Sheffer Family Best of 2017

 
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Disregard other inferior top 10 lists from the likes of The New Yorker, the New York Times, Entertainment Weekly, and even Plumbers, Gas and Steam Fitters Journal. The best "best of" list for 2017 is right here. Spokesman asked the six Sheffers to provide their best cultural experience from the year -- best book, movie, travel experience, TV show, or best story that I told (no one went for that). Below is the result, the Second Annual Sheffer Family Best of List. Artwork by Spokesman's talented daughter, Emily.


 

Fargo, Season 3 -- Bleak Minnesota winterscapes plus murder wouldn't seem to make for appealing TV viewing, especially for me. I  prefer happier, upbeat entertainment even going so far as to avoid listening to songs in sad minor keys. But I have so enjoyed watching FX's Fargo series over the years with Gary and I was really looking forward to its third season this past year. I was not disappointed. I was drawn into the story just as I was during the first two seasons and I am hoping they come up with a fourth season. Ewan McGregor playing both Stussy brothers In Season 3 was fun to watch and I found myself rooting for Carrie Coon's police chief character, Gloria Burgle. 

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Springsteen’s autobio is joyously literate, emotionally wrenching when he writes about his father, and a “virtual reality” experience of the life of a self-proclaimed bar-band “f*#%ing nobody.“
 You smell the sweat, hairspray and stale beer of the Jersey bars where Springsteen learned his craft, you feel the raw power of his will to make it big, and you see his brilliance as a performer and a leader. His instinctive understanding of how to mold an odd collection of ordinary people into a kick-ass band would make a great Harvard Business School case study.
The story from the book that sticks with me most is about Jake Clemons, the nephew of Springsteen’s soul mate, the late great saxophonist Clarence Clemons. Springsteen invited Jake to his house to audition to replace Clarence in the E Street Band. Jake arrived an hour late and when he did, admitted he only “sort of” knew the sax solos his uncle and Springsteen had perfected. Springsteen sent him away with a Jack Welch-like tongue-lashing. “Where…do…you…think…you...are? If you don’t know, let me tell you. You are in a CITADEL OF ROCK ‘N’ ROLL. You don’t dare come in here and play this music for Bruce Springsteen without having your SHIT DOWN COLD!”
Jake went away, learned the parts, and earned a seat in the band. It is debatable whether Springsteen is rock’s best front man ever, (I say “yes”) but he certainly was the best band “boss” in rock history.

 
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The best thing I saw in 2017 were New Mexico's national parks and monuments--White Sands National Monument, Bandelier National Monument, Valles Caldera National Preserve, Tent Rocks National Monument. In early May, Emily and I rented a car, booked a couple of Air Bnbs, and roughly set out to explore this beautiful state whose stunning landscape has been cut and carved by thousands of years of thermal and volcanic activity. My historical consciousness of our home here in the U.S. has started with my grade school education of the founding our our country--but Emily and I walked through pueblos inhabited by tribes far beyond our founders' time here on this continent. A humbling experience. We swam in mineral springs, hiked up ladders through ancient dwellings, spotted cave paintings, looked for elk in a crater, hiked to the dramatic gorge where the Rio Grande meets the Red River, traveled on horseback through Georgia O'Keefe's Ghost Ranch, and explored Santa Fe's historic arts district. Seeking out the natural beauty and history of New Mexico was an incredible and expansive experience in an otherwise tough year. 

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My favorite thing this year was visiting my friend in Boulder, Colorado. I haven’t seen the middle of the country much. At that point Green Bay and Las Vegas were the only two places I had been in the US that weren’t in states that touched the Atlantic Ocean.

We were supposed to spend the first half of the trip going to craft breweries and eating burritos, and spend the second half hiking in Rocky Mountain National Park. There wound up being five feet of snow in May, just before we left for the park. So instead we wound up going to craft breweries and eating burritos for both halves of the vacation. I did manage to see the garden of the gods and a few other “Rockies” attractions outside of Colorado Springs. Next time I won’t visit during winter, which I now understand runs from September to June.

Tour de France is to Dad, as the New York Art Book Fair is to me. It’s a big deal! The New York Art Book Fair is the gold standard for all things art and book. It’s an annual free event, held at MoMA PS1 in Queens. PS1 is an abandoned public school building-turned art space in the late 70’s; a labyrinth of classroom-sized rooms, hallways and stairwells that will leave you feeling turned around by the end of the day. Seemingly endless numbers of publishers, presses, and independent sellers come from all corners of the world to show off their innovations in book making. Fighting through sweaty crowds in semi-well ventilated spaces sounds stressful, and can be, but feels worth it when you find that one special book. A Korean publisher was even selling a few photography books that I helped produce. Very exciting! If you get tired of books (it happens), make sure you’re with a good friend so you can take walks on the high line, pop in and out of Chelsea galleries, and eat plenty of oysters. 

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Old Cinemas in New York City. New York City is full of small arthouse cinemas featuring movies by some of films greatest directors. This year, as an NYU student, I had access to many of these theaters. The Russian post-apocalyptic thriller, Stalker by Tarkovsky was my favorite feature.

Good will come from this most mendacious year

From "Public Relations" by photographer, Garry Winogrand.

From "Public Relations" by photographer, Garry Winogrand.

2017 was a good year for communication and the people who practice it. Before you throw something at this blog, please give me a few minutes to explain this highly debatable claim. 

Yes, lies and liars abound. Yes, technology makes it easier for the devious to deceive. And yes, American leadership seemed allergic to the truth this year right from the start. 

Yet, this most mendacious year has and will lead to some good.  Already, effective communication and strong communicators are more valued than ever by smart organizations in this era of pervasive reputation risk. Plus, we’ve had a graduate-level course this year in the art of apologizing publicly, the danger of not knowing your audience, and how and how not to use Twitter as a leader.

More seriously and importantly, the unrelenting and brazen attacks on rational thinking and the truth in 2017 have raised awareness of how essential integrity in public communication is to a successful democracy.

At this point a good blogger would cite a study from Pew Research to back up this claim. I won’t because studies have demonstrated you probably wouldn’t believe the studies anyway. Instead, I'll simply tell you what I believe is happening as a result of these attacks on the truth and how I hope our profession will mobilize to fight back.

First, my beliefs.

If you care about how public policy affects people, especially those who are vulnerable,  I believe you realize it has become more acceptable for people in power to lie to get what they want.

If you care about a free and unfettered press,  I believe you realize that the growth in politically motivated attacks on it are unprecedented and dangerous for journalists and for the sustainability of democracy.

If you care about rational, fact-based discourse, I believe you realize that professional phonies and provocateurs are lurking in the dark corners of the Internet with the sole purpose of deceiving you to further their own interests.

If you care about civility, I believe you realize that it is disappearing, replaced by contempt and insults. 

Next, my hopes for turning these realizations will turn into action.

I hope CEOs will continue to be active on social and economic policy and human rights.  I also hope they will be as publicly visible on difficult reputation issues such as tax reform, trade, and globalization as on values-based issues like immigration and diversity.

I hope the communication and journalism professions will work together on a media literacy campaign to separate real work from propaganda. I hope the technology companies whose platforms are used to spread lies and outrage will continue to help fund this effort. As The Economist wrote recently, “It would be wonderful if such a system helped wisdom and truth rise to the surface.”

I hope the communication profession will continue to lead the way in the fight for integrity in public communications. I am proud to be part of an organization, the Arthur W. Page Society, whose number one principle has long been “Tell the Truth," and the Arthur W. Page Center for Integrity in Public Communication, which is funding academic research on "fake news" and all its implications. 

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I hope we will be pushed to do more by a new generation of communicators who insist on working for “good” companies that have clearly stated and admirable values and that live by them. And by communication students, who feel the same way but want us to move faster and more aggressively.

I hope more companies will adopt strategies based on public good as well as profit, and that communicators will be at the center of determining the "what" and "how."

I hope you will become part of the difficult work ahead, and help turn 2017's mendacity into 2018's honesty. 

Goodbye to Hudson's grand sports ground

Hudson High retired an 80-year-old sports ground this month, a visually striking and distinctive field where I have lost pride, blood and tears. It feels a bit like when they tore down the old Yankee Stadium -- nostalgic for their best days and sad that it is too costly to renovate and maintain these beautiful facilities. 

Unique and beautiful: The football field with the old school in the background. 

Unique and beautiful: The football field with the old school in the background. 

The John A. Barrett Field at what is now Montgomery C. Smith Intermediate School is a bit spartan but may be one of a kind. It was completed in 1937 by the federal Public Works Administration as part of the construction of Chancellor Livingston High School. The entire project, including the magnificent three-story brick, limestone and slate school building, cost $508,674.

I visited the school last month to talk with the principal, Mark Brenneman, an energetic educator of young people in grades 3 through 5. The hair on my neck stood up when I walked in the building because its looks the same as when I was last there 44 years ago. The marble mosaic floor in the lobby and the terra cotta tiles on the hallway walls have stood up to years of use.

Outside, the grand cupola and its flanking wood railings give the building a stateliness, particularly when viewed across the expansive front lawn. Every time I see this remarkable school, I am proud that my grandfather, Elmer Sheffer, helped build it.

But it is the athletic field that sparks memories for me and my entire family. It is a classic, with overlapping football and baseball fields ringed by an triangular cinder running track with granite curbs. It has an amazing view of the Catskills to the west, which I know well because I once lost a ball in the setting sun while playing right field. The batter circled the bases. Hence the loss of pride. 

Left field is backed by a steep rise of shale topped by pine, cedar and maple trees. We lived a block from the field and spent endless hours climbing the "cliffs," skinning our knees and elbows. Hence the loss of blood. 

Shortly after it opened 80 years ago. 

Shortly after it opened 80 years ago. 

The football stands are adjacent to this hill, behind the track in dead center field. The stands are the kind of rectangular concrete and wood bench (now aluminum) structure you might see in a crowd shot in a Knute Rockne movie. On the other side of the stands are five well-maintained asphalt tennis courts where players lined up to get a court during the tennis craze of the 1970s and 1980s and when a Hudson High team that included my brother, Ken, dominated all takers. 

Many great athletes have trod these fields and courts, some who have gone on to professional and collegiate renown. I am not one of them. In American Legion ball, I struck out repeatedly against a flame-throwing lefty from Saugerties, NY, who pitched briefly for the Atlanta Braves.

