Up a tree

The first thing I saw when I arrived for Thanksgiving dinner was my grandnephew Carlos, up in a tree in the front yard.

Off and on, all evening, he was outside climbing that tree. Nothing, not even pitch-black darkness, could keep him out of that tree for long.

Carlos is a 7-year-old who's missing four fingers on his left hand. But that doesn't stop him. Carlos is a determined little boy. (You should see him swing a baseball bat.)

Okay, he fell a couple of times. That didn't matter. He just climbed back up again.

Between dinner and dessert, Carlos asked to be excused so he could go climb the tree. In the dark. By himself.

Determination is a powerful attribute in life. And that's another thing I'm grateful for: Carlos's determination will stand him in good stead.

Thanksgiving 2011

There were four generations gathered around the Thanksgiving table Thursday evening, the youngest of whom was Lucy, my nephew Mike's almost-two-year-old granddaughter. As Lucy and her sister, Rowan, and their mom and dad prepared to say their goodbyes, Lucy -- who is my great-great-niece -- struggled, successfully I might add, to put on her shoes.

For the first time this year, I was the oldest at the table, which gave me pause for thought: The never-ending cycle continues.

Four generations. Imagine that!

My nephew's wife, Becky, prepared a sumptuous and traditional holiday repast (she's a great cook) with the assistance of my niece Terry.

Becky, bless her heart, sent me home with a bag and a box full of delicious leftovers -- turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans, yeast rolls, gravy and homemade pie. All I have to do tonight for dinner is open a can of cranberry sauce. (I would have finished off the leftovers last night, but Mike and Becky and I went to a Chinese hot-pot restaurant for a break from turkey and leftovers.)

But most important of all, I left Thursday night with memories of another delightful Thanksgiving dinner with the family. And for that, I am most thankful.

Soup time

It's that time of year -- when I start to think about soups.

To be more precise, I think about soups and stews.

Is there anything more warming to the body and the soul when the weather turns colder than a bowl of hot soup or a tasty stew? Yeah, I know it's not a particularly original thought. But think about it: clichés are clichés because they're ... well ... true.

My mother was masterful at making soups and stews. She could take a turkey carcass or a ham bone and combine them with seasonal vegetables and rice or noodles and concoct something that satisfied the spirit and left me asking for a second helping. I probably sounded like a nearly starved Oliver: "Please, Mom, may I have some more?"

I had a friend in college whom I used to invite home for dinner frequently. My mom could always make room for one more around the dining-room table. But it seemed like every time Alan came for dinner, a big tureen of beef stew was on the table.

It happened so often my mom started to be embarrassed. "Donnie, does he think that all we ever eat is beef stew?"

It got to the point where she would tell me in the morning when she planned beef stew for dinner. "Don't invite Alan tonight, please. He must be sick of my beef stew."

Alan, I should say at this point, really, really loved my mom's beef stew. As did I.

Then she started to see the humor in it, and if she planned to make beef stew, she'd tell me to be sure to invite Alan for dinner. Alan saw the humor in it, too, and always accepted the invitation.

My mom's hamburger-vegetable chowder was my favorite. As far as I know, the recipe didn't come from any cookbook; she made it up. As a kid, I even asked her to make it on special occasions like my birthday. And when I got back home after my Air Force service, I asked her to write down the recipe for me.

I made my mom's hamburger-vegetable chowder this week for my friend Mike, who was coming for dinner, and served it over rice.

It's easy, simple, and oh, so delicious.

Here's how you do it. Crumble a pound of hamburger in a frying pan with a little garlic. When the hamburger turns brown, dump in a can of undiluted Campbell's cream of tomato soup. Add a handful of shredded carrots and a little chopped celery if you have it. Drain a small can of shoepeg corn and add it to the mix, along with a teaspoon of sugar, a couple of tablespoons of Worcestershire sauce, and some salt and pepper.

Stir it all together well.

Simmer it covered for about 15 or 20 minutes. Serve it over rice or noodles or mashed potatoes. If you're feeling fancy, sprinkle some grated cheddar on it.

I can now add my friend Mike to the list of those who have raved over the years about my mom's hamburger-vegetable chowder. He had two big helpings, and then all but licked the plate clean.

Cat fight at the Confederate Chapel

I have no cat in this fight.

I don't own and I have never flown a Confederate flag. Nobody on either side of my family ever expressed to me any mourning for the South's loss of the Civil War. The Confederate flag, to me, is merely a historical symbol, freighted with neither negative nor positive meaning. I am sorry for Richmond's and the South's suffering and loss during and right after the war, just as I am saddened by the North's suffering and loss during and right after the war. I am grateful the North won the war, simply because I can't imagine not being an American.

In short, although I am a native of Richmond, the Capital of the Confederacy 150 years ago, I have no axe to grind in this fight.

But I do miss the flags.

The fight I'm talking about is between the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts and the "flaggers," as they call themselves, who were angered by the museum's removal of the Confederate flags from the front of the Confederate Memorial Chapel on the museum's grounds.

You can read the museum's position on its blog by clicking here.

You can read blog posts by a flagger by clicking here.

So why am I posting about the flag-removal cat fight?

A little more background is in order.

I worked at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts for 33 years before I retired recently. The museum was built in 1936 on the grounds of what had been a home for needy Confederate veterans. Still standing on the property was the Home for Needy Confederate Women, which didn't close down until 1989. A few years later, the women's home was remodeled into staff space for the museum, and my office was moved there.

Every time I walked from my office to the main museum building, I passed by the charming Confederate Memorial Chapel, which has stood alongside Grove Avenue since 1887. From its front porch columns, the chapel had flown two Confederate flags since 1993.

The splash of color -- red, white and blue -- against the background of the meticulously kept, white clapboard chapel was dazzling, eye-catching and pleasantly attractive.

You can see what the chapel with its flags looked like by clicking here, and you can see what it looks like now, without the flags, by clicking here.

Now the museum has taken the flags down, and the flaggers are picketing the museum along the Boulevard. I saw them for the first time this weekend and stopped to take a picture.

As I said before, I have no cat in this fight.

But the aesthetics have changed. What I miss most now is the lively splash of color the flags provided.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

11-11-11

You can't say that civilization don't advance, however, for in every war they kill you in a new way.
--Will Rogers

I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.
--Albert Einstein

I'm glad I didn't have to fight in any war. I'm glad I didn't have to pick up a gun. I'm glad I didn't get killed or kill somebody. I hope my kids enjoy the same lack of manhood.
--Tom Hanks

When I received the Nobel Prize, the only big lump sum of money I have ever seen, I had to do something with it. The easiest way to drop this hot potato was to invest it, to buy shares. I knew that World War II was coming and I was afraid that if I had shares which rise in case of war, I would wish for war. So I asked my agent to buy shares which go down in the event of war. This he did. I lost my money and saved my soul.
--Albert Szent-Gyorgyi

War is not nice.
--Barbara Bush

We make war that we may live in peace.
--Aristotle

Let him who desires peace prepare for war.
--Flavius Vegetius Renatus

Mankind must put an end to war or war will put an end to mankind.
--John F. Kennedy

I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity.
--Dwight D. Eisenhower

"Only the dead have seen the end of war"
--George Santayana

Listening

There are people who, instead of listening to what is being said to them, are already listening to what they are going to say themselves.

--Albert Guinon (French playwright, 1863-1923)

Listening -- really listening -- is not an easy skill to master.

Take it from me: It took me years to master listening. And I still forget myself occasionally.

In journalism school, every one of my professors talked about the skills necessary for conducting a good interview. Every one of them said virtually the same thing: "Listen to the answers. Let your questions flow from the answers."

It isn't easy. In real life, we mostly talk at each other rather than to each other. While the other person is talking, we're too often trying to figure out what we're going to say next. Information is, perhaps, exchanged, but real communication isn't happening.

In journalism, especially in broadcasting, the tendency is to keep thinking ahead. Instead of really listening to the answer to the first question, we're preoccupied with trying to come up with the second question. "What am I going to say when he stops talking? I have to ask another question, or I'll look like an idiot."

Not so.

What I've rediscovered in the "What's Your Story?" series of half-hour interviews I've been doing for the Virginia Voice is that the questions will flow from the answers if I just relax and listen.

Usually I'll have some rough idea of where the conversation will go before we start recording. But a half-hour radio interview lasts a l-o-n-g time. My first inclination was to make a list of topics I wanted to cover. I thought about that for a while though and decided it might make for much more interesting broadcasts if I risked working without a net -- without a list of questions or topics or any written notes at all.

Let me give you just one example. One of the best programs I've done so far was with a woman who owns and runs a coffee emporium. I thought we'd spend a lot of time talking about coffee, it's history, it's place in our daily lives, and why we like it so much.

Sure, we talked about those things. But within the first three or four minutes of the interview, she mentioned that she'd spent a year of high school abroad, in The Netherlands. She'd loved it, learned so much, and keeps going back year after year. Suddenly, all my plans went out the window, and for the next 15 minutes we talked about that one year in her life and how much it had meant to her. She was passionate on the subject, and a passionate interview makes for really good radio.

The premise of "What's Your Story?" is that everybody has a story to tell. All you have to is ask.

But what I've learned, time and again, is that there's more to it.

Once you've asked, you have to listen.

What the person you're talking to says might surprise you, and the interview -- or conversation -- might head off in an unexpected direction.

And you'll often be pleasantly surprised. I promise.

Persevere

Never give up.

I interviewed a retired businessman recently for my "What's Your Story?" radio series on the Virginia Voice, a station that broadcasts to the vision-impaired and other print-handicapped people in Richmond and the Hampton Roads area.

I usually end each interview by asking my guest what advice he or she has for people just starting out. A surprising number of them say something like "never give up."

The businessman I interviewed told me about his 42 years of building his small Richmond company. He started with just himself and a building with a dirt floor. By the time he sold it 42 years later, he had 57 employees, and he had made a lot of money.

Over the course of those four decades, he sold about 40 different products. Most of them went nowhere. But a few filled a niche in the market. Those were the ones that made his fortune for him.

His advice? Persevere. Leave behind the ideas that don't work. Focus on the ones that do. Always keep your eye out for new possibilities, new ways of solving old problems. Keep on keeping on.

Never give up.

Luck and timing, of course, are important factors. However, you can't necessarily control them. But you can control yourself and how dedicated you are to success, no matter how you choose to define success.

So, as I'm summarizing life's lessons in these recent blog posts, I offer this nugget: Try, try, and try again. If you want something bad enough, be persistent. Be tenacious.

Take it from the late Steve Jobs, the co-founder and CEO of Apple, Inc., who said, "I'm convinced that about half of what separates the successful entrepreneurs from the non-successful ones is pure perseverance."