Dead White Knights in an Upside-Down World

In the year since I last posted an entry, the world stood on its head.

My beloved Suns missed the playoffs for the first time in five years, the D-Backs ended the 2008 season with a dismal .506 record, U of A was controversially awarded the last at-large berth in the NCAA tournament field and no one remembers what happened to the Coyotes.

All of this might paint a grim portrait of Arizona sports, but for the Arizona Cardinals and ASU Sundevils. The Cards made it all the way to the Superbowl for the first time in their 89-year history, and both the ASU men’s and women’s basketball teams reached the NCAA Tournament—ASU's women going all the way to the elite eight.

In business and politics, the first African-American in history was elected President of the United States, while stalwarts of the financial industry crashed and burned in balls of fiery flames taking the global economy with them.

In Arizona, housing prices plummeted and our beautiful state went from the fastest growing in the U.S. to negative growth and a $3 billion dollar deficit. No one’s certain whether or not we will have a state government after July 1.

On the home front, my neighbor’s yard, which he’d kept impeccably neat during eight years of residence, spontaneously sprouted a lush green carpet of weeds. They flowered and grew to more than 5’ tall choking his rose bushes which withered and browned. We suspect foreclosure.

Meanwhile, The-Man-Named-Bill (a.k.a. The Teenager) moved to California and into a dorm, started college, moved out of the dorm, signed a lease on a house, changed his major to theatre, got a job with South Coast Repertory and bought a refrigerator, range, washing machine, dryer, microwave and broom. His house now smells like socks.

A lot has happened in the world, and a lot has also happened to me.

About this time last year, I was working through the application and interview process to join the 2008-2009 Class of Valley Leadership. I felt nervous and excited, like a high school senior applying to her college of first choice.

It’s a good thing the windows were rolled up in my truck when I read my acceptance letter or I’m sure my neighbors would have called the police. I screamed. Loudly. Then I called my two friends who had written letters of recommendation, and we hollered some more.

Funny thing was, I had no idea why. I didn’t understand the program, and didn’t know what to expect. But on our first program day last Oct., we heard a talk by Bill Post, former CEO of Pinnacle West and Valley Leadership Man of the Year 2006.

“The white knight-style of leadership is dead forever,” he said, going on to describe coalitions formed by behind-the-scenes leaders (people few have heard of) that brought to Arizona important growth initiatives including all-day kindergarten and light rail.

I told my friend who had convinced me to apply to Valley Leadership that hearing Bill Post’s talk was a religious experience. She replied, “So, you drank the Kool-Aid. Good.”

Yesterday, after a class year marked by one inspiring speaker and amazing experience after another, we heard a talk by Dick Bowers, former city manager of Scottsdale, Ariz. Even though I went to high school in Scottsdale and lived in or near there most of my adult life, I’m embarrassed to admit that I’d never heard of Dick Bowers.

More accurately, I must not have been paying much attention. I can list from memory all of the mayors under whom Mr. Bowers served, including Herb Drinkwater, whose daughter went to the prom with my brother, and Sam Campana, who visited with my son’s Cub Scout troop and whose sister is one of my Valley Leadership classmates.

Then again, perhaps my apparent lack of attention to local politics isn’t entirely to blame. City manager of a small city in a not particularly notable state isn’t a position that we think of as breeding inspirational leaders. In Western culture—the culture of King David and Achilles and Lancelot and John Wayne—we’re more likely to look to sports coaches or Olympic athletes or presidents for inspiration. I’d wager a steep bet that I’m not alone in my obliviousness to the life and story of Mr. Bowers.

And Mr. Bowers prefers it this way. “Leadership’s not about being famous,” he said.

Quietly, behind the scenes of noisy council meetings and negative news reports and complaining citizens, Mr. Bowers engineered the transformation of Scottsdale from a potential future as a sleepy suburb of Phoenix into a hugely successful city.

His technique? Value-centric servant leadership. “It’s the bedrock of everything we did,” he said. His message, that every one of us can and needs to be a leader, comes not a moment too soon.

It seems the world is upside down and we need more leaders like Dick Bowers to help us stand on our feet again. According to Mr. Bowers, that means we need more leaders like you and me.

leadership phoenix suns daily life writing

The End of an Era

Mark D’Antoni has left the building.

