Check Out

April 28, 2014

Greetings from 12 Items or Fewer,

There was a time not long ago that grocery stores were a different experience.  There would be maybe 10 aisles of various food stuffs, each aisle marked with a number.  The numbers were there so someone could page ‘Clean up on aisle 5’; you didn’t need numbers because you could remember where the canned beans were.  Somewhere around the perimeter there would be banks of fresh produce, coolers of dairy products, perhaps a butcher counter, maybe even a fresh bakery display.

At the front of the store there would be a few cash registers with people to interpret the prices of the various items you bought and then pound the keys to enter the numbers that would total up your purchase. 

The cashiers were a critical component for the shopping experience.  Because here was where the interaction got very interesting.  Here was where news was exchanged, or suggestions about the kind of rice to get with that chicken, or what was a better value—‘Mrs. Paul’s’ fish sticks or the Spartan brand.

For most of us the environment has changed.  The stores are the size of international airports and groceries are just the beginning.  You can buy anything you ever might need from sporting goods to hardware, clothing, plants, toys and electronics. 

And so by the time we make it back to the front of the store we are exhausted and disoriented.  And then we have to wait in line behind the rest of humanity.  Most of the time interaction is the last thing we want.  All we want to do is escape.

Thankfully there are Self Checkout kiosks now.  You scan your own groceries with a minimum of hassle, unless you are trapped behind a Newbie.  Zip through the process and get back to the hectic franticness outside.

Yes it is missing something.  But I heard a great suggestion that I think might help.

Generally the self-checkout is accompanied by some sound effects.  A ‘beep’ or a voice that states the price each time you scan an item.  At the conclusion the voice gives direction to enter your payment or check the bottom of your cart, or remember your change. 

The innovation my friend suggested would be to make this something to look forward to.  The self check-out could be programmed to tell jokes, give tidbits of news, or maybe remind you to get a birthday card.  I would call it the ‘Expressive Lane’.

Beep. “Cheddar Cheese, $2.49.  Did you hear about the explosion at the French cheese factory?  All that was left was de brie.”

I don’t mean to say we should replace the human interaction altogether.  But on the days when you are in a rush, this would give you the option for a little exchange, on your terms. 

The kiosk could offer you choices in a range that bests suits your mood.  Chatty.  What’s New?  Be My Friend. Running Late.  Just the Facts. I Haven’t Had My Coffee Yet.

When you start the transaction you choose the level you want, and then start swiping your purchases.  Most stores have ‘loyalty’ cards you swipe when you start the process so they could collect information on you and tailor the computer’s response to you. 

Feeling playful?  Choose ‘Snarky’ and get a little sarcasm with your receipt.

“Might want to take the ice cream back and choose the yogurt. Those blue jeans aren’t doing you any favors.”

My future favorite would be the ‘Validation’ mode.  The voice would be customized to sound like your best friend.  Or George Clooney.  Or Mr. Rogers:

“Great choice on the bananas.  They really are nature’s perfect food.”

“So glad this cereal is on sale!  You work so hard for your money.”

“Extra large rolls of toilet paper.  You are so smart to plan ahead.”

“You really look nice today.  Love the way you put the pajama bottoms with the hoodie sweatshirt.  That’s very cutting edge.”

And so on. 

Nothing will replace the human interaction at the check-out.  I know some people who treasure that contact.  But if we are going to be faced with this new reality, why not make it as enjoyable as we can?  Technology isn’t just about efficiency is it?

And when you’re not in the mood for any of this, go find your little neighborhood grocery, with the limited choices and the flickering fluorescents, and the worn counter where you slide your purchase to the cashier.  Listen to the clunk and clank of the old NCR as it ratchets up the total.  Spend the extra few minutes to talk to someone who looks you in the eye when they tell you to have a great day, and not because the training manual says to. 

The fact is, it’s not always about the Always Low Price or the overwhelming selection.  Some days you just want someone to bag your groceries and when they say ‘Thank you’ you feel like they meant it.  Tough to get that, even from a very expressive computer.

Hope this finds you checking out,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith

Boston Strong

April 22, 2014

Greetings from the comeback,

I stood at a small counter and sipped my coffee, and watched the river of people.  I tried to focus on faces, but it would sometimes become a blur of color and motion.    

Business traveler.  Honeymooners.  Students.  A cluster of military uniforms, men and women.  Anxious parent, herding three children among the crowd. 

There are nearly 200,000 people pass through O’Hare each day.  It’s a lot of faces to sift through.  People wearing all manner of costumes to travel; blue jeans, saris, tailored suits, sweatpants, pajama bottoms and hoodies, leather pants and stilettos.

I was looking for a particular profile. 

Not all runners look the same.  If you have ever watched a neighborhood jogger, or been to a local 10k race, or watched a marathon, you know that there is always a good sampling of every shape and size.  One of the great things about running is the open door policy.  If you have the desire, you are welcome.

I wasn’t trying to spot anyone who might be a runner.  I was looking for a particular runner.  After ten minutes I had a number of possible sightings, but it didn’t feel right yet.   

Marathoners make up less than 1% of the population.  Even in the throng surging through the halls of O’Hare it was a challenge to find who I was looking for.  After a while I realized that there was a better way.  I walked to the departure screens and looked for flights to Boston.  Two going out that morning.  One in forty-five minutes.

I walked down the H concourse, weaving between the roller bags and strollers and bustling and dawdling and gawking.  I found a place out of the current and leaned against a wall, sipping my coffee.

I stood across from the gate watched the people clustered around the chairs.  And I spotted them.

A couple in black track pants, brightly colored shoes, tech shirts, lightweight caps.  They were huddled among the chairs, with another man, talking intently.   I looked around the gate area and saw a few other possibles. 

One man walked around the gate area, pacing in front of the windows.  He was the guy I was looking for.  Lean.  Intense look on his face.  Calm, but filled with an energy that was waiting to be unleashed.  He wore loose warm up pants, NikeFit cap.  Long sleeved t-shirt with distinctive blue lettering.  Unicorn logo on the front.

Near where he paced was his duffle. I could tell you without looking what is inside it.  I could tell you that he has checked the contents a dozen times before he left home.  His race shoes.  The shorts, the few shirts he might wear.  The socks he always races in.  Maybe something sentimental, a talisman or a note from a friend, or the finisher’s medal from last year.   He would not have trusted any of this in checked luggage. 

As I stood there I felt myself changing my mind.  I wasn’t going to talk to him.  I suddenly felt like I would be intruding, even though as I write these words this morning I know that wasn’t the case.

I waited until they were lining up to begin the boarding process, and then pushed off the wall to make my way past toward my own gate.    The pacing man walked to the outer edge of the line and I caught his eye.  There was a fraction of a second when we both should have looked away, but as soon as he saw me he recognized me.  I slowed long enough to nod

“Good luck.” I said

He nodded back.

I walked down the concourse toward where my next flight would be.  Thought about what I had been planning to say, satisfied that I had not said any of it.

In Boston, a year ago, two thugs tried to create a stage to express some idea that even today no one understands.  They used violence to cut into an innocent, beautiful, dramatic expression of human effort.  Their insanity tore the life from some, tore the limbs from others.  The effect rippled out and changed things for countless people; some runners and some who love runners.    

In the year that followed I have wrestled with this act, like many of us, and beaten into perspective.  It does not always stay that way.

The Boston Marathon has gone on for 118 years.  There will come a year when people talk about the race and don’t include footnotes about bombs or death.  The stain will fade and we will run on in the same way humans have always run on. 

The senseless act of violence was met with resilience.  It was overwhelmed by love. It was defeated and made irrelevant by the greater force; the spirit that drives runners, and non-runners, to be the human they were intended to be. 

This morning 36,000 members of my family will line up in Hopkinton and face the blue and gold starting line, and the challenge that stretches from there to Boston.  They will run for their own purpose, and for others.  They will represent us in the response to what happened on Boylston a year ago, and to all the dark acts like it.  In their effort, we run on from the worst that man can offer and toward the best we can be. 

I’m glad I got to send my message to them.

Hope this finds you Boston Strong,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith

Boston Bomb

April 15, 2013  (reprinted)

Greetings from where the bubble is burst,

My friend Kirk asked me: “Do you think they will run it again?”

I might have answered with a little more emotion than I intended.  I was still in the space between wishing I had been in Boston and relieved I was not.  My eyes burned, my chest was tight with anger.

“They won’t cancel the Boston marathon.  They won’t give up.  It’s 117 years of running.  Never.”

In Hopkinton there is a huge open space behind the high school.  It is the Athlete’s Village for the Boston Marathon.  In the hours before the race it fills up with men and women from around the world, in all manner of physiques, different shades and gaits.  But there is a look they have in common.  It is passion.  It is determination.  It is a force of will, the human spirit. 

It is a unique environment, something pure and simple.  There is no politics or race or economic pecking order.  There are competitors, but there is an implicit understanding and respect. Runners sign each other’s race bibs, pose for pictures, sit around games of cards or simple prerace meals.  We make idle chatter and wait.  We hold hands and pray. A space forms around us.  And then we run.

I wasn’t with them this year, but I felt their nervousness, felt the jitters, the anxious tension waiting for the gun to go off, to release us onto the downhill, to push back the rest of the world for a few hours and let us run just to run.  To demonstrate who we are, to test ourselves in community with others of our kind.  In that time, when humanity lines the road to cheer the human spirit, there is a space created, a buffer between the usual and the expected, and in space is filled with an incredible positive energy.  It is excitement and joy and triumph and even with the challenge and struggle, it is hope.  It is a bubble of sorts.  It sometimes seems a fragile thing, this bubble, but it is remarkably resilient.

In 1972 at the Olympics in Munich, the bubble was pierced.  Terrorists shredded the thin element that surrounded the games, showed the world that there is nothing sacred or beyond the reach of evil.  They used the Olympic stage, stepped into the space formed by the athletes and those who stood to cheer the competitors.  They violated the space.

Bill Bowerman, who became one of the founders of Nike, was the track coach who marshaled the athletes.  He knew they were afraid, defeated even before competing.  He knew the space that surrounded them had deflated, leaving them stained and confused, doubting the value of the competition.

"If there is one place where war doesn't belong, it is here," Bowerman told them. "For twelve hundred years, Olympians laid down their arms to take part in these Games. They knew there is more honor in outrunning a man than killing him. So you must not believe that running, or jumping, or throwing are meaningless. They were your fellow Olympians' answer to war. They must be yours."

The tragedy unfolded and it seemed the competition was over.  But when the Olympic committee determined to let the events restart, the bubble had been pierced.  The separateness, the safety, the faint illusion that the games protected them from the world, had leaked out.  The athletes huddled together, tense, afraid that there would be more violence.  The marathoners debated the sensibility knowing they could be targets.  But in the end, the will to compete, the passion to hold the fire higher so the world could witness, won out. 

Frank Shorter, who went on to win the marathon, said: “This is as scared as I’m going to get.  Let’s run.”

Five months ago the bubble took on a different shape.  When superstorm Sandy devastated the east coast and turned the Big Apple into a dark scary place.  40,000 runners surged toward New York to run the marathon, an overwhelming force.  Their message was that the race must go on, the space must be honored.

But the people living in darkness, without water or safety, bristled.  Soon the race was seen as frivolous, trivial, irrelevant.  The voices said: “Who do these people think they are?  Coming here like they are something special?  Taking resources from us.”

The bubble was an intruder.  I didn’t think so at first, but of course it was right to cancel the race.  The space that is created around the marathon, and events like it, is meant to include not exclude.  The runners who had already arrived, from all over the globe, stayed to help.  They cleaned and carried water and made themselves useful.  And promised to run again.  And in that first moment, the space began to form once more.

In Boston terrorists used the stage again.  But we will not let them take the space we created.  After the explosion people ran from the spot, but look to see who the first responders were.  Runners.  Men and women who had just completed 26.2 miles of challenge, who turned and ran back to the chaos to help.  Marathoners literally lined up to give blood. Runners in tears, terrified, held on to one another, and to the people around them, and slowly built strength, renewed resolve.  And in before the day was over the space began to build again.

George Sheehan, the runner philosopher, said this: “Winning and losing is what you do in team games. The runner is not in a game; he is in a contest. And that is a word whose Latin root means to witness or testify. The other runners are witnesses to what he is doing. And therefore, anything else than all he can give is not enough. When you race, you are under oath. When you race, you are testifying as to who you are.”

We run to testify, and to push those around us, running with us, standing watching us, to do the same.  To say: we commit to be the best we can for ourselves and for each other.

We run to test ourselves.  To improve.  To inspire.  To remember.  To represent.  To compete.  We run not to be separate from the world but to bring the world with us.  To testify.  To give witness that even in this simple act we can be as one people.  We can rise above the grey dimness that threatens humanity and hold the light high, for ourselves and for those who would run with us. 

There is not enough world to hold us back.  Not enough violence or disdain or hate or ridicule or fear or cynicism or doubt.  We will run again, not because we are elite or different or special, but because we are meant to run, as humans, as companions.  We are meant to express ourselves in this way.  I believe it.

