Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 98

Valentine’s Day

It’s Valentine’s Day!

I know that a great number of people despise Valentine’s Day.

They reject it as a fabricated, commercialized Hallmark holiday

They protest the inflated flower prices and their inability to get a reservation in any decent restaurant.

They are offended by the reminder that they are still single. Or newly single. Or endlessly single. Or occasionally single.

Then we have the people who say things like, “I don’t need the calendar to tell me to give my wife flowers,” and “Our love doesn’t wait for February 14th.”

They may snipe at happily married couples, blossoming romances, and surprisingly successful throuples.

Ask any of these folks what they have planned for Valentine’s Day, and they may stab you with their ballpoint pen.

Some of these complaints might have a tiny splash of validity, but here’s the real worst thing about Valentine’s Day:

All those people who complain about Valentine’s Day.

If you don’t like Valentine’s Day, just treat it like any other day. Ignore the roses and candy and hand-holding. Walk right past the boundless romance and starry-eyed attraction. Pretend it never happened because complaining about Valentine’s Day has three significant problems:

It attempts to ruin the joy of others for entirely personal reasons.

It makes you look like an unpalatable, sour-puss jerk face.

Worst of all, complaining about Valentine’s Day is wholly unoriginal. It’s been done so many times already. It’s probably being done by someone as you read these words. And I assure you, it’s been done far better than you will ever do it. We’ve all heard the Valentine’s Day complaints before. You’re not saying anything new.

Far worse than spending Valentine’s Day alone is spending it being unoriginal and boring.

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone.

Friends in Low Places (under the table)

Clara celebrated her birthday on Saturday night with five of her friends. They ate pizza, talked incessantly, sang Hamilton in unison, climbed under the dining room table for a moment (still not sure why), pet the cat, and watched a movie.

Cake, popcorn, candy, and ice cream also played a role.

Oddly, almost all of them drank water despite the number of options available to them.

I watched from a distance, listened from across the room, and offered a sentence or two when asked.

Mostly, I beamed.

We want so much for our kids. We hope that their lives are filled with everything they need to be happy, healthy, and independent.

But near the top of those desires – perhaps at the very top – is at least one great friend. One good, kind, supportive human being who loves your kid almost as much as you do.

Clara appears to have at least five.

Most impressive, these five girls didn’t know one another when they arrived on Saturday night.

Two attend school with Clara.

Two are summer camp friends.

The last one has a brother on Charlie’s baseball team. They met while watching their little brothers practice.

Within an hour, thanks to their kindness, inclusiveness, awareness, and energy, they were talking like old friends. Laughing like they had been laughing together forever.

It was a beautiful thing to watch.

We want so much for our children, but good friends are near the top of the list.

Happily, joyously, brilliantly, Clara seems to have this well covered.

You’re probably talking too much.

A study published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences assigned 252 people into pairs of strangers and left them to talk about whatever they wanted for anywhere from 1-45 minutes. Then they conducted an exit interview with each participant asking when they would have preferred the conversation to wrap up.

They found that only two percent of conversations ended at the time both people wanted them to end.

Thirty percent finished when one person wanted it to end.

More than half of the time, both people wanted the conversation to be shorter, and only ten percent of the time, both wanted it to go longer.

In short, the study found that people were abysmal at reading the room.

When asked to guess when their partner wanted to stop, they, on average, participants were off by 64 percent of the length of the conversation.

The message here:

You’re probably not very good at assessing a conversational partner’s level of interest in what you have to say.

You’re probably talking too much and too often.

You’re probably not nearly as entertaining, engaging, or interesting as you think.

Want to avoid these pitfalls?

Talk less. Listen more.

Learn to speak more concisely.

Learn to tell great stories.

“Just in case” turned out to be my case

I have pneumonia.

I thought I might have pneumonia. I’ve had pneumonia five times in the past 20 years, including once during Elysha and my tenth-anniversary weekend celebration in Kennebunkport, Maine (where I famously kept my illness a secret for the entire weekend to avoid spoiling the vacation).

When I went to the urgent care facility on Thursday morning to get examined, the doctor asked me to describe my symptoms. I told her that it had started with a fever about five days ago, followed by a nagging cough, headaches, a loss of appetite, and some of the worst night sweats of my life.

She asked me if I had felt short of breath.

I had not.

She asked me if I had felt overly fatigued.

I had not.

She tested me for COVID and the flu (both negative), checked my temperature (normal), listened to my lungs (which sounded perfectly clear), and listened for wheezing (none).

“Still,” she said. “It’s odd that you had the fever before the cough. And those night sweats are a little strange, too. It’s almost certainly a virus, but I’d like to get a chest X-ray, just in case.”

This meant asking an X-ray technician at an urgent care facility in a neighboring town to drive over to administer my X-ray, so the request wasn’t without hassle.

I agreed to wait.

When the doctor examined the X-rays an hour later, she saw no sign of pneumonia. “I’m going to send the X-rays over to a radiologist to examine, just in case, but they look perfectly clear to me. It’s almost certainly a virus.”

She decided to do a PRC test for COVID, the flu, and RSV, just to be sure the rapid tests were accurate, then she sent me home with orders to drink lots of fluids, take Tylenol if needed, and rest.

I was pulling into the driveway when my phone rang. It was the doctor. “You have pneumonia,” she said. “The radiologist spotted it. I still can’t see it, but that’s why I’m not a radiologist. It’s not too bad, and we’ve caught it early, which is great. I’ve already ordered you a round of antibiotics.”

I know it’s the doctor’s job to accurately diagnose illness and prescribe the best course of treatment, but I couldn’t help but notice that my doctor’s diagnosis was only correct because she listened carefully to everything I said, processed the information thoughtfully, and twice decided to take an action “just in case.”

Pnueomia is no joke. I know that I spent a weekend in Maine hiding it for Elysha (and went to a Guns ‘n Roses concert the following weekend while still suffering from its lingering effects), but complications from pneumonia also killed my mother 15 years ago and can be deadly if not treated properly.

In fact, it’s one of the leading causes of death in the United States.

My doctor actually gave me the pneumonia vaccine about a decade ago because of how often I seem to contract the illness.

“I had no idea there even was a pneumonia vaccine,” I told the doctor as she was injecting me.

“You shouldn’t,” she said. “I only give this to women in their seventies and now you.”

So it’s no joke.

It’s also apparently time for a booster.

This is why I’m so deeply appreciated my doctor’s ability to listen carefully, proceed thoughtfully, and make those “just in case” decisions for me.

It’s not hyperbole to say that she may have saved my life.

Buffer time or no time?

There are two kinds of people in this world:

Those who believe in getting ready for the day well before they ever need to leave their home. These are people who shower and get dressed first thing. They eat breakfast, brush their teeth, organize their belongings, and pack their bag long before it’s time to depart.

Then they have time to do whatever they’d like until it’s time to leave the house.

I am one of those people.

Then there are the people who believe that if it takes 37 minutes to get ready to leave the house, they should begin that process exactly 37 minutes before the time of departure. These are people who make their preparations for departure the final things they do before departure.

You know the type. Maybe you are the type:

“Oh, we’re leaving in 30 minutes? I’d better go jump in the shower.”

“The party starts in 25 minutes. I just need to get dressed and wrap the present.”

“Don’t worry. Our reservations are at 7:00. I don’t need to get ready until 6:15.”

I may be wrong, but I feel like a majority of human beings fall into the latter category, and I don’t get it.

Why exist in a state of perpetual time pressure? Why constantly live on the edge of being late? Why make the final few moments in your home so stressful? Why operate with no buffer of time in the event that something goes wrong?

I think this latter type of person is a little crazy. They are perpetually unkind to themselves and their mental health. They add stress and strain to their life that is wholly avoidable. They opt for a harried and rushed existence when a more peaceful and relaxed alternative is available.

My children are people of the second type. Rather than getting ready for the day immediately, they postpone, prolong, and procrastinate, making those final moments before leaving for school filled with hustle, stress, and consternation.

I don’t get it.

I try to change their behavior.

I plead with them for a more rational, thoughtful, and reasonable approach.

I can’t bear to watch them race to a finish line that could’ve been reached long before.

I really don’t get it.

Plumbing and poetry

Last night, I was dreaming about the clogged toilet in our upstairs bathroom. I need to find a plumber to fix it, but when I called plumbers yesterday, I couldn’t find anyone available for at least three days.

I was annoyed. I didn’t want to wait three days.

Then, in my dream, it occurred to me that a plumber probably only needed to snake the toilet, and if I had a plumbing snake, I could probably do it myself. Then, still in my dream, I thought about which of my friends might own a plumbing snake. Then I realized that it’s probably an inexpensive tool that I should own myself. Then, still in my dream, I decided to visit Home Depot tomorrow and purchase one, provided I felt well enough.

I’ve been sick for the past three days. High fevers. Cough. But perhaps a quick trip to Home Depot would be possible.

Then, still in my dream, I realized that I could probably skip the trip to Home Depot altogether and order a plumbing snake on Amazon. In fact, if I ordered soon enough, it would probably be delivered by the next day. So, still in my dream, I told myself, “Wake up and place the order.”

So I did. I awoke, climbed out of bed, and ordered a plumber’s snake. It arrives today.

I told all of this to Elysha this morning.

Her reply:

“I dreamt about William Blake’s poem “The Tyger.” I was trying to remember all the lines from the poem.”

She memorized the poem – one of her favorites – long ago. About a decade ago, I did, too. Standing in the kitchen, we recited the poem in unison, correcting our errors along the way.

I thought the kids might be impressed with our performance, but they ignored us.

Two people – a married couple – sleeping side by side.

One was dreaming up solutions to a plumbing problem down the hall.

The other was reinforcing her memory of a poem published in 1794.

Even when we are sleeping, we get stuff done.

Very different kinds of stuff.

Remembering Sheldon Priest and a moment in time

I found this plaque hanging in one of the cabins at the J.N. Webster Scout Reservation last week. Charlie and I were spending the day with the Cub Scouts, hiking, building fires, cooking food, and whittling.

I love things like this.

The plaque was apparently hung on the wall back in 1971 – the same year I was born – and honors a person named Sheldon Priest, presumably for his leadership and commitment to the campground and its staff.

It’s difficult to see in the photograph, but the names of more than 100 people are meticulously painted onto the wood.

Real effort and attention were put into the making of this plaque.

I like to wonder what kind of ceremony was planned for Sheldon Priest on the day it was presented to him. How did he feel? Was it a surprise? Were all the people listed on the plaque present at the time of the unveiling? Were speeches made? Tears in people’s eyes? Members of Priests’ family present?

I also like to wonder where all these people are today. Some have undoubtedly passed away, but for those still living, do they remember the plaque and the day they honored their leader and friend?

Does Sheldon Priest still remember?

Curious, I went looking for Sheldon Priest and sadly found his obituary. He died in 2010 at the age of 88, meaning he was 47 years old when this plaque was presented to him. His obituary states that he “was employed in various positions with Boy Scouts of America from 1960 until 1973 serving southern New England and PA regions.”

The camp still honors Priest to this day with the Kattywumpus Medal – named in honor of Former Camp Director Sheldon Priest – and awarded each week to a staff member who best exemplifies the qualities of a good scout.

I’m not sure how a Kattywumpus Medal is named in honor of someone named Sheldon Priest, but there is probably a story behind this oddity that is likely lost to the relentlessly eroding nature of time.

Priest gave 13 of his years to the Boy Scouts before apparently moving onto something else, but rather than taking this plaque with him when he left the Webster Scout Reservation, perhaps for a position somewhere in Pennsylvania, he decided to leave it hanging in the cabin where Charlie would learn about knife safety 51 years later.

As Charlie whittled alongside his fellow Scouts, I stared at the names, offering each a moment of my time, whispering each name aloud because I adore markers of the past. They are made and offered with love and respect, and they stand as monuments of moments in time that meant something important to people who have since moved on. They are reminders of the past, and I like to think they serve as reminders to us to memorialize the important moments of our time, too.

Markers like this are important and deserving of attention, even if they are hanging in the kitchen of a small cabin in the forests of Ashford, CT, probably forgotten by everyone listed on the plaque but now remembered by me, and now by you, too.

Will Smith and I are in complete agreement, at least in this case

Will Smith, who isn’t exactly living his best life at the moment, wrote this in his memoir, “Will.”

I haven’t read the book yet, but this was sent to me by a friend because Will Smith and I are apparently in absolute perfect agreement when it comes to crafting stories.

Couldn’t have said it any better.

Process over results every time

This image brilliantly illustrates something exceptionally important but incredibly difficult for many people.

First, when I use the word “idea,” it includes:

Writing a bookRecording a songCooking beef stroganoffDecorating your bathroomChoosing a wedding dressPlanning a marketing strategyPainting a muralTaking a photographDesigning your homeProducing a podcastPlanting a flower gardenLaunching a YouTube channelInventing a cocktail

In addition to the traditional sense of an idea – an original thought or novel solution to a problem – any act of creation also amounts to an idea.

Sharing an idea that no one likes can be deeply discouraging and emotionally stifling, but we must remember this:

Not every idea is supposed to be a good idea.Bad ideas are a necessary part of the creative processSometimes we are the only ones who can recognize the genius of a good idea.Sometimes a good idea is ahead of its time.

Whatever the reason, we must not allow the quality of the idea or the response of the masses to prevent us from our next, possibly great idea.

Creation is, in many ways, a numbers game:

The more you do it, the greater your chances of success.

The best part of Six

Elysha and I brought the kids to Six on Broadway yesterday:

Clara’s birthday present

Somewhere along the way, Clara discovered the existence of the show, fell in love with the soundtrack, and desperately wanted to see it performed live.

She was very excited to open her birthday present about two weeks ago and find tickets to the show.

Despite the frigid temperatures, we had a great time.

The structure was different than many Broadway shows. Each wife of Henry VIII sang a song arguing why she was the most suffering of all his wives. The audience was asked to listen to each song and help determine which wife led the worst life of all.

“There is absolutely no fourth wall in this show,” Charlie whispered to me during the first song.

He was correct.

The structure made the show feel more like a concert than a traditional Broadway musical. Knowing that each of the wives would be singing a song about their marriage, one after another, stripped away any opportunity for suspense, surprise, or even plot, and it made the show feel a little repetitive and formulaic at times.

But the music was fantastic. The dancing, choreography, and lighting were spectacular. The band, which performed onstage, was outstanding. And the performances were all spectacular.

Still, it wasn’t much of a story.

The final song, which turned the show on its head a bit, was excellent and helped to bring the show to a higher level, but overall, I thought it was very good but not great.

Entertaining as hell but not the kind of show that will live in my heart and mind.

But none of that mattered yesterday because the thing I loved best about the show was watching Clara respond to something she so clearly loved. Bouncing in her seat to the songs, clapping along when the performers encouraged audience participation, and smiling constantly was the best part of the show for me. And when the final song ended and the curtain calls began, she was the first person on her feet, cheering the actors and band for their performances.

“Best birthday present ever!” she shouted.

Making your kid happy:

That is the part that will live in my heart and mind forever.