professor’s names particularly, but there are several teachers I recall fondly from grades 1-12.  In those preteen and teenage years, the whole world was unfolding before me and I was witnessing it with new eyes for the first time.

The year I was eleven I was in 6th grade taught by a young guy. Mr. Farr was only in his late 20’s and we all thought he was so cool.  Always in a good mood, played guitar and piano and just seemed to always enjoy us kids.  To this day he is still one of my heroes.  The opportunity to visit him and his wife to say thank you came about a dozen years after I graduated high school. During that time together I showed him I wore my watch “upside down” just like him.  To this day the watch on my left arm has the face on the inside of my wrist and the clasp on the outside.  This is my habit and my tribute to a great teacher who I loved like an uncle.

In Junior High I was very interested in science and Mrs. Levi taught that class and encouraged me to enter a regional science fair.  When the actual competition came around at a college about 50 miles from where I lived, she was the one who drove me there.  I remember her having more interest than my family did in my effort.  I was surprised (and so was my family!) to win the Zoology category and to this day that achievement is one of my proudest as a kid.  Without Mrs. Levi it would never have happened.

And there was the teacher who had much to do with the waking my romantic soul.  Miss Annie Maude Upchurch was not far from retirement when she taught the English classes of my high school years.  She was a very strict teacher, but also one respected by students and known generally as a kind woman.  Miss Upchurch was something of a local legend and had taught my Mother when she went through the same school.  Most in town knew her story like one would know the background of a famous star.

What was known:  Miss Upchurch took care of a sister whose health was somewhat frail and weak.  The two of them traveled to New York City for a week each year to get their annual dose of Broadway.  But what was most known is she never married, but wore an engagement right on her left hand.  Her husband-to-be had lost his life in Word War II and she had never moved on beyond him.

The story seemed to usually be told in a sad way by the adults, but for us teenagers hers was a true tragically romantic story we found inspiration in.  MIss Upchurch’s life seemed to be of the bittersweet type found in some of the literature she had us read.  It was her love of poetry from which the roots of my love of rhyming words sprouted.

From Miss Upchurch’s class I learned about “The Road Not Taken” By Robert Frost:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —
I took the one less travelled by,
and that has made all the difference.

Then there was the beautiful poetry by the guy with the funny name.  Algernon Swinburne  in a poem called “The Match” wrote:

If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather
Blown fields or floweful closes,
Green pleasure or gray grief;
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf

And it was Miss Upchurch who introduced me to Elizabeth Barrett Browning whose work I fell in love with then and carry that sentiment with me toward her work still today.  My bookshelves have at least a dozen antique books of her work and several newer ones.  Even after my personal experiences of the joy and disappointment of love I still swoon over the mystery and hope Mrs. Browning expressed in “Sonnets from the Portuguese”:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

All my teachers have my sincere gratitude.  Without them it would be impossible for me to be able to express myself here.  Among them all there was that special one who taught me about the beauty of words, how to find the feeling behind poetry, and how to harvest the wisdom found in stories.  Thank you Miss Upchurch.  Rest in Peace.

A good teacher is like a candle – it consumes itself to light the way for others.  Author Unknown

Sweeter Than Donuts

/ James Browning / 1 Comment

Krispy Crème Donut locations were a fixture in Alabama when I was growing up.  The donuts could only be found fresh in larger cities like Birmingham.  The tasty treats were also sold packaged in rural grocery stores where we were able to buy them on a semi-regular basis.  I had my first one before I can even remember.

There is one Krispy Crème location in the city where I live now and yesterday after a visit to a nearby home store I decided to indulge myself.  The first bite every time of a Krispy Crème donut always takes me back to my growing up years and yesterday was no different … at first.

As I sat eating slowly and enjoying my coffee and donut, in came two young women in their early 20’s I would guess, each pushing someone younger in a wheel chair followed by another in their care who was physically the size of a young teenager.  The caretakers were smiling as they put Kristy Crème baker hats on each one in their charge.  The smiles on the faces of the hat wearers were joyful from ear to ear.

As I watched the scene it became obvious that the two in wheel chairs and the 3rd follower were victims of Cerebral Palsy or some condition of that sort.  Even the boy in the wheel chair whose speech was composed of only varying types of grunts was having no problem expressing his happiness at that moment.  As much of a positive impact the impaired ones made on me, the care takers demeanor was even more impressive.  They both were beaming genuine smiles from their faces as they interacted and attended to the three in their charge.  It was evident their expressions were honest, real and unaffected by all those who stared at their little human caravan.

Watching the keepers buy donuts and milk for those in their care, I noticed the caretakers did not buy anything for themselves.  Instead their time was spent helping the others who’s drinking and eating was not something two of the three could do completely alone.  I suppose I could do what the custodians were doing, but in my heart I know I could not do it with the joy and unaffected caring the caretakers exhibited.  Getting real with one’s self with a thought like that is humbling.

My experience at Kristy Crème yesterday was the catalyst for recognizing a number of things I am grateful for.  I am thankful there are people like the young caretakers who those they were taking care of depend on for their very survival.  There is gratitude within that my son, members of my family and those I care about are healthy and do not need a caretaker to survive.  I am thankful to have seen the joy and just plain fun those being cared for showed.  Their reactions to being at Krispy Crème appeared to be akin to taking some great and rare adventure.  I am grateful for the patience and kindness the Krispy Crème employees showed the traveling troop.  And I am thankful for the reminder to count my blessings.

I am reminded of the lyrics of a country song by Mark Wills:  Don’t laugh at me, don’t call me names, Don’t get your pleasure from my pain, In God’s eyes we’re all the same.

And for the young caretakers, I found these lines I dedicate to them.

Blessed are you that never bids us “hurry up” and more blessed
are you that do not snatch our tasks from our hands to do them
for us, for often we need time rather than help.

Blessed are you who take time to listen to defective speech,
for you help us to know that if we persevere, we can be understood.

Blessed are you who walk with us in public places and ignore the
stares of strangers, for in your companionship we find havens of
relaxation.

Blessed are those who forget my disability of the body and see the
shape of my soul.

Blessed are those who see me as a whole person, unique and complete,
and not as a “half” and one of God’s mistakes.

I have come to believe that the emotions and sometime tears that sometimes come when I write this blog each day are some of life’s greatest gifts to date. I am so very grateful for the ability to feel so deeply.

We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.  Thornton Wilder

Call Me Norman, Please

/ James Browning / 2 Comments

My profession has placed me in proximity to many famous people and the majority of them I am grateful to have met.  Not matter how much fame and fortune each had achieved, I learned first-hand that underneath each one is a person just like the rest of us.  How I felt about each celebrity I have met runs the full gamut just as the people I meet in everyday life do.  Many were warm and interesting, quite a few were aloof but polite and some were cold and just going through the motions.  But there are a few that really made impressions on me, especially one.

In 1972 I was returning to Colorado after visiting family down south and was making a connection on Frontier Airlines at the old Denver Stapleton Airport.  Those were the days of hair long past my shoulders and my full hippie regalia which those we called “Straight’s” liked to stare at, especially the older folks.  At the gate I was waiting for a flight to Colorado Springs that made another stop in Pueblo when I noticed a white haired gentleman in his 70’s sitting with a woman of similar age.

For about 10 minutes I stared on and off at the man about 20 feet away dressed in a crisp white shirt and khaki pants.  Was he who I thought he was or not?  I vacillated between “yes it is” and “it can’t be”.  To solve my quandary I got up the nerve to walk over and speak to him.  He was seated as I approached him and as he looked up I said “You wouldn’t be Norman Rockwell would you?”  He smiled and said “the last time I checked I was.  Who might you be?” as he extended his hand.  As I introduced myself and shook his hand I was glad for his warm and welcoming nature.  Soon after he patted the empty seat beside him inviting me to sit down and visit with him.  A couple of times while talking I referred to him as Mr. Rockwell and more than once he said “Norman, please”.

In our conversation of about 15 minutes, I learned the woman he was traveling with was “Molly” his wife as he introduced me to her (that he remembered my name even for 30 seconds really impressed me).  Then he motioned to a guy about my age standing nearby and introduced him as his grandson.  In the conversation he told me they were flying to Pueblo in order to get to what he called his “hideaway” somewhere near Canon City.  Norman seemed genuinely interested in our conversation and asked things like where I was going, where I had been, about my family and even what I thought of his work.  When I told him I “loved” his work and his Christmas paintings were favorites, especially Santa Claus, he said nothing, but a gentle smile came onto his face. He expressed his appreciation with that smile more than words probably could have.

The time passed quickly and soon it was time to board. Norman shook my hand, patted me on the shoulder, told me “good luck son”.  As he walked away to be one of the first to board he looked over his shoulder once and tipped his head a little to say good bye.  Later he smiled as I walked past him on the plane headed to my seat in the back of the plane and again when I got off the plane in Colorado Springs.  And that was the end of the story, but my memory of it remains clear and vivid.

To this day, I can remember the warmth of Norman Rockwell.  This is especially true since I have read he basically was a shy and quiet man overall.  But for a little while to me, then a kid of 18; he seemed like the uncle I had not seen in years.  I remember little things like the pipe in his shirt pocket but most of all I remember his smile.

Years later I read that Norman’s private life was troubled, especially the years married to his second wife and mother of his children who suffered from mental problems.  I also found a quote in some biographical material credited to Dr. Erik Erikson, a psychologist, who treated Mr. Rockwell.  It’s recorded that Dr. Erikson told Norman “he painted his happiness, but did not live it”.  Even today that makes me a little melancholy to think the man whose paintings contained such deep emotions from laughter to innocent elation and to sadness and reverence did not get to live what he painted. Norman Rockwell left an enduring legacy of joy and authentic American life to everyone, but to me he left a beautiful image of old gentlemen who was rich and famous, but still had time to be kind and thoughtful to an impressionable young man who 40 years later is still deeply grateful.   Thank you Norman.

Courtesies of a small and trivial character are the ones which strike deepest in the grateful and appreciating heart.  Henry Clay

Affecting Eternity

/ James Browning

I am grateful for the opportunities to grow I have had throughout my life and the greatest influences have been people.   Clear in my mind are the teachers who taught me to read and write, the pilot who taught me to fly, the woman who taught me how to love and even those who taught me what not to do by me watching them do those very things.  Yet beyond the many who contributed to the quality of my life, there are the very few who had tremendous impact on me.  Right at the top of that list is DK, my first mentor.

DK was an inspiration to begin with when he hired me as a first time department manager when I was only 23.  Only a few years before he had overcome a severe drinking problem that had left his personal life a mess.  He told me once “I screwed up my first marriage by becoming a drunk and screwed up my first marriage to a drunk when I quit drinking”.  I knew him a few years later when he met a nurse who became his 3rd wife while he was in the hospital for a serious surgery.  I was a witness to the happiness he found with her during the rest of his years and the two children they had together.

I have great respect for DK and what he had overcame.  But to an even greater degree I hold him in high esteem for what he taught me about business and people.  Of the many things I learned from him in the seven years he was my boss, at the very top of the sizable heap is that businesses succeed or fail from the inside out.  He taught me that there on the “inside” people are what make or break a business.  “Hire good people, ask a lot of them and treat them as well as you possibly can” are his words that are imprinted deeply within me.   The image of the framed item at the top of this page is an example of his philosophy.  This frame  hung in DK’s office and his family gave it to me after he passed away.  Now a decade later it is displayed proudly in my office and I hear his voice in my head still guiding me just about every day.

There came a point when he confided in me that in six months he was moving on to a different job and one where he could not take me with him.  In our time together and with DK’s help I had managed to create success that was written about nationally in trade magazines.  There had been a number of previous offers of employment, but none that could attract me away.  Now a good job offer came along within a couple of months and I accepted it as I could not imagine being in my present position reporting to someone else.  Like DK said “Kid, its time to go”.

On my last day DK asked me to come to his office when I had all my stuff in my car and was ready to leave.  So there I was sitting with him just after 5pm wanting badly to express my gratitude for his belief in me and all he had taught me.  I asked him “How do I repay you for all you have done for me?”  He replied, “You can’t Kid”.  DK must have seen the perplexed look on my face, so he continued.  “Someone saw the spark in me and gave me opportunity and taught me.  I saw the spark in you and brought you along.  It’s your responsibility to take the time to teach and bring along those you see the spark in.  That’s how you repay me”.

So here I sit misty eyed as I always get when I tell this story, grateful beyond my ability to express it to a man I will never forget.  In later years at a business I managed I was able to hire and mentor DK’s son who was floundering in life.  Somehow it is fitting that the last time I saw DK was when he was in town helping his son move to start that job.  I know he would be proud of his son’s success today.

Most of all Don taught me to “play it forward” at least 10 or 15 years before I ever heard that phrase.  With a grateful and happy heart I will be “paying him back” for the rest of my days.

A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops.  Henry Adams