Ok, so Steve Nash hasn't. But for how long? Nash lives and plays what D’Antoni breathes—wild and fast and furious and totally insane basketball.

The end of the 2007-8 season never felt quite right. In spite of a spectacular first half of the season and massive hype, the energy…well…nothing seemed quite the same as the previous three seasons. With the loss of chemistry between general manager Stephen Kerr and D'Antoni, came a subtle loss of chemistry within the team. And in the rough and tumble NBA, the smallest shift in chemistry can alter the trajectory of even the finest of teams.

Particularly the Suns with their style of play, reliant on both Steve Nash's brilliance and fantastic team chemistry. At the start of the last game of this year's season, Steve Nash declared the night “Fans Night,” thanked all the fans for giving the team the motivation to play, and then said of the playoffs, “Let’s go win this thing,” with all the enthusiasm of a dead fish.

The fans felt it, too. The Suns win against the Trailblazers was a blowout and the fans left the building—right around the third quarter. I’ve not seen that happen since the end of the 2003-4 season. Starting with the 2004-5 season, even when the final game was a complete blow-out, even knowing they would face a one-hour traffic jam in disorienting downtown Phoenix, the Suns fans stayed until the end of the game and beyond—like small children entranced by a magical fairy tale they never wanted to see end.

And a fairy tale apparently it was. We never did get that coveted national championship, our fast and furious style of basketball stymied by a Texas team four hard-fought years in a row.

Could this image be one of the defining moments in recent Suns history?

Did we ever get our steam back after Nash was sent sailing across the court in a blatant foul by the Spurs during the 2007 conference semifinals—and the Suns, NOT the Spurs, were penalized for the favor?

New York City is the only other place on the planet I’ve ever called a hometown. I grew up in Connecticut dreaming of going to college in the City, and eventually did. When I’m not too busy thinking of myself as an Arizona cowgirl, I think of myself as a New Yorker. In fact, I still have my Yankees baseball cap, in spite of nearly getting lynched the last time I wore it in Phoenix.

But the Knicks never gripped my heart the way the Suns have. And the D’Antoni/Nash fairy tale team brought to bear all the hopes and dreams that the City of Phoenix has held for an NBA championship since the team’s first year of play in 1968. Never mind that D'Antoni changed the history of basketball by bringing his European-style of play to the United States.

Just as New York City is a baseball town, Phoenix is a basketball town. Specifically, a Phoenix Suns town.

During the 1976 NBA Finals run against the fabled Celtics, Phoenix was painted purple and orange. And then there was THE game—arguably the most exciting game in basketball history. Game 5 of the ’76 Finals, the game that went into triple overtime with Garfield Heard's buzzer beating jumper from 18 feet.

Yeah, that game. The game that launched the Suns into the national spotlight and sealed my future as a rabid basketball fan.

Then there were the low years—the late ‘80s. The post-drug-bust years. Those are the kind of years that separate the boys and girls from the fans.

The company I worked for at the time was based in Canada and had bought season tickets. They had no idea how poorly regarded the Suns were at the time; poor saps—they couldn’t give those tickets away.

My friends and I, all poor artist/writer-types, sopped up all the leftovers and got to watch Magic Johnson and Michael Jordan in their heyday—not to mention the youthful K.J. and Dan Marjerle who eventually became the heart of the Suns of the early ‘90s.

During the 1993 Finals run against the Bulls—which included yet another triple overtime game—Phoenix was even nuttier than it had been in 1976. The city was hungry now. There wasn’t a restaurant, taxi cab, office building, bus, truck or bar not painted purple and orange and draped with Suns logos.

Game 7 overshot rock concert decibel levels. From the first quarter on, my friend and I couldn't hear a thing the other said, the fan noise was that loud and it never once let up.

Sadly, we didn’t win that series either, the elusive NBA championship slipping through our fingers yet again. In spite of the loss, 5,000 fans braved 105 degree temperatures a week later to celebrate the Suns amazing run.

And while these two seasons were enthusiastic and insane and wild, nothing before or since held the sheer poetry of the 2005-6 season. Or the fantastic power of the 2006-7 season. These two seasons gave us much more than hope and enthusiasm—they gave us wonder and awe.

Thank you Mark D’Antoni, for changing the history of basketball in the most unlikely of places—this sleepy little town called Phoenix, Arizona.

We’re better, much better, for your presence, and we wish you the best.