In Hopkinton, 26.2 miles from Boston, behind the blue and gold starting line, with its iconic unicorn, we wait. There is a moment before the big gun goes off, when the anticipation is palpable, and you can feel tens of thousands of people lean forward, eager for the first step.  And you look in to the eyes of the runner next to you, and you see the miles and the pain and the time and the tears and the failure and the challenge and beginning again and failing and never ever giving up.  It is the human condition, the spirit that keeps us from giving in to what would make us less than what we are meant for.  And then we take the first step, and run with all we have into the space the world has made. 

We will run again.

Hope this finds you testifying,

David

Copyright © 2013 David Smith

Knock Knock

April 14, 2014

Greetings from who’s there,

“When the doorbell rings my dog always thinks it’s for him.”

A dozen years ago or so I was sitting on the floor watching a movie with my kids.  We had a bowl of popcorn between us, clustered together, buttery fingers, transported by whatever animated classic was flickering in front of us.

I was reaching for the bowl when I realized there was an extra head in the crowd.  A little boy, not one of mine, had wandered in and was watching the movie with us.  “Hi.” he said, not tearing his eyes off the Disney creation.  He sat down to eat popcorn. 

He was perhaps three, not worldly enough to have announced his presence at the door. He was old enough to know what matters: there were kids in this house, he was a kid, and so he was welcome.  He was absolutely right.

In the front hallway there is a box on the wall that houses the door chimes, which would make a noise if anyone ever pushed the doorbell in just the right way, with just the right body English, in order to make things work the way Edison intended. 

The bell is rarely rung.  In fact when it does go off, it scares the heck out of me. 

When I was a kid we didn’t use doorbells.  We banged on the door. (Usually the back door) This was the socially acceptable way of declaring your arrival.  Ringing the bell was for company.  And one other activity which I will come back to.

This was the culture of my old neighborhood; principles largely shared among the tightly packed houses, enforced through rigid training by mothers up and down the street.  Reinforced when necessary through admonition; hands on hips, red-faced reprimands, and the occasional corporal punishment.  (Which is how I learned most things.) But the rules about visiting my friend’s house were eventually clear:

Knock on the door and wait patiently. 

When someone comes to the door, politely state your business.

Do not open the screen door or go in the house unless invited.

There were other rules scribbled in the margins, having to do with acceptable hours, (not before dawn or after the streetlights were on) and behavior in the house (mind your p’s and q’s, don’t ask for anything to eat or drink, don’t bounce on the beds to try to touch the ceiling) Once you had established yourself with the house, the rules could be relaxed, but we all understood these were laws that could be tightened at any time.

Until a new boy came to the neighborhood.  He was the No Knock Kid. 

His behavior challenged the status quo.  The culture he was raised in, perhaps in a foreign country, or on Mars, indicated that when one wished to visit someone, one simply walked into the house and did so.  It was revolutionary.  It was like James Dean had come to visit Chandler Street.  (The cool one, not the sausage guy.)

The parents rallied and reinforced the rules but there was a crack in the status quo large enough for us to see other possibilities. 

It was little later that I learned that the culture of my microcosm was not universal.  As I traveled outside neighborhood I learned not everyone knocked and waited.  My friends from the south end did neither.  When they visited a friend’s house, they simply stood outside the house and screamed his name.  If he was home, he yelled back.  If he was not, his parent or smart aleck sister would yell ‘He’s not here.’  Sometimes with editorial like ‘He went to the corner to get more stupid pills’.

I learned that this behavior did not transfer well back to my street.  (Corrected via the hands-on-hips red-faced educational method) 

One thing was true in all the neighborhoods, you didn’t use the doorbell.  The doorbell was for ‘company’.  It was occasionally used by door-to-door salesmen, Western Union, and the police.  But never used by kids.

Except when it was.  When it was just dark enough to hide, one might run up on a front porch, ring the doorbell and then rush off into the bushes to watch the hilarity.  The door opening, the look of incredulity, the disgusted slam of the door.  It was a classic. 

Ding and dash. Ring and run. Ding dong ditch.  I’m not sure if kids today still do this; there is probably some cloud based version of it, or an app they can use.

Kids visited my house for many years and how they got in varied widely.  Some knocked, some walked in, some took off their shoes, some ate out of the fridge.  The most important thing was they knew they were welcome.  The rules of interaction between guest and host at this level are an interesting social commentary.  But I like the innocent approach of the little boy who appeared in my house many years ago, without guile or expectation, or the complex guidelines to guide him.  Just the intuitive sensibility that we all start out with, before we start layering on the rules.  I miss that.  You might want to lock your back door.

Hope this finds you knocking,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith

The View

April 7, 2014

Greetings from where we look again,

I asked a friend of mine: “Do you think that people who live here ever get bored with the scenery?”

There is a philosophic concept that suggests that the universe unfolded as it has, so that one day there would be thoughtful creatures such as ourselves to wonder and live in awe of the universe.  This is one vein of ‘Anthropic Theory’ which suggests that without intelligent life to observe and appreciate the perfect progression that provided the environment for intelligent life to exist, creation would not fulfill its purpose.

It is a complex way of saying: If a tree fell in the forest, and Stephen Hawking wasn’t there to observe it, would it make any noise?

We were east of the Rockies, far enough out to see the range, to appreciate the majesty, the scale, the beauty of the mountains.  The peaks were spectacular, tipped in snow, breathtaking as they rose above the plains leading into the foothills.  Roads snaked among tree lined canyons leading to dramatic vistas in the altitudes above. 

I wondered if people came outside their homes each morning and stood in awe.  Or if at some point it became just background to a commute.

Where I live the drama in the landscape is far more subtle, created by the furrows between the corn.  It holds its own simple beauty but would not inspire Ansel Adams.  It’s easy to take for granted, because it seems so common, so ordinary.  It doesn’t seem to rank with the power of the Rockies.  Unless I am wrong.

This weekend I was visiting a home on the east coast of the Mitten State.  The day was bright and clear, an exchange of winter for spring, still cool, but hints of something warmer coming. 

The house perched on the edge of the lake, panoramic glass facing the broad water.  Someone had designed the place to honor the view.  Trees framed the house, but didn’t obstruct the grandeur of Lake Huron.  The man in the house sat in his chair, his laptop balanced on his knees.  He browsed and frowned and twitched.  Behind him, the view waited.

The blue sky slid down to a band of grey on the horizon and then to sharp contrast to the deep, cobalt water.  The lake was stretched out across as far as could be seen north to south, textured with waves seeming to move in all directions. 

And all along the shoreline, the crust of the winter’s ice was piled up in enormous white crumbs.  Brilliant against the dark blue, floating in the frigid water, some crushed on the sand, it looked as if the surf had solidified in motion, stood still, waiting for its portrait to be taken.

I stood at the window and wondered how any chair in the house could not be facing the water.

Driving back through the empty fields of my Midwest mundaneness, I envied the people in their lake house, the inspirational beauty rollicking just outside their window.  Of course when something spectacular is in front of you every day, it is easy to begin to take it for granted. 

Last summer, I met a group of visitors from South Korea, here on a cultural exchange.  One of the questions they were asked was ‘What surprised you about your visit here?”  One of the men answered, in hesitant English, that he was awestruck at the size and beauty of Great Lakes.  The largest body of fresh water in the universe.

Some years ago I spent time out in South Dakota with a man from New York City.  We were sitting outside having coffee and he told me he had felt unsettled ever since he arrived and finally was able to name why.  He said that the hugeness of the open space was unnerving to him, that it changed his perspective.  He spoke with tears in his eyes, waved his hand at the wide empty prairie around, us and marveled at its incredible beauty.

In each alley there is character. The fire escape, the arched window, the old wooden door, the brass fittings, the steaming manhole cover.  In every crease in the earth there is texture, rocks, soil, flowers, a tiny creek, bustling its way to some larger body waiting to carry it all somewhere.  In the dome above us, scattered puffy clouds or searing lightning, or a cerulean blue canvas.  The sun boldens with the morning, and promises at night, and the stars and moon create their drama in between.   Every shadow, every tree branch, each living thing moving between the gaps in the world, gives beauty to those who would only look.  Or look again.

I don’t know if our purpose is to observe the universe, or if the creation’s purpose is to be observed, but I sense that the being really aware of our world is part of the joy of living.  I realize this morning that it takes fresh eyes to truly see the beauty in what becomes ordinary, no matter the landscape.  When we intentionally seek it out, patiently, it appears in its fullest.

“Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything beautiful, for beauty is God's handwriting.”  Emerson

Hope this finds you living with purpose,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith