With Thanks for a Dynamite Career

“I just called Lynn and offered her the job. She said, ‘Dynamite.’ Do you think that means she wants the position?”

That’s what Grace Warfield, head of publications, told the editor at The Council for Exceptional Children. Mrs. Warfield had just offered me a job as an editorial assistant. It was my first RJ, or real job, after college.

In 1973, dynamite meant that you were pleased.  Indeed, I was explosively pleased to get a job, especially one that would give me skills and experience for what I really wanted to do -- write -- rather than use the library degree I had just obtained.

I am thankful Mrs. Warfield took a chance on me.  As I celebrate my first Thanksgiving as a retiree, I realize there are many who followed her, took chances on me, and fostered my growth.

In 1977, I did appreciate that Dave Shipley and Jack King hired me to write the employee newsletter at Allegheny Airlines (later USAir and now US Airways). I knew little about aviation; it was my love of travel that led to a letter seeking employment at the only Washington, DC-based airline. 

What I didn’t appreciate at the time was what good bosses Dave and Jack would be. Now, after numerous superiors, I realize they were way above average. For one, they weren’t threatened by capable subordinates and, two, they gave me many opportunities to spread my wings.

I got to start USAir Magazine and work with talented editors and graphic designers. Then, after reading Douglas Starr’s booklet on How to Write a Speech, Jack and Dave said “Sure” to establishing the airline’s executive speechwriting function. My scope expanded to encompass financial communications and producing shareholder reports as well as to being the “logo cop” and responsible for corporate identity.

Jack’s successor, Pat Goldman, increased my responsibilities. And, Pat made sure I was promoted; this when I was five months pregnant with our second child. Later, she tapped me to work on marketing communications for the airline’s alliance with British Airways.

Meetings in London. Working with internationally known design consultants. Interviewing and writing about Sir Colin Marshall. Traveling on the Concorde. 

Yes, work can be fun.

Later, after two years working with the smartest man I know – my husband – in our small PR firm, aviation came calling again. That was 1997, when Eliot Brenner and Drucie Andersen hired me to write speeches for the to-be-confirmed Federal Aviation Administration chief Jane Garvey. Eliot and Drucie thought Jane and I would be a good fit as client and ghostwriter. It was a great fit. Those were rewarding and challenging years, especially after the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks when all eyes were on the FAA and its role in aviation security.

It was a privilege to write for Jane, an outstanding leader and dedicated public servant, who gave me a far greater appreciation for policy and for public service. As Dr. Paul Light says, public service is a noble calling. It is “work that matters.”

After Jane’s five-year term ended and after several moves within the FAA, I was becoming one of those sad-sack employees who counts the days toward retirement. The first time I checked the retirement calculator:   777 days to go.

Fortunately, those daily retirement-calculator checks were short-lived. Tom Zoeller, head of communications at the National Transportation Safety Board, came to my rescue with a detail assignment to write for the NTSB Chairman.

The six-month detail turned into ten months and then into a full-time job that lasted long after my 777-day countdown date.

What an opportunity for this sexagenarian to apply decades of experience – and more than 30 years in aviation – to write for such a dynamo. Chairman Deborah Hersman is smart and savvy with high standards. At my retirement gathering, she said I was the wind beneath her wings. Well, this client got me to soar higher than I thought possible.

Yet, speechwriters don’t fly solo.  There are muses, colleagues, and other sources of inspiration. My last shout out is to my fellow NTSB communicators (you can’t find better colleagues) and to Kelly Nantel, my NTSB boss. Kelly is a one-of-a-kind creative energy source. She deserves her own patent.

What a fitting way to close my career – doing work that matters with smart, talented, and dedicated people.

It was dynamite.

NTSB Chairman Deborah Hersman and Kelly Nantel
at my Aloha farewell party.

To All the Girls I've Loved Before

With apologies to Hal David, this blog entry is dedicated to all the girlfriends I’ve loved before, love today, and will love tomorrow.

With our move, I miss friends, neighbors, and colleagues, but I especially miss my girlfriends.

I miss the shared history. I miss trusting relationships where you can be vulnerable and weak and silly and stupid. I miss the freedom to whine and not be judged.

I want to giggle.

Can you remember your last good giggle?  You know, the kind of glee where you snort or cry or both. My last good giggle; I can’t remember. Maybe years back with my sister, my cousin, or Elaine.

For those of us who carry only X chromosomes, XX friends are essential. There’s even a study that validates what women have long known about the value of female friendship. Research published last November in Breast Cancer Research and Treatment found that strong social ties lower women’s mortality rates compared with women who are socially isolated.

Now, that’s a bit of a no-brainer, but it’s nice to have peer-reviewed journals back up what we girl-peers know to be true.

Hundreds of miles away from my long-time networks … well, I’d better not get cancer. Or, if I do, ladies, the towels are clean. The guest beds are made.

If you need more validation, Y-chromosome-carrying Jeffrey Zaslow provides it in The Girls from Ames.  He writes about a group of Iowa women and the power of female friendship. And, his book shows they didn’t have to stay in Iowa to stay connected.

Now, this isn’t the first time I’ve lived far from dear friends. I went East, young woman, years ago. At age 22, I left the Golden State to search for gold and riches, actually education and employment, in Washington, DC.  The California bonds I left behind are now well-tested for time and distance. It’s a quick jump from Memory Lane to Fullerton’s Dorothy Lane and Troy High School with girlfriends who shared so many pubescent traumas. Next, my ag school (UC Davis) provided especially fertile ground for nurturing lifelong connections.

I know I can and will stay connected with my Washington, DC, friends. Because I’ve done it before. And, Web 2.0 makes it easier to stay in touch – texting, e-mailing, Facebook posts and FaceTime conversations. Dozens of friends (and even more strangers) have seen our house, our dog, our yard, my “Selfies.”

Yet, there is no touch in the modern ways of keeping in touch. There’s no face-to-face in Facebook. Those women who survived breast cancer had women friends bringing covered dishes, crying with them, and providing comfort.

You can’t hug a Tweet.

But, leave it to the 21^st century to have high-tech solutions for high-touch needs. There are female friend-dating websites, such as GirlfriendSocial.com, SocialJane.com, and GirlFriendCircles.com.

Or, there’s the modern woman – Rachel Bertsche – who documents her quest for girlfriends in Chicago, her new hometown, in her book MWF Seeking BFF. Over the course of a year, she uses a different method each week, including speed-friending and a rent-a-friend website, to meet potential girlfriends. Clearly, she has more energy and stamina than this retiree.

But, finding new girlfriends is worth a try. BFF in the here-and-now as well as the time-tested versions are too essential.

I’ll start right here in the neighborhood. There are two fun, bright live-wires right down the street.

Coffee, anyone? Or maybe whine?

A Tale of Two Body Shops

No one was harmed in the writing of this blog. Or, fortunately, in the events that gave rise to this entry.

That is good news, since automobiles, as I know full well from my last job at the National Transportation Safety Board, can be two-ton weapons of destruction. Bumper cars are best left on the carnival fairway.

Yet, bumping into vehicles seems to be how I’m meeting people in our new town. The first incident was after my second-ever yoga class. I backed out of a diagonal parking space into an unsuspecting Nissan. The second close-encounter-of-the-car kind came two weeks later, when I was trying to get to a third yoga class. I’d missed a week when my husband’s recovery had a setback.  This time, I sideswiped a van of indeterminate make and model as I tried to park in front of the yoga studio.

After exchanging information with my poor-driving’s second victim, I drove home. Actually, I sobbed home. I have never been wracked with sobs. This was also the first time I’d hit two cars in two weeks.

But, with the convulsive sobs I knew that I had lost it.

I'd lost my prized resilience on the front of a Nissan and along the side of a van.

My daughter, the psychologist, offered this analysis: “Uncle Sigmund would say you’re feeling guilty about doing something for yourself.”

I think more than guilt about leaving my husband alone, I was on overload. Now I know that my stressors – retiring, moving, and caretaking – aren’t high up on the Holmes-Rahe Stress Inventory – but somehow those three combined that morning to exceed the sum of their stress-scale parts.

Instead of feeling guilty about doing something for myself, if Dr. Freud is on to something, I realized (with coaching from dear friends) that I should do more for myself. Perhaps the van owner, a personal trainer, knew this when he offered a creative way for me to make amends.

I could pay him a modest sum since his van is old or I could sign up for eight personal training sessions with him. With a body in worse shape than my car, I jumped at the silver lining in this story.

This week, the car went to one body shop and I went to another.  The car looks great. The trainer provided a workout tailored for my age, abilities, and physical issues. With a little custom bodywork, maybe I can look as good as the car.

ISO of a Wild Flower

Whatever happened to Virginia Waterleaf?

That’s what a friend of 40 years asked during last weekend’s visit.

Virginia Waterleaf is a woodland perennial plant. It gets its name from the water-stained appearance of the leaves. Its range, like mine for the last 40 years, is the eastern United States.

A biologist and nature lover, my friend had pointed out the wildflower on a long-ago hike. To me, a child of the suburbs, the plant seemed fine enough, but I surely loved its moniker. I immediately claimed it as a pen name.

Wouldn’t “By Virginia Waterleaf” look grand on a dust jacket?

I was in my early 20s and was going to be a writer, not just any writer but an important one, a writer with a capital W.

Four decades later, I am a writer, just not of the dreamed-of novels and stories or scripts and screenplays. Yet, I made a living with my words and wits. First, I wrote  “corporate fiction.” Next, I moved to government service where I put words in other people’s mouths and excised them from other’s people’s material.

And, while Oprah never called and the only book signings I attended were to see other, published authors, being a lowercase writer was satisfying. Because as Bulwer-Lytton wrote, “The pen is mightier than the sword.” Words, well put and placed, can move minds and mountains.  Even save lives.  My words may have helped make a difference.

But, back to my friend’s question. I realize that more than being about a published writer, my woodland persona was about me. About who I was before a lifetime of demands and commitments as wife, worker, mother, mentor, and more.

Whatever became of Virginia Waterleaf? It’s a good question. Thank you, dear friend, for asking. As a retiree, I have the time to find out. Now, I need the inclination. Maybe I’ll start tonight on Halloween and discard my sheet and ghostwriter costume and see if I can start the transformation into a flower. Maybe even one with a little wildness.

As Long As You Have Your Health

Health, it’s the new album by the Canadian orchestral pop group The Heavy Blinkers. It’s also a topic that weighs heavily – with each passing year, to be sure, and with my husband’s recent surgery, recovery, and setback.

The lead track on the Heavy Blinkers album offers a fresh interpretation of “As long as you have your health.” As I adapt from working fulltime to retirement and to caregiving, fresh interpretations are welcome.

To quote The Heavy Blinkers, as I “walk the tracks until my time is done” and go to the drugstore or take my husband to appointments, my list of retirement activities that start with the letter P grows. Pedaling and paddling have been joined by patient advocacy, physician visits, prescription refills, and physical therapy.  

And, in the waiting rooms and at the pharmacy counters, I see other family members who are caregivers. They all seem to be more proficient and patient. Yes, I am struggling with this role. Work was easier. 

We have encountered many caring and dedicated healthcare providers. And, we've experienced some not so wonderful, to be kind. The most vivid was the intake administrator at the ER. With her rod in her neck and missing vertebrae, she said the most important thing for rehabilitation is to “Keep moving.” Now, as I encourage my husband to exercise, thanks to our musical neighbors to the north, his rehab program has a soundtrack. 

Taking Root

I was never a gardener. I didn’t have time. Or didn’t make the time. As a retiree, time is not an issue. We surely have the location.  According to my green-thumbed neighbors, our new yard has the best soil they’ve ever seen.

So certain of our soil, they pick out plants, deliver them, and plant them for us. Our soil is now nurturing several newly acquired oxygen generators – a fig tree, a bay tree, and four laurel bushes. I’m especially watching to see if the four laurels take root; they are supposed to grow tall and fast.

At the same time, I wonder how quickly and firmly I will take root in our Tar Heel soil.

Did we find our garden spot? And, can I, will I, take root here, especially after decades in one area and an extensive root network so many miles away?

With the laurels, it should be clear-cut. Taking root requires the essential ingredients of soil, light, and moisture.

For a person, it’s more complicated, but you can substitute a plant’s soil, light, and moisture with home, health, and heart.

Hearth, or home, is shelter and, ideally, more than protection from the elements. We feel safe and secure in our stone house surrounded by trees and, more importantly, surrounded by friendly neighbors, notably those experienced, helpful gardeners.

Two, health, and that’s a big challenge for us as it is for our entire cohort. We are working on it. My husband got a new hip “installed” right after the laurels arrived. I’m exercising my creaky knees. My eyes are on the prize:  mobility.

Three, heart. We are lucky. Ira Gershwin had it right about “Someone to watch over me.” My husband and I are together and working at riding these waves of transitional waters.

But, back to the laurels and soil, light, and moisture. Scientists and researchers are learning there may be more to plant sustenance. There are mysteries still.  Right now, there’s an experiment about talking to plants. Except it’s modern talking and the Denver Museum of Nature and Science, along with an ad agency, are calling for people to Tweet to a plant. Fortunately, there’s some traditional communication involved, the Tweets are read out loud to the plant – no propped up smartphones; they might block the light.

The Denver experiment provides an important lesson. As I strive to take root in new soil, I need Tweets or any communication, traditional or trendy, to sustain me as I explore my new territory. That takes work and me texting, calling, emailing, even writing my friends who are important to me, wherever they are. My smartphone has been an unexpectedly valuable lifeline.

Lesson two comes from earthworms.  A recent report in Science Magazine said scared earthworms help plants grow. When beetles are nearby the worms migrate deeper, breaking up the soil and bringing water and nutrients. 

Perhaps the earthworms are telling me, “Get out of your comfort zone!” Confront the unfamiliar. Dig deeper. Both may be needed to take root in unfamiliar soil. In short, I’ve got to put myself out there if I am to meet new people and start new pastimes. 

And, that’s scary.

Yet, the piano teacher, the photography instructor, the political activists, and others … none are going to come knocking on my door to ask if I would like to participate.

It’s on me. I’ve got to turn toward the light.

So, I started with two of my “Ps” (October 3, 2013) – Pilates and politics. Okay, I substituted yoga for Pilates, but how could I resist the opportunity to work on balance and flexibility and strength at the aptly named Yoga with an Edge.

It’s a start. 

And, like our laurels with their nurturing soil, my new community's warm and welcoming people encourage me. 

While it may take a growing season or so, I am hopeful the laurels and I will both fully take root.

Syntax, Semantics, and Style -- Finding My Voice

I worried I wouldn’t be able to find it. After all, I’d ghostwritten for a baker’s dozen of clients over 35 years.  Among others, I’d written for lawyers, a baggage handler turned airline executive, an Italian-American former NYC cop, a female executive from the deep (really deep) South, and most intimidating yet, a former English teacher. I’d written for people twice my age, with far more life experience, and then for those nearly half my age where I held the life experience advantage.

I knew my clients’ preferences and priorities. How one always inserted “you know” every few paragraphs and specifically requested it appear in the prepared text.  (It sounded fine delivered.) How another liked quotations. Lots of them. From current to historical figures. Another client liked stories – meaty and metaphorical stories. Still another client liked both quotations and stories and a big theme with bold use of repetition.

For my first client, a Harvard-educated lawyer, I spent long summer drives listening to recordings (audiocassettes!) of his speeches to learn his voice. 

To capture a voice, you must hear it.

For subsequent clients, it came easier, but always required access.  (Yes, gatekeepers, here comes that pesky writer again.) Two minutes face to face with a client and well-chosen questions such as, “What do you want the audience to think when you leave the room?” could replace hours of recordings and easily replace many minutes with minions.

It’s been a privilege to help leaders articulate and advocate their policies.

Still, I worried about the solo scribe in the windowless room. (Yes, dear managers, writers, like plants, need daylight.)

What would the scribe say if she had a platform? Would she say anything? Did she have anything to say?

I may have completed one journey – moving 400 miles away from 40 years of personal history. As for that other journey of finding my voice.  Why, it is just beginning.

Daylight and inspirational scenery on my bike commute.