Having the baseball and track fields together seems ridiculously dangerous but it allowed my father to participate in two spring sports: baseball and track. He'd throw the shot put in his baseball uniform when home baseball games and track meets coincided. 

The place was electric for football, particularly night games that seemed to light up the entire city. We used the shadows to try to sneak in without paying. From pickup to Pop Warner to semi-pro, the many games tore up field, denuding it of grass at mid-field. It was fun to play in the mud but I wrecked my knee on a boggy field in my senior year homecoming game and never played football for the Hudson High Bluehawks again. Hence the tears.

The semi-pro football Vikings were a gritty bunch who held their own against teams from bigger cities. The star was Bob Van Ness, a 300-pound linebacker, placekicker and quarterback -- yes quarterback. I can still hear Vikings fans singing a gospel-style cheer before a field goal try: "Big Bob is gonna' kick it now, yeah, yeah. Oh yeah, oh yeah."

Also seared in my memory is the night a bunch of local players took on the barnstorming softball troupe, "The King and His Court," featuring pitcher Eddie Feigner. Few could make contact against the King -- even when he pitched blindfolded -- so he only needed three players behind him in the field. I sensed that night that the King and his men were more worried whether any local taverns were open than winning the softball game. 

And then there were non-sporting events. My parents and their friends loved the marching band competitions when a half-dozen corps would perform. On a very hot, humid summer night a trumpet player passed out during a performance and her helmet smacked the granite curb. She was okay but it shook me up.  

One morning, my brother and our friends were playing in the stands when a big white truck pulled on the field. Out of its cab poured about a half-dozen wild-looking men -- the "road crew" for the next night's professional wrestling match. The featured villain was Kurt Von Hess, a German military character. The road crew convinced us to set up folding chairs on the field in exchange for free tickets. Ken remembers helping a wrestler named Lil' Abner with chairs. Von Hess appeared and said without an accent, "let me show you boys how to carry chairs." I guess he wasn't so evil -- or German -- after all.

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Weeds have invaded the outer lanes of the track and I hear the baseball stands behind home plate will be demolished (much needed). The wood pole holding up the lights in left field curves toward center field, like a sunflower reaching for the sun. The fields will be used for gym class and other student activities and the track will remain open to the public. When I visited recently, what looked like a junior high girls soccer game was being played.

Today's Hudson High Bluehawks are making their own memories at a terrific new athletic facility behind the nearby high school. The new synthetic turf field, rubberized track, and metal stands should be a source of pride for Hudson. If I played on a football field as good as the new one, maybe I wouldn't walk with this limp. 

But there is something about the old field that is special, beyond my memories. It has been a bit worn and down on its luck at times, but it is resilient, idiosyncratic and full of character -- much like Hudson. Recently someone said admiringly of the field, "How perfect is the whole thing, anyway." I'd say pretty damn perfect. 

Using the past to challenge our present

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The simplest way to describe the difference between journalists and historians is that one deals with the present and one with the past. At the same time, it is clear, when practiced at their highest levels, these professions share much, including rigorous sourcing and great storytelling. In fact, many of the most important writers of our time have been both journalists and historians. See David Halberstam, Bruce Catton, Ron Chernow, or Stanley Karnow

At a time when facts apparently are not as stubborn as John Adams allegedly thought them, it's important to reflect on the intersection of journalism and history. It is sometimes said of presidents that history, with its long lens and benefit of informed reflection, eventually will render a just verdict on their performance. But what good does that do us today? History is being made as you read this and much of it is being influenced by the work of journalists, pseudo-journalists and even algorithms.

This occurred to me after reading Heather Ann Thompson's "Blood in the Water," the Pulitzer Prize-winning book on the bloody 1971 Attica prison uprising, and viewing "The Vietnam War," Ken Burns' and Lynn Novick's intelligent and remarkably watchable recounting of a failed American war. 

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Thompson's book was ten years in the making because New York State has done its best to throw a cloak of secrecy over the truth about Attica. Persistence, instincts and a little luck led Thompson to what really happened in the prison 46 years ago (read Thompson's introduction on how she uncovered the facts). The truth she reveals is devastating for nearly every government official involved with Attica.

At Attica, 1,300 prisoners took 39 corrections officers and prison employees hostage to protest what they believed to be substandard living conditions at the maximum security prison in rural western New York. A corrections officer was killed in the prisoner takeover, putting everyone on edge during the subsequent negotiations, including heavily armed State Troopers staging and stewing outside the prison walls. 

When the talks broke down, Gov. Nelson Rockefeller ordered the Troopers, National Guardsmen, and corrections officers to retake the prison. Thirty-three prisoners and nine hostages (not including the guard killed in the prisoner riot) died in the haphazard and barbaric storming -- all from gunshot wounds. The only people with guns in the prison yard that day were with law enforcement.

Thompson is a renowned historian but her investigative skills shine here. The book is meticulously sourced and factually framed. She does not let precision get in the way of an unrelenting and engrossing narrative. She sympathizes with the prisoners but she lets facts guide her work. 

You can't read this book and not be angered by how effectively Rockefeller and other state officials manipulated the investigation, the courts and the public to protect themselves. The prisoners were militants hell bent on revolution, they told the public. A state spokesman lied to the public after the storming, saying prisoners had cut the throats of hostages. Police and prosecutors hid evidence about subsequent torture and lack of medical treatment for the inmates. This dissembling and deception went on for decades.

Despite a medical examiner's report showing that the hostages were killed by gunfire, even residents of the village of Attica, saddened and shocked by the loss of husbands, brothers, and friends, continued to believe the state's story on the hostage deaths. A woman who lost two family members in the assault said, "the State Police did not kill those hostages." 

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Similarly, in "The Vietnam War," Episode 8, Burns and Novick focus on the 1970 shooting deaths of four unarmed students by Ohio National Guardsmen at Kent State University. The students, who were protesting the U.S. military "incursion" into Cambodia, were "the worst type of people that we harbor in America...worse than the 'Brown Shirts' and the communist elements," Ohio Gov. James Rhodes said the day before the shootings. After the shootings, President Nixon coldly said, "When dissent turns to violence, it invites tragedy." Again, the government's menacing characterizations of the protestors worked: a Gallup poll taken at the time found that most Americans thought the shootings were justified. 

Thompson, Burns and Novick -- as journalists and historians -- have done a service for us. Researching and retelling the stories of two of the most divisive events in our country's history, they have helped build common understanding of the reality of who we are, what we have done and why. These hard lessons will make us better -- if we are willing to invest the time to learn them. 

Of course, this led me to the present and attacks on journalists as enemies of the American people. Just last week, the president of the United States called on Congress to investigate journalists for reporting stories he did not like. That should send chills up your spine.

If you want to see and feel journalists and historians at work, read this book or watch this series. Americans should know what happened in Attica or at Kent State not only to render some form of justice for those who suffered or were wronged, but to learn that conspiracies and coverups do exist and can destroy peoples' lives if we are not vigilant. 

Often, the most vigilant people in a democracy are journalists. They know and apply the lessons of history to their reporting today. They challenge those granted power and influence. This is how a democracy is supposed to work and why it is institutionalized in this nation's founding charter.

And by journalists I don't mean those involved in shouting matches on cable news, or looney conspiracists with a radio microphone or even propagandists with websites or printing presses. Unfortunately, many Americans do not separate these charlatans from real journalists, which is why we need a sustained media literacy effort, as wisely advocated by my friend Dick Martin.

So to answer my own question above, how do histories on Attica, Vietnam and other events help us today? By providing proof that those we trust with power are imperfect and that their words and actions need to be scrutinized, criticized and held to account. To me, this is the most patriotic action we can take.

Make America Eclipse Again

The solar system didn’t disappoint Octavia, a grandmother and Uber driver.

Sarah and Emily on solar watch in Nashville.

Sarah and Emily on solar watch in Nashville.

“I underestimated it,” she said as she drove my family and I through Nashville on Monday, just hours after “totality” darkened the Music City’s skies. “I don’t mean to get religious on y'all, but I just looked up at it and said `this is God’s work.’

My wife, Barbara, and our two daughters, Sarah and Emily, made the trek to the eclipse’s “path of totality” in Nashville. We watched the celestial event unfold in a mown hay field at The Hermitage, the 420-acre plantation of the seventh president of the United States and $20 bill model, Andrew Jackson.

Several months ago when Emily suggested we make the trip to Nashville, I was as underwhelmed as Octavia had been. “Why can’t I watch it here, at home? It’s the same sun.” That began Emily’s tutelage of me on all things eclipse and why we should see the full solar blockade by the moon.

Barb pointed to this quote from Annie Dillard’s essay, "Total Eclipse:"

“Seeing a partial eclipse bears the same relation to seeing a total eclipse as kissing a man does to marrying him, or as flying in an airplane does to falling out of an airplane. Although the one experience precedes the other, it in no way prepares you for it.”

Emily, Barb and Annie were right. After experiencing the total blackout, I have to say it was worth it, even with the 2,100-mile round trip car drive from Hudson, NY, that Barb and I made with our dachshund, Charlie.

It seems like everyone has shared eclipse photos or written about it so I won’t make you read my eclipse -- much.  Just before totality, the sunlight striking the ground had a strange muted golden hue. Cicadas began chirping, tricked into thinking it was evening. Then it got almost completely dark at 1:30 p.m.  – on a clear August day! I couldn’t see Barb or my daughters standing next to me.  

That minute or so when the black disk of the moon covered the sun was the most amazing natural thing I have ever seen. The angelic white light of the corona surrounding the moon was breathtaking. A purplish “night sky” appeared instantly, replete with stars and planets, including Venus.

People cheered. It was the sound of joy – pure joy.

After the moon moved on and the sunlight returned, strangers hugged, couples toasted with champagne, and everyone gushed about the show in the sky. One woman from Cincinnati sitting near us threw her arms over her head like she had just won a race and said, “Amazing, amazing, amazing!” She turned to another woman from Chicago, and said “It felt so important, so unifying for everyone, didn’t it?” The second woman agreed, adding, “it was the break we all needed from all the crazy stuff going on.”

I asked Sarah why she thought the eclipse had been such a big event in the U.S. -- Nashville even closed its schools for the day. “Social media,” she said. Then after a moment’s thought, she added, “I think people are just craving authentic communal events.”

By the way, how did I get such smart daughters? See below Emily's art from the eclipse

I'll add a few thoughts. First, after all the hype, I suspect many people thought the eclipse would be a bust or just "meh." We’ve grown cynical about events that get big buildups – in other words, “if they have to sell it that hard, it’s probably not very good.” But it lived up to its billing – unlike snow storms, for instance, that forecasters overhype.

Second, it was amazing to have something in common with everyone in Nashville. The whole city stopped in its tracks. You weren’t afraid to ask anyone “Where’d you watch the eclipse.” It is the first time I can remember an event so positive and universal since the moon landing in 1969.

Finally, it was the perfect event for a time when mankind seems incapable of big things and is instead focused on inconsequential matters of self-interest. The natural world reminded us what amazing and inspiring looks like. Maybe Americans should rally around more natural events – free, accessible, awe-inspiring -- as a way of unifying us.

Octavia is all in on that idea. “Let me tell you, I would go anywhere – anywhere -- to see that again.”


By Emily Sheffer

In 1854, Philadelphia-based brothers William and Frederick Langenheim made seven daguerreotypes of the total eclipse of the sun - the first eclipse visible in North America since the invention of photography. 

Under the light of the eclipse this past week, I recreated Langenheim’s images with cyanotype paper, a photographic process that uses sun-sensitive paper to make an exposure. 

I printed inverted images of the original daguerreotypes to make paper negatives, and placed the paper negative on top of the cyanotype paper. The sun comes through the white parts of the paper negative, exposing the cyanotype paper beneath it to blue.

163 years later images made by the light of one eclipse are printed with the light of another.

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The progress of the process - from daguerrotype to paper negative to cyanotype.

 

A triplet of the final cyanotypes.

 

Beaches? Bah! Bars are best for baseball reading

I don’t go to the beach because my skin could accurately be described as white.

If Sherwin Williams named a paint color for me it would be “Atomic White.” I am as white as freshly sprinkled confectionary sugar on fried dough. When I take off my shirt at the beach, people put on a second pair of sunglasses. I wear four-digit SPF sun screen. My brother used to call me “Casper.

I am also a terrible swimmer. I failed beginners class at Oakdale Lake in Hudson several times. Desperate to pass, I would fake the crawl stroke in shallow water by putting my hands on the bottom of the lake to "swim." When we had young children and I was forced to go to the beach, I used to say that the best thing about going to the beach was leaving the beach.

The White Horse Tavern from Richard Russo's novels became the Iron Horse Bar in the movie, Nobody's Fool, some of which was filmed in Hudson.

The White Horse Tavern from Richard Russo's novels became the Iron Horse Bar in the movie, Nobody's Fool, some of which was filmed in Hudson.

So when I see lists this time of year for beach reading, I can feel my shoulders burning and my hydrophobia kicking in. I just can’t be expected to read a book while hiding under a hat, towel, umbrella, and lead vest. My preferred summer reading habitat is a dark, wood-paneled bar with cheap draught beer. For purposes of this blog post, let’s call my fantasy summer reading place the White Horse Tavern from the mind of novelist Richard Russo.

Now that we have the location, what are the best books to read in the summer? Baseball, of course. After all, it’s The Summer Game (see below). This summer I am reading Richard Sandomir’s The Pride of the Yankees: Lou Gehrig, Gary Cooper, and the Making of a Classic. It focuses on the 1942 biopic on the doomed Yankee great Gehrig. It’s a fascinating read filled with new details, particularly for Yankee and movie fans.

Reading it convinced me that I should do my own summer reading list focused on baseball. Why baseball? Just read a few pieces by the greatest baseball writer ever, Roger Angell of The New Yorker, who called baseball boxscores, "my favorite urban flower." Or consider the consummate Angell quote:

"Since  baseball time is measured only in outs, all you have to do is succeed utterly; keep hitting, keep the rally alive, and you have defeated time. You remain forever young."

I am calling this my White Horse Tavern Summer Reading List for Baseball Fans. These books can be read on a corner barstool with the Yankees on the TV and enough of your money on the bar to get you through six or seven chapters.

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12.

Can't Anybody Here Play this Game?, by Jimmy Breslin. A hilarious account of the worst team ever, the 1962 Mets: "The Mets opened their season on April 11 and closed on September 30. In this time, the players did enough things wrong to convince even casual observers that there has never been a team like them. From the start, the trouble with the Mets was the fact that they were not too good at playing baseball."

10.

Pitch by Pitch, by Bob Gibson and Lonnie Wheeler. Gibson goes through every pitch of his transcendant performance in Game One of the 1968 World Series in which he struck out 17 Tigers. Makes you feel like you are on the mound with Gibson.

8.

A False Spring, by Pat Jordan, the bittersweet memoir of a "can't miss" bonus baby who flamed out in the low minor leagues. 

6.

Ball Four, by Jim Bouton. The Long Season made Ball Four possible. Bouton, a former Yankee power pitcher in the early 1960s, chronicles his 1969 season throwing knuckle balls for the lowly Seattle Pilots. Its honest revelations about what really happens in the clubhouse and after games made it one of the most controversial and influential sports books of all time.

11.

Shoeless Joe, by W.P. Kinsella. Yes, "if you will build it, he will come," is now cliche (with many replacing "he" with "they") but this quirky, lyrical and dreamlike novel is much better than the film it birthed, Field of Dreams

9.

The Celebrant, by Eric Rolfe Greenberg, a fictionalization of the life of New York Giants star pitcher Christy Mathewson and the fictional story of a Jewish immigrant family of jewelers. The best novel about baseball.

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7.

The Long Season, by Jim Brosnan. An authentic -- and unusual for its time -- diary of Brosnan's 1959 season with the St. Louis Cardinals and Cincinnati Reds. 

5.

Bang the Drum Slowly, by Mark Harris. Bruce Pearson is a catcher for the fictional New York Mammoths, a lovable rube, and a dying man. This novel poigniantly chronicles his death across a baseball season. 

4.

The Natural, by Bernard Malamud. The classic novel with Roy Hobbs, a bat named "Wonder Boy," and the fictional New York Knights. It magically mixes myth, legend and baseball.

2.

The Boys of Summer, by Roger Kahn. A history of the Brooklyn Dodgers by a sports writer who grew up near Ebbets Field and loved the great -- but hard-luck -- Dodgers to distraction. For casual baseball fans, this is the book to read.

3.

A Day in the Bleachers, by Arnold Hano. From the subway ride to the game to the other fans surrounding him, Hano provides a captivating time capsule of what it was like to sit in the cheap seats at the Polo Grounds. It's Game 1 of the 1954 World Series and Mays still makes the catch. 

1.

The Summer Game, by Roger Angell. Any Angell books is a gem but this collection of pieces stuck with me because it focuses on baseball's glory days of Mays, Mantle, and Koufax, and for its witty and precise descriptions of what happens on the field: "Choo Choo Coleman, a catcher for the early Mets, “handles outside curve balls like a man fighting off bees.” (Sorry for picking on the Mets again).

That's it, my White Horse Tavern Summer Reading List for Baseball Fans. Look for it on Dozenbestbooks.com, a great site for bookaholics founded by PR legend John Onoda. Then head off to that dark bar.

'Don't make me barf'

Bill Lane flanked by GE colleagues Christian Flathman (left) and Jeff DeMarrais (right) with me seated. This is a 2001 send-off party for Jeff who had been named head of communications for our locomotive business in Erie, PA.

Bill Lane flanked by GE colleagues Christian Flathman (left) and Jeff DeMarrais (right) with me seated. This is a 2001 send-off party for Jeff who had been named head of communications for our locomotive business in Erie, PA.

Sometimes the sight of a single physical thing can wrench free emotions that you thought you had tightened down.

This happened to me recently at the wake of my friend, Bill Lane. His family had placed his Green Beret from his service in Vietnam atop his coffin. When I saw it, my throat tightened and my eyes welled up as I remembered the many hours I had spent with this amazing man during our time at GE.

When I joined GE's public relations team, Bill already was a legendary speechwriter for Jack Welch. Bill helped Jack change the way CEOs communicated. No fancy boardroom talk or financial bullshit -- just plain, powerful, and realistic language without a hint of elitism. They retooled the workingman’s language for Wall Street and investors loved it.

Bill was an officer in the Green Berets during one of the toughest parts of the Vietnam War, the Tet Offensive. Seeing his Green Beret brought back memories of Bill telling me about his time in Vietnam, not to brag but to shine a spotlight on the idiocy of the mission or the leadership. His stories were always perfectly constructed, without fat, and hilarious and maddening at the same time. And Bill told them with red-hot passion. He’d reach a fiery crescendo and then his mood would improve instantly. He’d smile, shrug his shoulders and say, “Who gives a shit. Let’s get some coffee.”

When Jack Welch retired in 2001, GE put together a book of his 21 annual letters to share owners. Bill's introduction perfectly reflected Jack and the GE culture at the time:

"The letters were often inspiring and uplifting, but could be scary as well, to elements of the management population -- 'and the know who they are.' Startling denunciations and threats were regularly directed at bureaucracy and bureaucrats...from mere 'ridicule and removal,' to annihilation."

Bill and Jack’s writing process was elegantly simple: Jack would dictate the outline of a speech or a share owner letter. Bill would take notes or tape record Jack and then charge down the steps to his office to begin writing on a yellow legal pad with a black felt tip pen. When he was satisfied with what he’d written, Bill would hand the pages to an executive assistant for typing and then would prowl the halls until the document was proofed and sent to Jack.

At times, however, there were a few kinks. Bill and I got a new executive assistant when I joined GE. A few days after she started, Bill needed to get a speech to Jack quickly. He handed a stack of handwritten pages to the new assistant. As Bill hovered nearby, she began typing very slowly -- using only her index fingers.

“Uh oh,” was all Bill said. A few days later, we had a new assistant.

Another time a red-faced Bill came down the hall after meeting with Jack. Our new and very able assistant, Diane Laffitte, asked him how it went. Bill said, “He doesn’t like the photo I picked for the annual report. Says it makes him look bald.” Diane asked, “What did you say?” Bill responded, “I told him he IS fucking bald.”

He did not suppress his sense of humor when dealing with Jack. For example, Bill would listen to Jack give him feedback on a draft of the annual letter and then with a straight face ask, "Do you have any serious comments?"

Bill was direct, gruff, and politically conservative as they came. But he never held it against you if you disagreed nor did he take anything too seriously that was outside his control. Words, however, he could control.

He taught others to try to do the same in the famous “Pit” lecture hall at GE’s "Crotonville" learning center. He’d tell junior executives they had to up their communications game if they wanted to climb the GE ladder. “Forget PowerPoint, it’s a plague,” he’d bellow, urging more personal, less formal communications.

Mind you, several years after I arrived at GE in 1999, Bill was still using overhead transparencies. But the medium didn’t matter – his message of simplicity and clarity was burned into the brains of thousands of GE executives over the years.

I write about Bill because he was one of the most important people in my life. When I arrived at GE, I knew almost nothing about business or GE. Bill took the time to help. I’d drop a proposed statement on his desk and he’d return it quickly with big black edits that made my mundane prose passable.

The most fun was working with Bill rehearsing senior leaders for presentations at GE’s annual strategy meeting. In a dark and cavernous ballroom, Bill would stand at the back of the room, microphone in hand and give direct and blunt “voice of god” comments when the executive was done rehearsing:

“What was all that mumbo jumbo up front? Get rid of it.”

Bill could be quite intimidating until you figured out that he was a marshmallow underneath all the muscles; his warmth and caring for others – particularly his family -- could be as powerful as his writing. Our mutual friend Steve Ramsey, who led GE's environment and safety team, described Bill as loyal and generous and reminded me how much fun it was to be around Bill, and how he would pull your chain just to get a rise out of you.

Once he casually mentioned an op-ed he had written in 1988 for the Wall Street Journal about Vietnam veterans. After he left my office, I looked it up and discovered a war story he had not told. During a firefight during the Tet offensive, enemy fire kept him pinned down behind tombstones in a Buddhist cemetery for a day and a night.

Later, on our way to get coffee, I told him it was an amazing story.

His response was pure Bill (and very similar to a line from the op-ed): He rolled his eyes and said, “Don’t make me barf.”

 

A Lady and Her Town


Mom and Dad on their wedding day with her mother, Anna Borrelle. In the background is the General Worth Hotel, which was just a few steps from where my mother grew up. 

Mom and Dad on their wedding day with her mother, Anna Borrelle. In the background is the General Worth Hotel, which was just a few steps from where my mother grew up. 


On the day she died ten years ago today, my mother did one of the best things a mother can do for a child: she laughed at my jokes.

We were in her room at Columbia Memorial Hospital in Hudson, NY, in the final hours of her determined struggle to hang on to earthly life. She was sitting up in bed, surrounded by flowers from friends and family. In the room was her lifelong best friend -- her sister really -- Fran Brady. Fran and Mom had shared a room in the same hospital 47 years earlier when Fran's daughter, Sue, and I were born.

On that final day of her life, I wore a striped blue and yellow oxford shirt that she hated and hoped it would make her laugh. 

"Hey Mom, I wore your favorite shirt," I said. "Oh, that's really nice, thank you for wearing it," she said sarcastically. Fran joined in the laughter and it seemed like any of the thousands of times when these two great women were together. My Mom was always animated by Fran's presence and today was no different. They laughed again when I joked about how much Mom loved the overabundant and fragrant flower arrangements (she didn't).

Fran Brady, left, and my mother. 

Fran Brady, left, and my mother. 

Fran said her final goodbye to the woman she loved with smiles that hid deep sorrow. That had been their way for decades; it was a friendship cemented by laughter. My mother found rest a few hours later, quietly giving in to the cancer that had tried futilely to define her final years. Nothing, not four energetic kids, chemotherapy, or now, death, could diminish the quiet resolve and fire of Rachel Borrelle Sheffer, a diminutive daughter of Italian immigrants.

She grew up in an apartment over her father's pool hall on lower Warren Street, the city's main drag. It was a neighborhood of close-knit Italian families who worked hard to prove themselves as Americans, who did big things like build a church, and who cared deeply for each other. Mom was the community's favorite daughter, a smart, curly-haired beauty with an electric smile.

She was a little sister to two big brothers and popular with her classmates. She married a star athlete from Hudson High, our father, Kenneth "Red" Sheffer, and dedicated her life to raising the four of us -- Valerie, Ken, Paula and myself -- in her hometown. 

Hudson is a small city, but to Mom, life there and in the surrounding area was the American Dream. From the Elks Lodge to Fatso's picnic grove to Lake Taghkanic to Kinderhook Lake, it provided everything she needed, including a good job for her husband. In the "Madmen" era of serious fun, she had plenty. Every time the phone rang, chances are it was a friend calling to make plans or to relive the last party. If it was Fran, it was also a way for both to clear their heads and complete their days.

Don't get me wrong, my mother was a hard worker, taking care of everyone around her. She was an amazing cook and was very house proud. She was tough. She didn't say much when we fell short of her expectations; she just had to look at you (including my father) and you knew what you needed to do. She was direct: "Thinking about joining the Army, Gary? No. You're going to college." And that was that.

When we were young, she loved sitting on her father's front stoop with us kids saying "hi" to friends who passed by. This was even more fun for her on days of big parades in Hudson. When we moved to a suburban part of the city, she and my father sat on the front porch of their house in the evening, enjoying neighbors who stopped by for a chat and occasionally a cocktail. 

In front of her father's store.

In front of her father's store.

A few weeks before she passed away, my mother was in the hospital and desperately wanted to go home. She let the staff know it. Usually polite and charming, Mom was frustrated that she was losing her fight and muddled by her medication. We got a late-night call from a nurse who had done her best to calm my mother but needed help from a family member. I arrived at the hospital about midnight. As I sat in the chair next to her bed, nothing calmed her until I started asking her questions about Hudson and its people.

"When did the Concras open The Paramount?" I asked about the bar and grill that was two doors from her father's pool hall. I inquired about other things in the neighborhood --  her life-long friends and next-door neighbors Helen and Rose Roberts, the General Worth Hotel where she had her wedding reception, and Mt. Carmel Church. Answering these questions soothed her.  We talked until dawn. She finally slept.

It may seem strange but that difficult night is the memory of Mom I hold dearest. Those hours in a dark hospital room say everything about a life that was simple but so meaningful. She felt lucky to have lived her life in Hudson among the people who would soon mourn her. The cashiers at the local grocery store turned out for her funeral. So did the people who worked with her at election polls for many years. So did the people still around from the old neighborhood. 

She would never say it but Mom was quietly proud that nearly every minute of her 72 years was spent in service of her family, friends and community. And she had a great time through it all, including laughing at her son's bad jokes. 

Culture comes first for reputation strategy

It has been an amazing few weeks of analysis and dissection of United Airlines’  arms-first "deplaning" of a passenger. My aim here is not to pile on United, a good company that made a mistake. I’d rather focus on how this case illuminates the changing role of communications professionals. 

As always when one of these things happens, people who know what I do for a living say to me, "Boy, does United have a PR problem." It does, but what United really has is a culture problem that that led to a PR crisis.

United has admirable and well-articulated shared values. One is "We Fly Right…We earn trust by doing things the right way..." Another is "We Fly Friendly," and a third states that United respects every voice and makes decisions with empathy.

However, these values went out the window on the flight in question and more importantly, when United adopted the policy to remove passengers from overbooked flights. No business should treat the people who pay the bills this way. Any organizational culture that allows it is broken, any decision-making process that supports it is flawed, and any leader who sanctions it is misguided. 

This is why organizational culture must be at the center of every leaders' agenda and must be the foundation of every enterprise's reputation risk strategy. A good company asks itself "who are we, why do we exist, what do we value and how do we live our values in every action, every day." This cultural examination needs to be led by the CEO, with Human Resources, Communications and others as full partners.

This is where communicators can step forward. It is increasingly communicators' role to be the dissenting voice in the room when a policy is being considered that may be contrary to an organization's stated values. If it is, they should advocate for a different course of action.

Communicators have one of the broadest views of anyone in a company and can help define and contextualize values as well as express and communicate them. If your purpose, mission and values are clearly understood by people in the company, there is a greater chance they will inform every decision and action, including how you respond when things go wrong.

This era of instant "blame and shame" heightens the need for a strong culture. Crisis experts appear in the media just hours after an incident, looking back with perfect clarity to dissect every word uttered by a CEO. This can be helpful. But having been inside a few crises and performed imperfectly during them, I know how hard it is. Facts can be limited or contradictory, there are competing voices in the decision room, time is short, and people are overworked. Your mind doesn't work as clearly in a crisis as it does during normal times.

In addition, research shows that companies and leaders are increasingly judged by how they react in tough times. The consequences can be dire for underperforming as the public face of an organization during a crisis.

United has admitted that it responded insensitively when video of the passenger removal first went viral. It defended its actions in clinical corporate language. The word "re-accommodate" will never be the same. United CEO Oscar Munoz, who appears to be a very competent leader, recovered nicely a few days after the incident, but that was too late for United's sinking reputation and market value. The company has since said that it will no longer remove passengers already seated on flights and that it is conducting a comprehensive review of relevant policies. 

Yes, United has a "PR problem." But like just about every major PR crisis of the past decade, it had its roots in an action that failed to match the company's words and aspirations.

That's why it is important to always be led by values that are aligned with broadly held social values, to build a culture that knows and is comfortable with itself, and that can act with confidence and purpose even in the worst of times. This is the primary job of today's CEOs, with the communicator at her or his side. 

Nevertheless, he persisted

The surface of the Brunswick pool was made of three pieces of inch-thick slate that were so heavy that several men strained to carry them down the steps of our basement. The wheels of the pickup truck that delivered the slate to our house sank into the muddy ground in our backyard.

Frank Borrelle in his pool hall on Warren Street in Hudson, New York. 

Frank Borrelle in his pool hall on Warren Street in Hudson, New York. 

The men, including my father, were too exhausted from the move to put the table together so they left the slate stacked on the floor near the wooden frame of the table. 

Several days later, I came home from school and the eight-foot-long table was assembled, an expanse of green felt expertly stretched over the slate, ready for play. To this day, my family still doesn't know how the slate was hoisted onto the frame. The only person working on the table that day was my grandfather, Frank Borrelle, who was in his seventies and stood about five-and-a-half feet tall. However it happened -- through some magic leverage trick or the help of a few hired hands -- the "mystery of the pool table " became a legend in our family and a symbol of the way my grandfather overcame challenges others walked away from.

Now, my grandfather knew pool tables. Our table came from his pool hall, Ritz Billiards, a three-table emporium he ran for nearly 40 years on lower Warren Street in Hudson, N.Y.

The son of an Italian farmer, he twice emigrated to America during his childhood, staying for good on the second trip. His family lived in a house near a quarry in Hudson and "picked rocks" for 10 cents a day, as he told me. After several jobs in and near Hudson, including owning a luncheonette on Warren Street,  Frank opened his pool hall and ice cream parlor at 223 Warren Street in about 1925 (he added a soda fountain in 1938). He and his wife, Anna, and eventually three children lived in the apartment upstairs.

The pool hall in its heyday. The woman on the right is my mother, Rachel Borrelle Sheffer. 

The pool hall in its heyday. The woman on the right is my mother, Rachel Borrelle Sheffer. 

Frank Borrelle was tough but well-liked. The pool hall became a favorite hangout for Hudson boys in the 1930s and 40s. Its regulars were like a close-knit family, according to his daughter and my mother, Rachel. When these young men left Hudson to serve in World War II, my grandfather saw them off at the train station and took home movies of their departures. When home on leave, the men stopped to see Frank and posed in their uniforms for photos, which he hung on the wall of the poolroom. 

The pool hall was also the start of a real family, mine. My great-grandfather on my father's side, William Sheffer, was one of Frank's best friends and spent every night in the poolroom for many years. If William didn't show up, Frank would go to his house and check on him. William Sheffer's grandson, Ken, would marry my mother. Their first date was in a restaurant next to the pool hall, Paramount Grill. 

World champion Willie Mosconi takes a shot in my grandfather's pool hall as Pete Leggieri of Hudson looking on. More than 100 people watched in 1954 as Mosconi beat Leggieri in a "hard, well-played game" according to the local newspaper.

World champion Willie Mosconi takes a shot in my grandfather's pool hall as Pete Leggieri of Hudson looking on. More than 100 people watched in 1954 as Mosconi beat Leggieri in a "hard, well-played game" according to the local newspaper.

The pool hall drew great players from around the world, including the best ever, Willie Mosconi. Wagers of all kinds were common, and the billiards games were surrounded by other gambling opportunities including a card game in the basement.

My grandfather was still skilled with a pool cue in his 70s and would show us amazing trick shots on the table in our basement, including shooting a half-dollar standing on edge between two blocks of cue chalk at the far end of the table. A life-long tinkerer, he spent much of his retirement making things -- wooden pencil boxes, converting wide-mouth beer bottles into candle holders -- and would stop anywhere and everywhere to harvest dandelions for salads, even other peoples' property. 

In earlier days...the woman beneath the "pocket billiards" sign is my grandmother, Anna Borrelle.

In earlier days...the woman beneath the "pocket billiards" sign is my grandmother, Anna Borrelle.

Stricken by emphysema late in life, Frank spent many hours watching game shows and Lawrence Welk on television. He built a home-made remote-control so he wouldn't have to watch the "goddamn commercials." On Saturday nights when we visited his home, he would audiotape the Welk show and commanded us to be quiet during the hour -- a command my grandmother frequently ignored.

Americans admire the courage and entrepreneurship of their immigrant ancestors. The lesson I take from my grandfather's life is persistence. Without the benefit of speaking the language when he arrived, without money or a mother, and facing discrimination, he would not give up.

There is a story in our family that Frank's wife and my grandmother, Anna, hit a garbage truck with her car when taking her driving test. Sensing he might need to supplement my grandmother's questionable driving skills, Frank threw a carton of cigarettes to the inspector when the road test was over. Anna had her license.

Frank Borrelle got things done, somehow, someway, even magically moving slate so his grandchildren could join him in a game of pool.

 

POTUS tweets: Nothing to 'frict' here

Updated March 19, 2017

Many experts and counselors have weighed in on how American companies and CEOs should handle the threat of a presidential tweet about jobs, investments, trade -- let's be honest, the list of potential tweet topics is endless.

This question has been much discussed in board rooms and by CEOs and chief communications officers, as it should. After all, this is the first time we've had a president that is the "activist in chief."

Various response strategies have been employed with varying degrees of success, reminding us that much of what we do as communicators is situational, requiring quick and informed judgments, and is more "art" than science. But in reviewing the communications of tweet targets to date, it seems one approach works better than others. 

The best way to anchor and enhance reputation and protect your license to operate in any country is to align your values with social needs and act upon them every day. In other words, companies exist to add value to peoples' lives inside and outside their office and factory walls and should be judged on whether they do or not. 

For communications professionals this means helping executives define and understand these values so it's easier for those in the organization to act on them. Externally, it means helping everyone, including presidents, understand who you are and how you behave -- an authentic purpose-driven "narrative" in communicator speak. 

The companies that have responded well did so with a sense of confidence and ease, in statements free of corporate language. When you know who you are, why you exist and are comfortable with it, these responses become much easier. An edgy "correct the record" attitude (which I have employed many times) seems counterproductive in this political environment -- although explaining the facts is a must. 

On the other hand, the "placate the president" approach doesn't seem to work as well. Don't get me wrong, American CEOs should consider their Washington and local political relationships when making decisions, particularly about their jobs. Elected officials can and will wreak havoc with your reputation if they feel you are betraying workers and constituents. Increasingly, Americans expect companies to put people ahead of money when making workforce decisions.

But the fear of a presidential criticism should never dominate CEO decision-making. Business leaders must make complex investment decisions based on things such as product demand, workforce capability, tax policy, regulation, and operating costs.

Plus, CEOs serve diverse groups of people -- employees, customers, investors, partners, communities, and "civil society," a fancy term that means people outside of government and business who work for the common good. CEOs' sense of nationalism exists and strongly in many cases, but it necessarily falls down the list of priorities when making complex decisions that could affect many stakeholders and determine whether their businesses survive. 

A quick aside for communicators whose CEOs have been asked to work on White House advisory councils. With the U.S. jobless rate at about 9 percent in 2011, GE CEO Jeff Immelt was asked by President Obama to lead a group of CEOs to suggest job-creating policies. Jeff weighed the request carefully, after all, he has a big company to run and with the country divided politically, he knew it would make GE a target for partisan attacks. When Jeff asked my advice, I told him "There's no good 'no' answer. When the presidents asks for help, you say 'yes.'"

Jeff already knew this before I said a word. Plus, GE had a long legacy of helping presidents going back and serving the country is consistent with Jeff's and GE's values. Jeff led a vigorous process and the council produced many suggestions that were implemented. The reputation challenges came as expected from both ends of the political spectrum but most employees viewed Jeff's role favorably because he explained his decision in real time and in real terms.

Back to tweets. A friend of mine and I were discussing recently how to best stay the president's Twitter fingers and he said that a Trump tweet "is a missile looking for friction." His advice to clients: "don't give it anything to 'frict' on." That's a very smart way of saying your best missile defense is running your business the right way, being confident in who your are, and not doing stupid things to put yourself in the crosshairs.

I also like the advice of PR pro Lucas van Praag, who writes in PRWeek how to prepare for and respond when presidents attack, emphasizing the need to have a plan ahead of time, to monitor the Twittersphere vigilantly, and, of course, to act with speed. Lucas concludes:

"Be honest and straightforward. If you are at fault, apologize and do something about it. If you are targeted for something you didn’t do, present the facts in a compelling way. Finally, never lie. Politicians may have the dubious luxury of living in an 'alternative fact' world, but company executives do not."

Sage advice for this age of uncertainty -- or anytime.

Opinions expressed here are my own.
 

 

 

 

Tales of glory from an unlikely source, my father

My dad was not a storyteller. In fact, he didn't tell us much about his childhood, his work, his time in the military, his thoughts on politics, culture, or for that matter, his four children. He lived in the moment without reflection or reverie. 

"Trow" was 13-13 in his major league career, including 7-5 in the Braves' 1957 world championship season. He was later traded to Kansas City.

"Trow" was 13-13 in his major league career, including 7-5 in the Braves' 1957 world championship season. He was later traded to Kansas City.

That's why I was shocked when in my forties, he handed me a handwritten note chock full of stories about his high school buddy, Bob Trowbridge, who is maybe the greatest athlete to come out of our hometown, Hudson, N.Y. A few days earlier I had asked my father about Bob, who pitched brilliantly for Hudson High and became a major leaguer, most prominently with the championship Milwaukee Braves teams of the late 1950s. 

My father played with Bob in high school and was pretty good in his own right. But my only memory of Dad as an athlete was watching him play softball in his thirties and forties for the Hudson Elks Lodge. He was a feared hitter and I remember him slugging balls onto the distant earthen bank in right field at Charles Williams Field. When he did, he was lucky to get to first base because of his bad knees. He'd hit the ball a mile and then high step like a Lippizaner Stallion to first base, pumping his knees up to his waist as he tried futilely to will speed out of his faulty legs.

After getting Dad's note, I found his high school scrap book, which he had never shown me. The newspaper clippings filled out the story of Dad and Trow, as dad called Bob. My dad was a center fielder and a decent hitter but his love was football, which caused the bad knees, After high school, they both went to a baseball "school" put on by the Boston Braves. Trow was later signed to a contract by the Braves but my dad's time with the Braves was short-lived.

During a visit to my parents a few weeks after I got his note, I asked my dad what happened to his tryout with the Braves. The knees made him too slow, he said, plus a minor league curveball was diabolical compared to the ones he'd seen in high school. This got him telling "glory days" stories about Trow. It was a rare moment for me. 

Dad, who everyone called "Red," said there wasn't a sport or game that Trow couldn't master. For example, Bob challenged and beat a talented local tennis player in a match despite having never picked up a racquet previously. Trow was a great dart player, often winning enough to pay for food and beer for his friends on a Friday night (Dad and Trow shared an admiration for beer. "He could punish it," Dad wrote.) Trow was also a skilled bowler; his entry in the biographical book, "The Ballplayers," says he was known as the best bowler in the major leagues. 

Then Dad told me the story of his own football exploits including a high school game when he had five interceptions -- five! In the Air Force and Army, he spent four years playing football for his military bases. In fact, he may be the only person ever traded from one branch of service to another to play football -- an Army officer spotted him in an Air Force game and arranged for him to play for his Army base. Trow spent three years in the Air Force pitching for the Ellis Air Force Base team near Las Vegas. 

Dad kept talking and switched to a story about Trow's misfortune in the 1957 World Series against the mighty Yankees. Trow pitched very well for the Braves that year and was brought in as a relief pitcher in Game 3 with the Yankees leading 7-3. He was wild but got two outs before the bottom fell out. Dad said that Trow should have had the third out on a clear check swing strike by Jerry Coleman. When the pitch was called ball four, Trow slammed the rosin bag to the ground. After that, he came undone, giving up five runs including a home run to Yankee shortstop Tony Kubek.

In his written note to me, Dad said the only game Trow lost in high school was because his regular catcher ate six hot dogs before the game and became too ill to play. The backup couldn't handle Trow's velocity and Hudson lost the championship game. What a story! From my father!

Hudson High Bluehawks circa 1948. In back row, third from left is Red Sheffer, and third from right is Bob Trowbridge.

Hudson High Bluehawks circa 1948. In back row, third from left is Red Sheffer, and third from right is Bob Trowbridge.

What unlocked these treasures and why did he decide to tell me about them after years of keeping them locked up? I don't know but I know it never happened again. 

Perhaps my dad was just telling me about a friend and someone he shared local headlines with many years ago. Not many high school ballplayers get to see their friend pitch in the World Series and, in that sense, maybe he was telling me about his hero.

Today, hometown friends usually scatter around the world after graduation. My dad's didn't, even the one major leaguer and World Series champion. Dad spent his whole life with Lee, Bobby, Brenz, Pete, Eddie, Trow and others. They lived their whole lives in Hudson and enjoyed their beer, sports and stories. I will always remember the night my Dad let me into their circle.   

A note to Trump's new communications director

This is a note to Mike Dubke, the new White House chief communications strategist, which lately seems like an oxymoron.

Mike, you have a tough job but you appear to be a pro (if Brian Jones says so, I believe him). I have never worked in the White House but I have led a global communications team for one of the world's most important companies and worked as a press aide in state government. So please take this advice for what it is worth.

You have to try to change the way the White House is telling its story. It is not good. The president's peppery press conference yesterday might have made him feel good, but it was actually demeaning to him as a person, to the presidency and to America.

Before you stop reading, I want to assure you this note is not about the president's policies; it is about how you can use your influence and expertise to help the president and the country succeed. It starts with remembering that you work for the president but you serve your fellow citizens. I hope you and your team reflect on this privilege every day.

I'll also admit I am not a supporter of the president but I am rooting for you and him because I am an American. I am the  grandson of Italian immigrants, the son of a veteran, and the father of four smart young adults who are frightened by the spectacle of the last month. I hope you will view my advice in that perspective.

So here are a few quick thoughts as you embark on this amazing and challenging job.

If you want more people to support the president's policies, you have to restore civility and respect to his communications. Stop the name calling. "Liar," "dishonest," "loser," "clown" are the words of an insecure and weak person, not a strong one. Stop the breeding of suspicions of people and institutions, the degrading of those who disagree, and the appeals to base instincts.

Please push the president to speak to all Americans, not just those who voted for him. He has not tried this yet. This starts with listening, even to those who disagree with you. Communications is just noise without listening (as my friend Russell Wilkerson once told me). 

Tell the country in simple but specific terms what the president stands for without the dark apocalyptic language. Ditch those campaign platitudes. Stop looking back. If you show people where you are going, more are likely to follow. 

Try to establish a sense of calm confidence in the administration. Today it looks desperate and frantic. Be a sea of calm amidst the storm and others may mimic your chill.

Muzzle sycophantic spokespeople who bully their way through interviews with anger and lies or who proclaim that "the president is brilliant." Any administration is going to have a set of talking points, but if you are constantly bulldozing, the only thing you will find is that you've dug yourself into a big hole (as my friend Jeff DeMarrais once told me). 

Tell the truth.

Keep Stephen Miller off TV.

For you and your team, spend your "off podium" time building relationships with the news media and your colleagues in government. Your credibility is based on respect and trust. The absence of it creates conflict, frustration, and irrational and emotional responses that are the enemy of progress.

Hire communications pros and put them in the big executive agencies -- Defense, State, Treasury. You will need steady hands there.

Try to answer questions directly. You'd be amazed at how liberating and effective it can be. 

Admit mistakes. We all screw up, particularly in a new job.  

Turn the president's tweet storms into celebratory or aspirational communications. Have the president recognize an American who has done something extraordinary or thank a public servant whose work is exceptional. Use your pulpit power positively. 

Stop your new boss from constantly attacking the news media. Hold reporters to account but do not demonize them. More practically, the president will not win his fight with the media because our Constitution ensures that the free press will outlast any person or president. Learn the hard lessons of Richard Nixon and Spiro Agnew. 

Be bold while rejecting extremism. They are two different things. It has been my experience in business and government that the people with the most extreme views are usually wrong.

I am not naive about how politics works. Every decision is not logical or rational. You will win some fights and you will lose others. But I am confident that if you consistently advocate for truth, civility, clarity, and what is right, you will win more than you lose -- and so will the president.

Mike, congratulations and best of luck.

 

 

 

 

 

Help Us, Civic Man (and Woman)

I want to tell you the story of my Grandpa Sheffer, who rose from an inauspicious beginning to become someone our country desperately needs today: "Civic Man."

Civic Men and Women are the amateur politicians and volunteers who set our property tax rates, fix and maintain our roads and bridges, put out fires, run our schools, pick up our trash, plow our streets, and try to grow businesses and jobs in our communities. They do it for little or no pay in and around their "day jobs." 

They do more to affect your life than professional politicians. 

Elmer Richmond Sheffer was one of them. He was born at home on South Sixth Street in Hudson, N.Y., in 1906. He weighed 1 1/2 pounds at birth. It was a difficult delivery for his mother and afterward, his Aunt Minerva wrapped Elmer in a soft blanket, put him in a cigar box and placed it near the wood-fired oven in what seemed like a hopeless attempt to keep him alive. As he would many times in his life, Elmer rallied and surprised everyone by growing into a tall and strong young man. He overcame the challenges of a broken home and abandonment by his mother, spent his entire life in his birth home, and was raised by his grandparents, Phelitus and Lydia Richmond. 

Elmer graduated from Hudson High in 1924 and landed a job as a physical chemist at the now abandoned Lone Star Cement plant in Hudson. The job lasted 44 years, giving him a reliable but modest living and the stability to become a Civic Man. 

Elmer waded into Hudson politics shortly after becoming eligible to vote at age 21. He registered as a Republican to be a contrarian in a Democratic family. He became an alderman and ran unsuccessfully for mayor in 1951. He stuck with politics and in 1965, mayoral candidate Sam Wheeler asked Elmer to be on his "ticket" and run for president of the common council. They won that year and again in 1967.

Elmer's high school graduation photo.

Elmer's high school graduation photo.

Two years later, it was Elmer's turn. Because he was retired he ran under the slogan, "Hudson's First Full-Time Mayor," to demonstrate his commitment to Hudson, a down-on-its-luck city of 15,000. He won a two-year term and was re-elected in 1971. 

He was a natural politician -- smart, gregarious, a great negotiator and counselor. Someone once joked at a dinner I attended that Mayor Sheffer could speak at the drop of a spoon. Elmer proved him right. Patrons at the Elks Lodge bar would yell "Mayor!" when he walked in, a toothpick or cigar in his mouth. He responded with a tip of the cap or an exaggerated politician's wave of the hand.

He loved the job and I loved being the grandson of the mayor. Because I was, my friends thought my family was rich (we weren't) and that we got special privileges (we didn't). Thanks to Looney Tunes cartoons on TV, they also liked to make fun of his name. Come to think of it, he probably was the last person named "Elmer" elected to public office in the U.S. (his political opponents once ran an ad criticizing his policies as "Elmer's Goo.").

In 1973, the local political winds shifted and his party abandoned him. Elmer was disappointed but it did not stop Civic Man.

He threw himself into other community passions. Elmer was a firefighter with the J.W. Edmonds Hose Co. No. 1 and served as its treasurer for more than 40 years. When he could no longer fight fires, he was active in the fire police, directing traffic and people at fire and emergency scenes. He helped form the Hudson Elks Little League and spent many hours grooming the field, managing teams and umpiring. A few years ago, just before his son and my father, Red Sheffer, passed away, the Hudson Elks posthumously named the Little League field after Elmer. Sadly, the sign bearing his name has been removed and field renamed. Apparently, gratitude for the work of Civic Men and Women doesn't last forever. 

In his twilight, he would sit outside his home, smoke a cigar, pet his dog Ringo and talk to everyone who walked by. His daughter, Elizabeth "Bitsy" Sheffer-Winig, remembers that he never turned away any of the aspiring young politicians who came to his house for advice. He loved his children and grandchildren fervently.

By the time I got to know him better as a teenager, he had a jowly face but retained the lanky frame of the gifted athlete who played softball for the Elks into his 50s. Diagnosed with liver cancer in 1981, he didn't give up. An experimental treatment sent the cancer into remission and gave him a few extra years. The tumor regrew but this time Elmer could not rally. The Hudson Fire Department and the Hudson Police escorted his casket to the cemetery.

Holding Court: Grandpa and Ringo

Holding Court: Grandpa and Ringo

I was thinking about my grandfather recently and it struck me that it is harder today to be a Civic Man or Woman. Reliable jobs, which give people the ability to volunteer and serve others,  are scarce in small towns and rural areas. Plus, the dysfunction of Washington, D.C., has created a falsely dark view of our country. Our problems seem so daunting that there is little Civic Man can do. Perhaps this causes us to look to the powerful for answers rather than creating them ourselves. 

I tell you the story of my grandfather not to lionize him but as a reminder that great acts are possible close to home (my grandfather spent 99% of his life on one square mile of earth). Serving on a school board or running a youth baseball league is as powerful collectively as any presidential order. Former President Obama said in his farewell speech that change only happens when "ordinary people get involved, get engaged and come together to demand it." Grandpa Sheffer was that ordinary citizen -- a Civic Man. We need more of them.

 

A War You Will Not Win

A few years ago I called a senior staff executive to talk with him about a story a journalist was working on. The reporter planned to write a story about news we had yet to announce and was calling for our reaction.

"Tell him it's not news because it hasn't been done yet," the executive said. I explained that the reporter had anonymous sources confirming the news and would publish the article whether we commented or not.

"He can't write the story without us," the executive insisted. I responded that he can and will and that our only decision was whether we wanted to comment.

President Trump at CIA headquarters on Jan. 21 where he complained about media reports on the size of the crowd for his inauguration. 

President Trump at CIA headquarters on Jan. 21 where he complained about media reports on the size of the crowd for his inauguration. 

Exasperated, the executive ended the conversation with: "Gary, it's not news, just tell him to (bleep) off." 

The reporter wrote the story with a "we don't comment on rumors and speculation," quote from me. 

I think back on that exchange as a failure on my part. I had failed to help this executive understand how the media works. He did not understand that we aren't reporters' only source of information about our organization, or that they dig and discover news on their own. He considered the media the enemy.

This last point is very important as we watch a new presidential administration continue its self-declared "running war with the media," as President Trump said this weekend. Clearly, the new White House team wants Americans to trust only the words that come out of Trump's mouth. Plus, their polls likely show it is good politics for the president to denigrate the media as "among the most dishonest human beings on Earth."

It might be good politics with those who already support him but it does not help the president win the trust of more Americans. It is also not good for the country, which needs a strong and trusted press to act as a check on those in power by helping citizens understand and act on important issues and challenges.  

I thought of this yesterday watching a ridiculous "press conference" at the White House. On the president's first full day in office, the new press secretary called the media to the briefing room to insult and berate them and to make assertions that are demonstrably untrue. Today, another presidential spokesperson said Press Secretary Sean Spicer was simply using "alternative facts," whatever that means. What prompted this harangue from the podium? Ego-driven and petty anger about how many people attended the president's inaugural speech.

Spicer said the media's reporting on the crowd size was "deliberately false," an astonishing claim when visual and factual evidence supports the media's reporting. It was the second time in two weeks that Spicer harshly lectured the media. I can tell you from experience it feels good when it comes out of your mouth, but these rants only undercut your credibility. 

This blog is not intended to be partisan or anti-Trump. Nor do I intend to be an apologist for the media; fake and biased news exists and is increasing in volume. 

I do, however, have some perspective on how disdain for and ignorance of the media can be a cancer that invades and impairs an organization. After 35 years of working in and with the media, I know that the vast majority of journalists are dedicated to getting it right. 

It falls to the communicator or public relations leader to convince his colleagues of this point and to create a healthy and informed relationship with journalists. Don't get me wrong -- there are times when someone is determined to do harm to your organization regardless of the facts. In those cases communicators must be tough-nosed and aggressive, and prepared to tell their story through their own platforms. And there may be rare instances when it is justified to tell these people to "(bleep) off."

Do not let the idea that the media is the enemy pervade your organization’s culture. This attitude lets executives off the hook on understanding and interacting with the media.

Communicators must educate their colleagues that, in some cases, these are not real journalists -- a Sean Hannity or a Mother Jones whose political ideology overwhelms any journalistic ethics. These people are activists with Twitter accounts, printing presses, web sites, or cable news and talk radio programs. Monitor and manage the perceptions these activists create but do not treat them the same as journalists who adhere to high ethical standards.

Fighting anti-media negatively in an organization is not easy and may may occasionally result in a "whose side are you on" stare from a colleague. Here are a few quick ideas on how to win this fight: 

  • Educate them on how the media has changed over the past two decades with the emergence of social media and, help them understand who is influential and who is not. A business leader once said to me in a meeting that I was overreacting to a reporters' inquiry. "It's just some guy with a blog," she said. The blog was the Huffington Post and the reporter was a Pulitzer Prize winner. This leader had little understanding of the new media environment and therefore could not make an informed decision on how best to we proceed.
  • Give them metrics on social media "shares" and retweets to back up your recommendations so they react logically and not emotionally to news. 
  • Communicate with them about new and emerging media thought leaders and platforms. Get them together with journalists for coffee or lunch to establish or reinforce a relationship. The more journalists know about your enterprise and its leadership, the more likely they are to produce fact-based journalism.
  • Train them to understand and deal with pseudo-reporters vs. the real thing.

Do not let the idea that the media is the enemy pervade your organization's culture. This attitude lets executives off the hook on understanding and interacting with the media. It creates a "why bother?" or "shut down their access" mentality that, in the long run, hurts you more than it hurts the journalist.

News is not going to stop because you want it to. Journalists and others are going to write, tweet, speak and editorialize about your organization with or without your participation. It is far better to be in the game, calling your plays than brooding on the sidelines. 

Ice Bowl Fires My Fanaticism

Your father takes you to the Hudson Elks Club, sits you at the bar, gives you all the soda and snacks you want, and tells you to watch the football game on TV. You are seven years old. 

Packer fans at the December 1967 "Ice Bowl."

Packer fans at the December 1967 "Ice Bowl."

Dad sits near you with his friends and checks in on you frequently to make sure you have eaten some real food and that you understand what is going on in the game. "Who do you want to win?" he asks. Your Dad's friends ask the same question. You are baffled by the spectacle on the television hanging over the bar. Your feet don't reach the brass foot rail on the mahogany bar so you spend more time spinning on your bar stool than watching the television. You don't even know who is playing or what the rules are but you really like the gold helmets of the team in green jerseys. Plus, there is a big "G" on the helmets like the first letter of your name, so you respond, "I guess the guys in green."

The game comes down to the final seconds and everyone tells you to watch. Number 15 from the green team does something that is hard to see but most everyone in the bar cheers. Your Dad and his friends are smiling and tell you that your team scored and has won the NFL championship.

I brought it to school. It was confiscated by the teacher.

I brought it to school. It was confiscated by the teacher.

It is Dec. 31, 1967, and the guys in green are the Green Bay Packers and they are playing the Dallas Cowboys for the NFL championship. The game is being played at the Packers' Lambeau Field in Wisconsin. It is the coldest NFL game ever -- temperatures drop to minus 15 degrees Fahrenheit with a wind chill of nearly 40 below zero.

It is a seminal moment in your life, setting you on the path of rooting for the Packers, reading books about them, putting up posters of them in your room, cutting out photos of them in newspapers and magazines. Your Dad's friend gives you a book by a Packer lineman, Jerry Kramer, Instant Replay, and you are so absorbed in it that you sneak it into school so you can read it under your desk during class.

What Super Bowl entertainment looked like in 1968.

What Super Bowl entertainment looked like in 1968.

A few weeks after the "Ice Bowl," the Packers play in something called the Super Bowl. They win easily and you are happy but you mostly you remember the gigantic Packer and Raider papier mache statues that come on the field before the game.

Then the Packers go from best to worst. They stink for many years, through your teens and twenties. You root for them anyway and take solace in the fact that they occasionally have a good player, like John Brockington, or when they have decent seasons in 1972 and 1982. You have to explain to your friends why you root for such a bad team from so far away. "You see, my Dad took me to the Elks Club when I was seven..."

Then you have your own kids and you brainwash them to love the Packers. You buy them Packer gear before they can walk. They love the Packers but as they grow older, they are more indifferent to the game and wait for the playoffs to sit with you to watch a Packers game on TV. 

The Packers get better in the 1990s, led by a dashing MVP quarterback, Brett Farve. They win a Super Bowl and in the years they don't, they are still among the best. You take your boys to Lambeau Field in Farve's last year as a player so they can see him in person. The Packers win big and you gleefully shout with the entire stadium "Go Pack Go" dozens of times when prompted by the scoreboard.

Christmas at the Sheffer house was often green, here for Peter.

Christmas at the Sheffer house was often green, here for Peter.

Then Farve "unretires" -- a couple times -- and ultimately plays for the rival Minnesota Vikings. Now you hate him for besmirching his Packer legacy. But your team gets an even better quarterback, Aaron Rodgers, and you go to Dallas to watch him play in a Super Bowl. You put white tape over the "Farve" name on the back of your Packer jersey and with a black sharpie write "Rodgers" on the tape. On the front and back of the jersey, next to Farve's number 4 you write with white tape "x 3 = 12" -- Rodgers' number. Your jury-rigged jersey is a big hit among Packer fans sitting near you and they ask you to pose for photos after the game, which the Packers win.

The Packers continue to make the playoffs year after year but often lose in heartbreaking fashion -- the last two years in overtime. You become so nervous watching games you can't even look at the TV at crucial moments. Your son, Peter, lives in Hong Kong but gets up in the middle of the night to watch games but has the same anxiety about the outcome, walking out of the room when things begin to go bad for the Pack.

You know the Packers have a playoff game tomorrow against the hated Giants but you might not watch because it is too excruciating. You might jinx them. You are a grown man, for goodness sake. You wonder why you invest so much emotion in a game. Then you remember those helmets with the big "G" and the joy you felt as a boy when your Dad and his buddies slapped you on the back and told you "your Packers" won.

 

 

 

 

 

We Will Need Words When It Matters

I recently read Jean Edward Smith's devastating biography of President George W. Bush. It is a reminder of how important it is for leaders to be able to connect with people on things that matter, and by this I don't mean calling those who disagree with you clowns and losers on Twitter. 

Bush's inability to connect was painfully visible on March 21, 2006, when his long-time nemesis Helen Thomas of Hearst asked him during a press conference why he had invaded Iraq. Bush was unable to answer the one question central to his presidency. Smith writes:

President Bush at a March 21, 2006 press conference.

President Bush at a March 21, 2006 press conference.

"Bush was caught flatfooted. Living in the president's White House cocoon and surrounded by a largely unquestioning staff, Bush was flummoxed by Thomas's directness. He rambled a lengthy nonresponsive reply, citing the events of 9/11 as his motivation."

Bush's goal for the press conference and a series of speeches was to rebuild faltering support among Americans for the war and to improve his historically low approval rating. The opposite happened. Anthony Cordesman, a military specialist at the Center for Strategic and International Studies in Washington, called the speeches "exercises in spin." He added, "They don't outline the risks. They don't create a climate where people trust what's being said."

Donald Trump will face similar challenges during his presidency. There will be a day when he must stand before the public and ask for its support for new economic or social policies, a plan to respond to a significant crisis or, as commander in chief, the use of American military power.  

Many presidents have failed these leadership and communications tests. In my lifetime, I recall Jimmy Carter's feeble words on the Iranian hostage situation or the nation's energy crisis. Others have succeeded, in large part, because they connected powerfully with people in a human, compelling and persuasive way. They used simple but evocative words to explain, inspire and unite. Lincoln sought to heal the nation in his second inaugural, FDR prepared Americans for war after Pearl Harbor, Reagan emotionally memorialized the lost crew of the space shuttle Challenger, and Obama deepened the nation's understanding of racism and the continuing damage it does to our country.

During the 2016 presidential campaign, Trump largely communicated through tweets and campaign rallies filled with rambling generalities. During the transition, his Tweets have continued but there haven't been speeches, opinion columns or press conferences to fill out the public's understanding of how he will govern.

Incoming White House Press Secretary Sean Spicer is heralding a presidential communications revolution in which Trump will use social media to "talk back and forth" with the American people in a way "that's never been seen before." Perhaps. Certainly Trump and staff can respond to a handful of Twitter or Facebook comments from Americans -- as many politicians and businesses already do.

This is simply contemporary communications and in most cases, not real "back and forth" conversations but rather more stylized versions of words used in "old school" platforms such as press releases or annual reports. (By the way, for an example of effective communications with Americans by a president, read Reagan's book of letters.) 

The new White House team is mistaking medium for message. After all, media platforms have and will change: Lincoln's speeches were in person and on paper; FDR's on radio; Reagan's on television; and Obama's on all of these platforms plus social media. The message matters more than the medium. 

So when Trump becomes president and Tweets that he will not allow North Korea to obtain a nuclear missile -- ''It Won't Happen!" -- as he did last week, he will have to back it up with a specific plan of action, possibly in a nationally televised/webcast address. The Tweet is just the movie trailer; the full film still needs to be delivered directly and personally to Americans. Certainly Trump's team knows this; his first chance will be his inaugural address when he must pivot from campaigning to leading. 

A bucket list goal of mine is to read a biography of every U.S. president. I am up to 18 and have read multiple volumes on my favorites -- Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt, FDR, Truman, Eisenhower and Reagan. In every case, historians have judged these men, in part, by their ability to define their character, to communicate a vision and to rally Americans around a plan to achieve that vision.

Harry Truman announces the bombing of Hiroshima.

Harry Truman announces the bombing of Hiroshima.

On the campaign trail Harry Truman, like Trump, played offense, speaking off the cuff and focusing on a villain (the "do-nothing Eightieth Congress"). But Truman's communications style changed after he won the election. His White House addresses on momentous events and policies such as the destruction of Hiroshima by an atomic bomb, the Korean war and the Truman Doctrine were carefully crafted, "solid and workmanlike speeches, fact-filled and frank...," wrote political columnist William Safire in his collection of great speeches, Lend Me Your Ears. 

When Truman died, veteran journalist Eric Sevareid said of him: "I am not sure he was right about the atomic bomb, or even Korea. But remembering him reminds people what a man in that office ought to be. It's character, just character. He stands like a rock in memory now."

Trump's character test will come. Here's hoping his answer has more than 140.

 

 

 

 

 

The Untold Tale of a Great Arctic Adventure

Fifty years ago today, one of the greatest Arctic adventures in history occurred. On Dec. 28, 1966, the six-strong Sheffer party departed our small two-family Union Street home in Hudson, N.Y., and headed north to the tundra of, well, Hudson, N.Y.

20 Joslen Place in its early days. 

20 Joslen Place in its early days. 

We were moving to a new two-story home and we were very proud to be "movin' on up" to the suburbs, as my brother Ken says, recalling "the pure excitement I felt going to sleep in that new mansion." 

In reality it was a modest home but it felt like a mansion to my brother, sisters and me. I was six; Valerie, was nine; Ken had just turned eight (he is a Christmas baby); and Paula was one. Imagine being a young couple with four kids -- as my parents were -- moving into a new home between Christmas and New Year's Day during a brutal cold snap. 

Our parents had spent their whole lives in downtown Hudson and even though we were moving just a mile northeast to a former apple orchard just inside the city line, they were "leaving their parents behind" -- a big deal back then.

Few things went right as the move approached. Mostly, it got really cold and my parents debated whether to do the move as planned on Dec. 28. My mother was determined to make it happen and so we celebrated Christmas and Ken's birthday in our old home and packed at the same time. Mom had the movers load the Christmas tree -- decorations and all -- onto the moving truck and place it in our new home. We were more worried about whether our gifts were being moved too, and were relieved when they showed up at 20 Joslen Place. 

Me and my brother Ken on the front porch of 428 Union St.

Me and my brother Ken on the front porch of 428 Union St.

My siblings and I were excited by the move but we also loved our Union Street home. We would walk to the Post Office on the corner and run through it like it was a playground. Across the street is the Columbia County Courthouse and its park, which also provided innumerable opportunities for fun and trouble.

My friend, Betsy, lived across the street from the Post Office in a giant three-story home that had a really cool attic where we played. I loved going there until Betsy's hamster bit me on my thumb, drawing blood. I showed Betsy how tough I was by sobbing so hard I couldn't breathe. 

My courage also failed me when the city's giant snowblower came down Union Street to consume the snow piled high in front of our house by plows. That's because I was told that a boy had gotten stuck once in snowbanks and was eaten alive by the snowblower's spinning blades. 

Behind our house was Cherry Alley, which was our pathway to Warren Street, the city's main street. The alley also was a place to be feared, at least in a child's mind, because that is where "Hambone" roamed. He was a "hobo" in 1960s terms, but I remember thinking he couldn't be that bad because my father would leave his used clothes in the alley for Hambone and we would later see Hambone in Dad's clothes. 

Our newly constructed home was on a quarter-acre on a dead-end street, Joslen Place. By "constructed" I mean half-finished when we moved in. Weather records say the low that day was nine degrees but I remember it feeling like absolute zero -- inside the house. 

The "mansion" being built. 

The "mansion" being built. 

When we arrived something clearly was not right with the windows. My mother put plastic over them to block the cold and over the front door she tacked up a wool blanket, which fluttered when the wind came calling. The heating system was petulantly unreliable and banged loudly when air got in the pipes, which was all the time.

Hudson got six inches of snow the day after we moved in. We were told to help shovel the driveway ("won't the city plows do that?") and being inexperienced at snow removal, either my brother or I lost a boot in a snowbank and it was later taken away by the city plow, never to be seen again.

When the thaw came and people emerged from their homes, we learned that Joslen Place was as much a kids' paradise as Union Street. Across the street were two houses with five kids each, the Neros and Wursters. In fact, there must have been 25 kids on the street and the older ones called themselves the "Joslen Mafia." Hudson High School (later the Hudson Middle School) was a quarter mile from our house, with football and baseball fields, a running track and tennis courts. The school's buildings and grounds were ten times better than the Post Office for exploring and trouble. 

Our parents passed away in 2007 and we sold "20 J," as we called our home. Every time I ride past it at this time of year, I remember the arctic expedition led 50 years ago by Red and Rachel Sheffer that was just as daring as anything taken on by Shackleton or Byrd. 

 

 

'All of You on The Good Earth'

My son, Mark, suggested recently that I write about my favorite Christmas memory or my favorite Christmas gift. I couldn't really think of a favorite thing that someone gave me but I do remember a "gift" I received from 239,000 miles away on Christmas Eve 48 years ago.

Apollo 8 Astronaut William Anders snapped this photo, "Earthrise" while orbiting the moon on Christmas Eve 1968.

Apollo 8 Astronaut William Anders snapped this photo, "Earthrise" while orbiting the moon on Christmas Eve 1968.

1968 was a tough year for America. I was eight and I was scared. I remember being in a doctor's waiting room and seeing a magazine cover about the epidemic of drugs such as LSD on college campuses. I told my mom I didn't want to go to college but I refused to tell her why. Although I didn't know it at the time, it was the year of the Tet offensive in Vietnam and I saw reports on the nightly news of the rising numbers of dead and wounded American soldiers. I figured some day I would have to fight in that war.

In April, we were watching TV in our family room when a news bulletin came on that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., had been assassinated in Memphis. The report was too painful for me to watch so I got up and voluntarily took the garbage out, surprising my parents, I'm sure.

In June, I got up one morning before school and turned on the TV to watch Popeye and other cartoons as I ate my cereal. Instead, I saw video and photos of Robert F. Kennedy laying on the floor of the kitchen of a Los Angeles hotel, mortally wounded by an assassin. I remember when they  said the outlook for Kennedy was grave, my frustrated response was "come on, they must be able to fix him."

In August, street protests against the war and the resulting police riot at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago showed America at its worst, and that not everyone with power can be trusted to use it wisely. I wondered if we were going to have battles like that in my town.

I was an Olympic fanatic and in October I watched nearly every minute of the ABC broadcasts from the summer games in Mexico City. Our country's African-American athletes dominated and some courageously asserted their human rights on the victory stand and elsewhere. The American performances where thrilling but the athlete protests and the vitriolic reactions to them unsettled me because now anger and division had invaded even my beloved world of sports. 

By the time we got to December, most Americans needed good news, including me.

It came from the American space program, which was a childhood fascination.  I rooted for the U.S. to beat the Soviets to the moon and I read everything I could about the spacecraft and the men who flew them. My brother Ken had a model of the Gemini 4 capsule with astronaut Ed White doing a space walk. I admired it on his shelf in the bedroom we shared every morning when I woke up.

So when Christmas Eve came, I was glued to the TV as Apollo 8 reached the moon. As it circled the moon and the sun rose on the lunar landscape, the three astronauts -- Frank Borman, William Anders and James Lovell -- took turns reading from the Book of Genesis about the creation of heaven and earth, light and darkness, night and day.

Frank Borman, William Anders and James Lovell, the crew of Apollo 8.

Frank Borman, William Anders and James Lovell, the crew of Apollo 8.

The astronauts had been told before they left on their mission that they would be speaking to the largest audience ever to listen to a human voice. Lovell said they selected the first ten verses of Genesis because it is the foundation of many of the world's religions, not just Christianity. 

Apollo 8's live Christmas Eve broadcast made me feel safe for some reason. Maybe it was the sheer audacity of what our nation was trying to do -- explore the heavens and advance the cause of humanity. Maybe it was that we seemed to be doing it together, as Americans, with a single and noble purpose. Maybe it was the courage of those three men in that tiny capsule far from their homes. Maybe it was their faith in something more important than themselves despite their own miraculous accomplishments. 

Maybe it was the warmth and love I felt from being with my brother and sisters and our Mom and Dad, on the most exciting night of the year for a little kid. Even today when I watch the Apollo 8 video, I get emotional and wonder why it touches me so. I don't have an answer.

Mark, I don't recall a single thing I got from Santa that year, but I do remember Apollo 8 Mission Commander Frank Borman's sign off from that broadcast. He bound us together as people -- good people -- regardless of faith, ideology or political perspective. Thanks for reminding me of his words, which are an appropriate way to cap the difficult year of 2016:

"And from the crew of Apollo 8, we close with good night, good luck, a Merry Christmas, and God Bless all of you -- all of you on the good Earth."