Photos courtesy of the Phoenix Suns photo gallery, AP and NBAE.

Phoenix Suns basketball writing diary Blog Blogs Blogging

My Grandmother's Ring

My grandmother's ring bears an oval-shaped amethyst as large as the tip of my pinkie finger. Set in 14-karat gold with 16 bulky prongs holding it in place, it reflects light in a kaleidoscope of rosy purples.

When I inherited this ring, a gift from my mother, I was sure I'd struck gold. It's hard to believe the stone is fake, so pure is its color, so smooth and cool it feels against my finger tips, the ring's prongs, worn with age, catching my skin gently as I rub the stone.

Each time I bring it to a jeweler for repairs, I ask, "Is it really fake?"

Their answer is always the same, "It's a very good fake. But it's a fake."

I don't care. Like the fairy tales my grandmother used to tell my sister and me at bedtime, the stone may be fake, but the extraordinary feelings it evokes are real.

When I take her ring off my finger and set it on the porcelain plate by my bathroom sink, it makes a glassy clink and the face of my grandfather - his enormous brown eyes, thick shock of black hair, chiseled cheekbones and a smile fed by a positive nature and perhaps a hair too much bourbon – pops into my mind.

When I look at this ring, I remember the smells of the places my grandparents lived: the metallic smell of diesel fumes on the streets of urban East Orange, New Jersey; cool clean ocean breezes wafting through the screen door of their home in Los Angeles; the smell of strong coffee and fried chicken at the grocery store cafe where they took me to lunch as a teenager in Phoenix.

Sometimes I lick the amethyst to polish it; it tastes of 90 years of grit and salty tears.

She returned to Wisconsin in the early 1900s after hitchhiking to Hollywood at age 16. My grandfather Howard was handsome and charming, maybe a little dangerous - that's what she would have liked. She married him. He gave her the ring as a birthday present.

She wore it every day of her life until the day she died in a nursing home with one person, a chaplain, to sing her a final lullaby. I was too young at the time to comprehend that when the nursing home called to say, "She doesn't have much time," they meant "She'll die within hours." I arrived too late.

Seventy-one years of this ring's grit and tears belong to my grandmother. The other 19 are mine.

On Tipping Points and Modern Life

How easy for us to ride the rollercoaster of e-mails, emergencies, meetings, urgent projects, administrative details, needs and obligations that pour into our daily lives both at home and at work. We think we are accomplishing so much.

But are we? Really? Or are we just going around in circles?

Every day I talk to people who, when asked how they are, lower their eyes and shake their heads and mumble, “Busy. Just so busy.”

What are we doing to ourselves?

As an example, many of us start blogging from our hearts, develop a following, then burn out and either enter a long hiatus, or drop our blogs altogether. Sound familiar?

Yeah. Pretty obvious that I’ve gone there, too.

In my case, I launched with high expectations. I read someplace that bloggers should blog two to three times a week and post comments all over the blogosphere. And I believed it. So I did. Until blogging became a chore and no longer a cozy place to share stories, philosophies and inspirations with like-minded souls.

I’ve met many amazing people through blogging and plan to continue, but not at the same level as before.

Anil describes the joy of discovery found in journaling, writing and blogging, “…certain threads that lie in the subconcious might actually untangle themselves and unveil the 'unknown' or provide for a fresh train of thought.”

If you visit Anil’s blogs (he has a both a photo and writing blog) you’ll see his philosophy in action. Sometimes he posts photos or entries several times a week; sometimes there are hiatuses. But Anil always leaves sparkling gems behind—colorful words and images that can inspire new dreams and ideas, or simply lift spirits with their beauty.

It’s time to say, “Enough.” It’s time to recognize how much better we can be by accomplishing a lot with a little, instead of trying so hard to do a lot with less than we have.

Thank you, Anil, for your inspiration.

The Book

Many of my friends have asked lately about the progress of my book, THE BLACK PIT. As might be obvious from the dearth of recent entries in this blog, I haven’t been writing. I could give you a thousand reasons. But there’s only one.

The ending stumps me.

My grandfather died for a purpose…but what?

At one point, I thought the life of Paul Rusesabagina, and my experience meeting him at an Immortal Chaplains Foundation dinner, might hold a clue. Except Mr. Rusesabagina didn’t learn of the sinking of the USAT Dorchester or the Four Chaplains until long after his own heroic acts.

