I was struck by the power of expectations in an unusual context last week. Wednesday night, Jill and I went to dinner at a terrific local bistro (great atmosphere, good food, always a good time) followed by the Pink Martini concert at the Flynn. Thursday night we grabbed a burger and frys (their spelling) at Als (their punctuation) and then went to a high school production of Beauty and the Beast. The interesting part was that despite the better food and undeniably fantastic talent on Wednesday night, I felt a bit more energized by the burger and occasionally struggling vocalists of Thursday night. Why? I presume because I know the bistro so well and have all but one of Pink Martini’s CDs, that I expected more from that evening. On the other hand, Als is Als where the black and white tile and red plastic booths are the atmosphere, and the food is not heart healthy. And any high school production where you aren’t connected to the players does not promise high art of high engagement. However, the opening night of Beauty was a beauty. Extravagant and gorgeous costumes, fine acting by a few and acceptable performances by all, excellent voices by a few, terrific sets. All and all that was a surprisingly entertaining show. Don’t get me wrong, Pink Martini was a blast, charming, funny, enormously talented, pulsing energy, fabulous on-stage dynamic; and the dinner before was fine. But sometimes, when our expectations are not high, nights like the high school theater sneak up on us and make for a delightful surprise.

In planning a tribute event for a former Stern Center board member we solicited family photos from his wife and his parents. When the bundle of photos arrived from his parents our team spent many minutes in entertaining discovery as well as personal reminiscence as we (those of us of an age) recognized clothing and hair styles, furniture types, crude technology like dial-phones and rabbit ears, and even the faux leather miniature photo albums produced by Kodak. While I chuckled, recognized and flashed back, I was struck by a powerful, almost visceral reminder of when I wore my Zorro cape, mask, cummerbund, and saber one Christmas morning many decades ago. It’s time to look for those old photos.

You now that phenomenon of buying a new car which you think is reasonably special only to then discover that seemingly 33% of all cars on the road are the same as yours? Or you hear what you think is a new band on the local album station only to learn from 4 out of 10 friends that they’ve all been fans for a year or more? Well, that’s what’s happened to me and ducks. Yes, ducks. The Stern Center is hosting a special event that includes a rubber duck race, and we’ve had our webbed feet wet for a few months now, with the event just a week away. Everywhere I turn I’m bumping into ducks in one form or another, and it’s not just in relation to the race. Admittedly some of it is our own making: the miniature rubber ducks on our key chains, the 8 different styles of rubber ducks lining our hallway, the rubber duck rain poncho tacked on the wall, singing duck puppets, a yellow duck stress ball on my desk (made necessary by all the other ducks flocking in), post-it notes, note pads, event posters. But, as they say on QVC, there’s more which we did not create: I walked into a restaurant yesterday and the Specials Menu is topped with Grilled Autumnal Duck. Someone recommends Lucky Duck wine. I scoop out a handful of M&M’s from a colleague’s bowl and end up with all yellow and orange. There are no new ‘duck puns’ to be made, but people keep trying. I know, I know, this is starting to sound like I might need therapy. Actually, all I need is for us to have a successful event, with lots of ducks in the race, large funds raised for scholarships, and hundreds of happy people enjoying a ducky evening on, of course, the waterfront!

Ducks Unlimited! No, not the hunters/conservationists, but rather a large raft of ducks partially disguised as colleagues here at the Stern Center. Last Friday morning our development/marketing team had another of our seemingly endless work sessions focused on our upcoming event, the First Duck Race. The event will raise funds for our scholarship program while honoring the many contributions of former board member Dr. Lewis First and doing so with the added light-hearted element of a rubber duck race. In a charming and warming show of support, several colleagues appeared in our halls and in our meeting room adorned with various duck regalia. Customized T-shirts imprinted with our event invitations, beaks, webbed feet, hats and visors complete with orange bills and cartoon eyes, feathered boas in yellow/orange/white. It was delightful and uplifting to be greeted by feathers, quacking, and good will at every turn. Human Resources literature abounds with accounts and evidence that people tend to love jobs first because of the people and second because of the nature of the work. The people last Friday are certainly a ‘first’ as they helped us gear up for the First Duck Race!

I felt like Day Two of the flu. On a day-to-day basis I generally don’t think about my age much, still practicing the delusion that the pretty young woman was actually looking at me not just trying to read the sign behind me. I avoid mirrors and photographers and don’t try to compete with 20 or 30 somethings on a basketball court, all of which makes it easier. However, a few days ago I spent 9 straight hours landscaping a 30x12 raised bed, digging holes in clay-based soil, edging the bed, hauling mulch, and planting the shrubs. Fortunately I was working with a guy, so we served as mutual incentive (“I’m not taking a break if he doesn’t need one.”). The telling part was the next morning. Even though I’d done the 1,000 grams of ibuprofen throughout the workday, the next morning I felt like I had the full blown flu minus the fever and congestion. And I still had 10 shrubs to plant in a hedgerow near the raised bed. I decided 6 would be enough before shuffling inside to the heating pad and a college football game where I watched in wonder as those kids slammed into each other at full speed and simply bounced back up. All I did was plant shrubs four days ago, and I’m just not feeling fully back to that same old guy looking back at me in the mirror I can’t avoid when I shave. I hope all this aging eventually brings the wisdom everyone promises.

Toys of Summer

Yes, I know, the book title was Boys of Summer, but in that book it became apparent that men remain boys and that interest in toys does not diminish as the years accumulate. So the pun is relevant, as last Sunday I stored my MGB for the season. There were dozens of people, mostly ‘boys’ gently, lovingly packing away their cars, boats, and campers for the winter. As we disconnected battery terminals, draped dust covers, and taped ID numbers we seemed deep in our private thoughts despite the busyness in the huge storage barn. This had been the best summer in the 11 years I’ve enjoyed the MG, so the memories of great road trips are more abundant than usual. I always stretch the driving into foliage season, and hanging up the keys back at home until late next April is a bit like hibernating. So many things are seasonal. We might think we’re above those powers with our 21st century technologies and science, but when it comes down to it, the days do get colder and shorter, and we put away our toys of summer.

10/10/10. My parents’ 57th wedding anniversary. Jill and I took them out to dinner to celebrate because time together is more valuable than more stuff they don’t really need. We had a great time on the round trip ride and during dinner. We went back to the site of Lindsay and Joe’s wedding reception, and I was struck by the comparison of the two marriages at opposite ends of the time spectrum. Both couples are in love. With the younger one it is more strikingly apparent, like brilliant sun shining in your face, everything is brighter, sharper, and crisper. With the older couple, it’s still the sun, but rather than the light, it’s more the warmth, a slower, more enveloping sense of comfort, stability, dependability. My parents met at the Champlain Valley Fair on a blind date, and they have returned to the Fair every year since. Dad not only sends flowers on their annual anniversary, he brings three roses on the 10th of every month. It may be cloudy occasionally, but after all these years, the sun is still shining!