No real connection there beyond a memorable conversation, a few photos and a donation to Amnesty International.

Shortly afterward, my son and I had an opportunity to go to Chad to videotape a group assisting refugees from Darfur. Could this be it? All too quickly, our window of opportunity collapsed along with the few remaining remnants of peace in this torn and bloodied region.

Puzzled, I spent the last year nibbling around the edges of my book. A little research here, a little more there. A little plotting. A tentative first chapter. A whole lot of balled up paper in my wastebasket.

Some writers start writing and, as they write, eventually the story takes them to its ending. They remind me of 17th century explorers setting off across unknown mountain ranges until they reach their fertile lands. Very brave, indeed.

For better or worse, I write in much the same way as I take photographs. The story stews for days, weeks, months. In this case, years. When I least expect it, the story appears in my brain, like a landscape. Perfectly complete. As though it had been there all along, waiting for me to open my eyes and notice it. I see the story as it was meant to be written: every emotion, every character, every scene, from beginning to end. Sometimes, I see every word. Once I see the story, I write what I see.

My writing professors and friends shake their heads. Try to give me guidance on writer's block.

If only writer's block were the issue. When I try to write before I see the story, I end up with, at best, a meandering tale containing no human truth.

Right now, I see pieces of the story of THE BLACK PIT, but the ending is as dark as its name. And as long as I can't see the ending, the beginning and the middle can't take on a meaningful shape.

Some have told me to just write the dang thing. The story of my grandfather’s life alone is compelling enough, they say. And all but one of the books written about the sinking of the Dorchester are varied efforts toward achieving the same literary goal, leaving plenty of original territory for me to explore and for a publisher to publish.

Others say, "You need to write it, otherwise you'll just keep talking about it." But what I need now is to live the story.

Because there is more truth to this story. More even than the Four Chaplains, who crossed the borders of religion to die together so that others might live. More than my grandfather, who gave up a golden life to die with his men.

Hints to more truths lie in various substories of this story. The backdrop of the Allied forces’ near defeat during the bloody Battle of the Atlantic. The soldiers in my grandfather's command: farmers and fishermen who left their wives and mothers only to drown. The story of my family. Lt. William Arpaia. The survivors. The Coast Guard. Greenland. The not-so-noble actions of a few men aboard the Dorchester. Hitler. The Immortal Chaplains Foundation and the winners of its Prize for Humanity.

Disparate though these stories might seem there is a thread of truth that runs through them. If only I knew what it was.

And last, there is the legacy of World War II—the planet as it exists today. Which I can assure you is not the legacy my grandfather thought he was dying for.

The story will be clear to me one day. The day I understand my grandfather’s purpose—and my own. On that day, the book will appear as a picture in my brain, and I'll finish it.

In the meantime, there are lots of other stories to write.

World War II Four Chaplains heroism faith narrative non-fiction writing

Orange Cactus Flower

Orange Cactus Flower, originally uploaded by plein air sketches.

This past spring we experienced another fantastic flower season. Odd, given we are in the midst of a five-year drought. I'm somewhat delayed in posting these pictures, but have finally created a Flickr account to share them with you. This image previews many more flowers from the Sonoran desert.

Clouds for Mai Wen #2

arizona monsoon sunset photos photography

On Becoming a Tick Mark, and Other Tales

My son sent me an e-mail.

For someone who once claimed e-mail was dead, for a kid who grew up on MySpace and Instant Messaging, this is huge. HUGE.

It gets better.

Attached to the e-mail were two Excel spreadsheets. The first details his monthly expenditures once he starts college, starting with that enormous bill called tuition right down to details like Saturday night dates.

He plans on sending us monthly reports.

I suspect certain details will go unspoken.

The second illustrates his financial plan for funding all four years of his college education. He detailed his scholarship, federal grant, student loan and committed income from Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw, his adoring grandparents, and, of course, moi. Detailed right down to anticipated dates of receipt.

We all now know exactly where we stand. We are no longer his loving relations. We’re tick marks in The-Man-Named-Bill's financial plan.

My financial plan when I started college? Grants, student loans and cocktail waitressing (Great tips. Cheap drinks).

Ya gotta admire Bill’s persistence.

He didn’t get into the film program at his first choice college. But he got a scholarship. So he’s going anyway. Plans on relying on chutzpah to eventually get into the film school.

And his job at the theatre production company became impractical when they decided to move their operation to San Diego.

Does he sweat a drop? Nope.

Calls the Dean of the Film School, actually gets the man on the phone (which is apparently a rare feat), and procures a list of recommended work-study programs that will better position his application for film school next spring.

Sounds a whole lot more strategic than wearing short skirts and peddling cocktails to businessmen.

I suppose I ought to start writing about something other than my son. I really thought my life would turn once he graduated from high school and went to college. That I’d find all kinds of other interesting things to write about like…well, like writing.

I know people think I’m proud of him. Which I am. But this is something more.

Bill fascinates me. Utterly fascinates me.

He fascinates me the way most of us find certain movie characters fascinating. Or certain film stars. Like Humphrey Bogart. Or interesting people we meet when we’re traveling.

I feel like I'm in the middle of a great of novel with a fascinating lead character. The kind of book that gets me so wrapped up that I can't put it down. Up till 4 in the morning reading. Poring over every word to make sure I don't miss a subtle plot turn or a single nuance of character development. Can't wait to find out what happens in the end, but more importantly, can't wait to find out what happens next.

August 21.

Bill starts college and the next chapter begins.


parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary

Paintjam Dan Dunn

This is just so cool...

A Man Named Bill

The other day a bearded deep-voiced man—who evidently lives in my house—told me that he was leaving for California on July 13. He starts his new job at a theatre production company on July 15. He wants to sleep on a friend’s couch, get settled into a work routine and sign up for classes well before he starts college in late August.

I turned around to look this voice in the eye, and saw someone I'd never seen before.

A man.

Not a "Young Man."

A man.

Hmmm. What should I call this man?

The Man?

Boring.

The-Man-Formerly-Known-As-The-Teenager?

Doesn’t exactly have a ring to it.

Technically, at 18 years of age, my son is still a "teenager." But he can no longer be "The-Teenager-Formerly-Known-as-Pumpkin." I can't even bring myself to call him "The Teenager."

He's too…too…big.

In size, yes. But big in personality, too. Huge, in fact.

Maybe it's the chiseled cheekbones and the creases when he smiles, the ones that replaced the baby-face cheeks of his teenage years.

When did that happen?

Maybe it's the confident swagger. The one that appeared after he was technical director for A Little Shop of Horrors. With this production, he accomplished a goal he set when he was just 14—to bring community theatre quality to his high school stage. A goal he turned right around and topped with his second play of the year, Curious Savages.

Or could it be the worldly snicker? That all-knowing "hmph" he makes whenever a politician he doesn't like (which is most of them) speaks on the evening news? When on earth did that happen? Maybe it was always there, and I just woke up and noticed.

But here's the truly telling part: He's not funny anymore.

He's Focused. Thoughtful. Stalwart. Earnest.

Oh sure, he's funny at times—like a comedian is funny. But he used to be funny all the time. Funny just because he woke up every morning wearing this awkward teenage skin. Now he's only funny when he cracks clever jokes about adult matters, like dating and presidential elections.

I spent no small part of this past year worrying about how it would feel when my son—this happy-go-lucky little guy who made me laugh through thick and thin for 18 straight years—left home for college in California.

But he’s already gone. And someone new has taken his place.

A man.

A man who grew up with a nickname for every stage of his life. First, "Godzilla." Then, “Pumpkin.” Then, “Little Guy" and then “Short Stuff.” Finally, “The Teenager.”

So…now what?

Maybe “Bill.” After all, his stage name is Bill.

When I tell theater people that, they grimace and say “Huh?”

Long story. The important thing is that everyone—everyone that is except for me, his dad and his dentist—calls him “Bill.”

When I visit his theater productions, people ask me whose mom I am. When I say "Justin," they look puzzled, not knowing who on earth I could be talking about. Then I say, “Bill,” and they grin wide and say things like, “Oh Bill!!! Bill’s great! We LOVE Bill!”

Even the announcer at his high school graduation presented him to the world as Justin “Bill” Snyder.

The cutsey nicknames just don’t work anymore. Not for this bearded deep-voiced man with the huge personality.

So, allow me to introduce to you a man. An awesome young man named Justin Keith Patrick Krecker Snyder.

Or, simply “Bill.”


parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary