Mission Accomplished, Again

Summer is in full swing, so I thought it was time to share this story, adapted from a piece I wrote for a local paper when our kids were little. It’s about our old neighborhood in Waterloo, Iowa.

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Saturday, 1630 hrs. (4:30 p.m.)

A nondescript white pickup, heavily loaded with tables and chairs slowly pulls into the neighborhood. It creaks to a stop at the corner; its brakes emit a high-pitched squeal. Two men leave the pickup and cross the street. On the ground near the street corner, they find long, orange and white-striped planks and black metal stands. With almost military precision they use these crude materials to erect barricades – stopping westbound traffic.

4:32 p.m.

Approximately 50 yards up the street, a black SUV stops along the curb adjacent to a row of shade trees. A three-person team deftly steps from the vehicle and begins unloading a plastic barrel and bags of ice.

4:33 p.m.

The barricade team has moved to the opposite end of the street and repeats its earlier maneuver, this time stopping eastbound traffic. The street is now completely blocked off.

4:34 p.m.

The driver of the white pickup slowly guides his vehicle into position under the shade trees, exactly halfway between the two sets of barricades. A team of six men appears and begins offloading the truck’s cargo.

4:55 p.m.

The tables and chairs are in place. White plastic tablecloths adorn the long tables. Simple votive candles serve as centerpieces. A group of plastic, kid-sized picnic tables is in position near the larger, dressed up tables. A trio of gas grills is assembled at the far end of the shaded area.

5 p.m.

All is ready. The annual neighborhood block party is ready to begin!

In 1993, four families decided to host a block party. What started as a simple “get to know the neighbors” party has become a tradition – a highly organized tradition, run like a well-oiled machine. A machine that pumps out Facebook invitations and provides the muscle and necessary party materials.

Despite the daunting list of materials and logistics involved in throwing a party for 75 to 100 families, preparations are minimal. Everyone involved knows their jobs well. So well, in fact, the team hasn’t met to discuss logistics in 10 years.

This block party is testimony to the fact that fun doesn’t take a great deal of planning. Less really can be more. Especially when you have things down to a science. It’s a routine worth watching. Year after year, events unfold on cue, as if following a script. It’s like there’s a checklist guiding the proceedings. This year is no exception.

5:01 p.m.

The beer keg is tapped. The contents are sampled. (Quality control is Gospel with this group!) Check.

5:02 p.m.

The first guests arrive. Check.

5:03 p.m.

Child A rams bicycle into Table B. Child is scolded by its mother. Check.

5:30 p.m.

The “Boys of the BTUs” fire up the grills. “Fire one! Fire two! Fire three!” Check.

5:31 p.m.

Child B is missing. Check.

5:32 p.m.

Child B is found under a table eating potato chips off the street. Check. Father B is chided by his wife for not watching the kid. Check. Father B goes back to grilling the 32 oz. steak he’s been dreaming about all week. Check.

5:45 p.m.

The grilling is in full swing, as is the table conversation. The little kids are on the swing set doing their best to imitate the Cirque du Soleil. Meanwhile, their older siblings attempt new daredevil bike stunts on the now vacant street. Check. Check. Check.

6:01 p.m.

Mom A: “Honey, the kids won’t eat black hotdogs.”

Dad A: “Just scrape it off. They’ll never know the difference.”

Quality control measures in place. Check.

6:15 p.m.

Mom B: “If Joey eats one more potato chip he’ll explode!”

Dad B: “That’ll teach ‘em.” Check.

6:30 p.m.

Mom A: “I said medium rare, not medium well.”

Dad A: “Sorry honey. Want a hotdog instead?” Check.

8:30 p.m.

Sunset. Cue the mosquitos. Check.

9:30 p.m.

The votive candles are lit, casting a festive glow. Check.

Dad C: “Gentlemen, care for a cigar?” Mosquitos begin to die in mid-flight. Check.

9:45 p.m.

Mom A: “Honey, we should probably get the kids home for a bath.”

Dad A: “You bet. Hey guys, is the keg empty yet?” Check.

10 p.m.

Child B: “Mom, my tummy hurts.”

Mom B: “Talk to your father.” Check.

10:01 p.m.

Child B: “Dad, my tummy hurts.”

Dad B: “Here, drink some pop. Hey guys, is the keg empty yet?” Check.

10:35 p.m.

The call goes up from under the big tree, “The beer keg is dry!” Check.

Dad A: “Hey Honey, get the kids ready to go. Geez it’s late! They should’ve been in bed an hour ago. What have you been waiting for?” Check.

11 p.m.

The white pickup slowly makes its way to the middle of the block. The chair and table crew goes about undoing what they did just hours before. The tablecloths are removed. The garbage is sacked. The last of the revelers begin to pack up and go home.

11:45 p.m.

The pickup is parked. The street is clean. The barricade team clears the way for traffic to resume.

Midnight

The people have gone home. All signs of the festivities have been erased. The party is over, but the tradition continues. Mission accomplished, again. Check.

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The Get-Out-of-Hell-Free Card

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Don’t you just love second chances? Most people do. A good “do-over” lifts your soul and clears the conscience. Just look at sports.

Golf has the Mulligan. Basketball, the free-throw. Baseball, the foul ball. Soccer has the yellow card, while hockey has the penalty box. And in tennis you get two tries to serve the ball. In short, we humans are all about second chances.

My hope is that Saint Peter is, too.

You see, I believe that when a man dies he finds Saint Peter waiting for him at the pearly gates of Heaven. And as the chief bureaucrat in the universe, he’s of course waiting with paperwork. In this case it’s a lengthy and detailed checklist.

On this checklist are all the things by which men are judged. For instance, were you:

Respectful to your elders?  “Yes, sir.” Check.

Loving to your children? “Yes.” Check.

Kind to animals? “Oh yeah.” Check.

Did you love your wife? “You bet!” Check.

You’re scooting right along. “This is great! I’m almost home-free,” you think to yourself. Then Old Pete drops the hammer when he asks, “Scouting?”

Scouting? You furrow your brow and look at the floor like the little boy who got caught being naughty.

He stares at you. Stone-faced. You get the feeling this is the last guy you want to bluff in a poker game. He sees the sweat starting to build on your brow. He repeats the question.

“Were you a Boy Scout?”

Ah. The dreaded Boy Scout question. This is where it gets sticky.

Everybody knows that Scouting is on the side of the angels, and that while being a Boy Scout may not give you a free ticket into Heaven, it’ll surely help boost your score on Saint Peter’s test.

Then there’s me. I told you: this is where it gets sticky.

I wasn’t a Boy Scout. In fact, depending on who you talk to, the word on the street is that I got thrown out of Cubs Scouts. Twice. However, I maintain I got thrown out once and quit once. But let’s not split hairs. The truth is I didn’t even make it to Webelos.

Time for the “second-chance” strategy and a quick prayer.

My hope is that Saint Peter approaches his checklist much like states approach high-school diplomas.

While most people follow the tried-and-true traditional approach of attending high school and graduating with a diploma, that doesn’t work for everyone. That’s why there’s an alternative – the GED. The General Educational Development test allows someone who didn’t receive a high school diploma to take a test to prove they have the same knowledge and skills as a high-school graduate.

I’m betting (hoping and praying) that Saint Peter will follow a similar approach and allow me to bypass Boy Scouts and meet the requirement with an alternative I like to call the “Boy Scout Adult Leader Option.”

I spent 13 years as an adult Scout leader, following my son Sean from his first day as a young Tiger Cub, through his transition as a Tenderfoot into Boy Scouts, to that rare and happy day when he earned the coveted rank of Eagle Scout, and then his final transition into an adult leader.

Through that process I’ve lived through a dozen Pinewood Derbies and popcorn fundraisers, and spent countless nights camping in the rain, the mud and the snow. I’ve survived Murphy’s six-alarm chili, wild-game feasts and pancake dinners. I’ve camped where you can hear the bears in the underbrush, and I’ve snorkeled far too near passing sharks.

We adult Scout leaders have a code. Anytime the heat, the cold, the wet or bad attitudes would start to wear on us, we’d simply remind our compatriots that our service as adult leaders will earn us a punch on our “Get-Out-of-Hell-Free Card." It always made us laugh and lifted our spirits. It also helped us focus on why we were there. The boys.

Adult Scout leaders volunteer their time and talent to help young boys grow into young men with a solid sense of right and wrong, honor and purpose. Life is tough for kids these days. Divorce, drugs, the Internet, social media and peer pressure have made the normally complicated adolescent years something close to a nightmare for many kids. Happily, Scouting is a safe refuge.

So, no matter the final score on my checklist. I’m proud to say I was a Boy Scout adult leader. I know in my heart it was worth it. And I think Saint Peter will agree it was a “do-over” he can endorse – and give me that final punch on my “Get-Out-of-Hell-Free Card" and a check in the “Scouting” box on his checklist.

Thank God for “do-overs.” 

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It's A Small World After All

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(From the ‘I can’t make this stuff up’ file)

I’ve long maintained that there’s something special about Iowans. If you put two of us together within 10 minutes we’ll figure out that 1) We’re related; or 2) We’re not related, but we know at least one other Iowan in common.

It’s not a huge piece of magic when you consider there are only 3 million people in the whole state. To put it in perspective, there are counties in New Jersey with more people in them!

I also maintain that Iowans are born with some sort of special magnetic power that draws us together.

A case in point

The scene was Frankfurt, West Germany. It was a beautiful October day in 1985 and I was assigned to the sports office of the American Forces Network Europe. AFN was then, and still is, the largest military radio and TV network in the world. Back then its signals covered most of Western Europe, with stations in three countries, stretching from the North Sea to southern West Germany. 

Imagine watching WGN Chicago, but all the news anchors, sports anchors and meteorologists are wearing military uniforms. That was me.

It was mid-morning when the phone rang. I answered it as usual, “AFN sports, Airman O’Connor speaking.”

On the other end of the line I heard a young woman ask tentatively, “Is this Jim O’Connor from Osage, Iowa?”

The question threw me. I was half-way around the world from home. I confirmed who I was.

She paused, then dropped the hammer, “Jim, this is Carol Mayer.”

After a quick second of stunned silence I practically yelled into the phone, “Carol Mayer! Where are you? And how’d you find me?” Genius that I was, I forgot that our radio audience was more than a million people and it was the only English-language option in Germany.

Carol was my friend and high-school classmate. We grew up in Osage, a town with three traffic lights and approximately 3,500 inhabitants. Osage rocks. It was a great place to grow up. But back to my story.

Carol quickly explained how she had joined the Army after high school and had recently been stationed in Heidelberg – just 45 miles south of Frankfurt. Like most G.I.s she listened to AFN radio. To her surprise she heard a familiar voice that she swore was her classmate. Her Army buddies didn’t believe her, hence a bet and a quick phone call. That weekend I took the train to Heidelberg, met her buddies and settled the bet.

And then the world got smaller

It was early on a spring Sunday morning several months later. I walked out of the AFN compound in downtown Frankfurt on my way to Mass at St. Sebastian’s. To get there I had to make my way through the Army and Air Force Exchange Service (AAFES) complex directly across the street. The first thing you came to on the complex was the AAFES car dealership. From behind, I saw a young G.I.-looking kid checking out the cars.

He instinctively turned at the sound of my footsteps behind him. As our eyes met we realized we recognized each other.

“Jim?” he said with a quizzical look on his face. “Jim?” I replied.

Yep. It was Carol Mayer’s little brother, Jim. He too had joined the Army after high school. It turned out he was on leave for a couple of days and at that moment was killing time waiting to meet his travelling buddies.

I told him how I had run into his sister just a few months before. He told me he had heard the story but hadn’t believed it.

As we parted we laughed at how small the world really was – especially when two guys from a small town in northern Iowa could run into each other at 7 a.m. in a city as large as Frankfurt.

And then the world got even smaller

Fast forward three years to the summer of 1988. I was out of the Air Force and was living with my parents for a few months as I waited to return to college in the fall. I was working part-time at KGLO Radio in Mason City – the very same part-time job I’d left before joining the Air Force. Déjà vu all over again.

That summer Iowa was locked in the grip of the worst drought it had experienced in decades. It was mid-day on a wretchedly hot and dry Sunday when the phone rang. I answered it as usual, “KGLO, Jim O’Connor speaking.”

On the other end of the line I heard a young woman ask tentatively, “Is this Jim O’Connor from Osage, Iowa?”

The question threw me, again. I was half-way around the world from where I was when this same exchange last happened. I confirmed who I was.

She paused, then dropped the hammer, again. “Jim, this is Carol Mayer.”

After a quick second of stunned silence I practically yelled into the phone, “Carol Mayer! Where are you? And how’d you find me?”

Genius that I was, I forgot that KGLO was the second largest radio station in the state and if you listened to the radio in northern Iowa, you listed to KGLO.

Carol quickly explained how like me, she had left the service after her enlistment and was now home preparing for the next stage of her life. Her parents listened to KGLO and when she heard me on the radio she “just had to call and surprise me.” Again. And she succeeded. Again. 

I just can’t make this stuff up.

A small world? Yes, it is. Indeed. 

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The Famous 'Grandma Lucy'

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Her name was Lucille M. Corell – known far and wide as Grandma Lucy. She was the kindest, most faith-filled person I've ever known. With a sparkle in her eye and a ready smile, she was small in stature, but what she lacked in height she more than made up for in attitude.

Grandma Lucy was one of God’s soldiers – and proud of it. She liked to talk in general, but she loved to talk specifically about God, her faith – and your faith. There were no strangers in her world, just friends she hadn't yet met. If you were breathing and within eyesight, you were going to get know Grandma Lucy.  

Grandma Lucy also loved to cook and bake. That’s how she showed her love. When I was stationed overseas she sent me regular shipments of what my buddies all agreed were “the best damn molasses cookies ever made!” She was famous for her cookies. A couple of my friends actually sent her thank you notes for sending me cookies!

Sadly, Grandma Lucy died a little over three years ago.

I think of her daily – and especially at this time of year. She loved the rebirth that comes with springtime. To her, springtime meant the snow would finally melt, the songbirds would return and our journey on this earth would continue, as long as the Good Lord willed.  

Grandma had a hotline to God. She was a devout Christian who prayed for each and every one of her seven children, 16 grandchildren and 19 great-grandchildren each and every day. She’d sit quietly every morning in her small kitchen and share her thoughts and concerns with God.

We knew that, and took comfort in it. And she knew that we knew. That’s why on those rare occasions when she’d remind me over the phone, “James, I’m praying for you,” I understood that was really Grandma-Lucy code for “James, you’re making bad choices and you need to get back on the straight and narrow – now!”

Subtlety. A lost art.

It was 5 a.m., Wednesday, Nov. 28, 1984. Assembled in Grandma’s kitchen were Grandma, my parents, Aunt Christine and me. Even with the early hour, we were unusually quiet. The only sounds were the tick-tock of the wall clock and the incessant gurgling of her old-school coffee percolator. A heavy cloak of sadness covered the room – for two reasons.

The first reason was the love of Grandma’s life – my Grandpa Arnold Corell – had died just three days earlier. They’d been in love since she was 16. She was crushed.

Grandpa died on Sunday night. The funeral customarily would have been held the following Wednesday, but things were moved up a day to accommodate me. Just 17 hours earlier I was wearing my dress-blue Air Force uniform as we pallbearers carried Grandpa to his last resting place in a little rural cemetery near Carpenter, Iowa. It was tough to say goodbye.

I was wearing that same uniform as I stood in Grandma’s kitchen at 5 o’clock the next morning, because of reason No. 2.

I’d been home on leave following basic training and military technical school. In just a few minutes my parents would drive me across the state to the Des Moines International Airport. I had to fly to Germany to begin my first assignment.

Grandma Lucy and I were very close. I was her eldest grandchild. She was my spiritual rock, my inspiration. Now we had to say goodbye. As far as we knew I might not return for four years.

It was a difficult moment for Grandma and me. After a prayer and a long pause she reached across the table and handed me an envelope. Inside was a card with a handwritten note. The card included a small clipping from Guideposts – the magazine seemingly every Christian grandmother reads.

As I read it she told me she understood the journey I was undertaking was very important and it was something special I needed to do. And she said I needed something to take with me to remind me of how to look at things. Especially when things got hard and there were difficult choices to make. I could tell by the look in her eyes she knew what she was talking about.

It was one simple line. Twelve words I've quoted more times than I can count.

“Belief is the acceptance of a map, faith is taking the journey.”

As I look out the window I see robins walking in the snow. As usual, they jumped the gun and arrived a couple weeks too early. It’s a reminder to me that life’s a journey and things don’t always go the way you expect. Just like Grandma Lucy taught me.

While Grandma’s journey has now ended, mine continues. As much as I miss her, I take heart. I have faith that she continues to watch over me every day, and that she still has that hotline to God. But now instead of long-distance, it’s a local call.

Thank you Grandma. Happy springtime.

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Back row (l to r): Marilyn O'Connor, Christine Youngerman

Middle: Lucille Corell

Seated: James O'Connor

Nov. 28, 1984

Courage Takes Many Forms

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Now that the Super Bowl is behind us, young men across America turn their attention to that next great annual sporting event – Pinewood Derby. Anyone who’s had a Cub Scout in the family knows this annual competition in no way pales in comparison to the Super Bowl. 

The Derby pits boy against boy (and all too often dad against dad) in a competition to not only assemble and decorate a swift and “cool-looking” car, but also put their creation to the ultimate test – durability.

If you’re unfamiliar with Pinewood Derby, here’s a primer. The Scout receives a small box containing a block of wood, which is precut to accept the axles and plastic wheels, also included in the box. 

The rules are simple. Cut and shape the wood any way you want. Paint it any way you want. But, just like in boxing and wrestling, the car can’t exceed a very specific weight limit.

Then comes race day. The cars are lined up at the top of a track that looks much like a miniature roller coaster. The starting point is four or five feet off the ground. The cars are held motionless behind a barrier. Once the barrier is lifted gravity takes over and let the best car win.

I know. It sounds simple. But you wouldn’t believe the tension. Especially late in the day as the finals loom, and the wheels literally begin to fall off.

And that’s the point where my story begins.

It was my final Pinewood Derby as Cubmaster of Pack 25 at St. Edward School. There were more than 50 boys in the Pack. Our son, Sean, was one of the older boys who within a few short weeks would move up from the Pack 25 and become a member of Boy Scout Troop 1.

My job that day was to serve as Master of Ceremonies. Part of my charge from the guys in the pits was to come up with something "to kill about 10 minutes" right before the finals. This would give my fellow adult leaders, Murph, Steve, Potsy, Al, Ken, Chris, Andy, John and Dana time to double-check the standings and ensure all the right cars were ready for the finals. This was a great bunch of guys. They’d do anything for you. And more than anything, they truly cared about the boys.

I’d been Cubmaster for four years, and was famous for the entertaining routines I came up with for our monthly Pack meetings, so they trusted I’d come up with something appropriate. The only caveat was that I shouldn’t do anything too sentimental. As rough and tough as they were on the outside, to a man they were nothing but sentimental mush on the inside. And while they’d all agree that, yes, real men do cry – they hated crying in public.

It was time. The track ran almost the full length of the gym. The bleachers were packed. We had a standing-room-only crowd as I took up my position in front of the track at the half-court line, facing the bleachers. Like the Scouts and adult leaders, I was decked out in my Class-A dress uniform, complete with a special plastic bear-claw necklace I’d made just for the occasion.

I’d spent a lot of time thinking about my assignment. For the best part of the week I couldn’t make up my mind. Then while dropping off my kids at school I saw Kevin (not his real name) walking into school.

Kevin was one of the smallest Scouts in the pack. He was a real cute kid who had one of those great smiles and infectious personalities that drew him to people. Kevin was also very ill. He had a condition that forced him to miss a lot of school and undergo all sorts of painful therapy. But Kevin was a trooper. He always had a smile on his face. And he loved Scouting. Whenever he was able to attend the Pack meetings he’d run up full of excitement and ask me what we had planned.

He was a great kid, and deserved to be recognized. I had a plan.

The crowd became quiet. I called Kevin to come up and stand beside me. I explained that he was going to help me tell a story. It was an ancient story that was passed down over the centuries from Indian chief to Indian chief and then from Cubmaster to Cubmaster. 

The story was about an Indian village tucked away high in the Rocky Mountains. The village had come under attack several times by a neighboring tribe. As an early warning system, signal fires were set up on five peaks surrounding the village. If a fire went out, the villagers would see it and have time to evacuate.

One day the chief had a problem. Most of the adult men were gone on a hunting party and wouldn’t return for several days. He had enough braves to cover four of the peaks, but not the fifth.  

He only had one option. He called together the four oldest boys in camp and gave them strict instructions.

“You will travel to the fifth peak,” he commanded, his deep gravelly voice echoing across the camp. “Once there you’ll light the signal fire and keep it lit throughout the night, no matter what. Your families are depending on you.”

The four boys promised their chief they’d be brave and that they’d stick together, no matter what. One of the boys was smaller than the rest. As they marched up the trail to the peak the three bigger boys poked fun at him. They told him he’d be the first one to become frightened and run home.

They arrived at the peak just before sunset. They built a fire and settled in for the night. Soon darkness overtook their camp. They couldn’t see much past the fire. It was like a black curtain had been shut all around them.

Then the noises started in the trees nearby. Animal noises. Was it a bear? Was it wolves? They didn’t know, but they knew it was close. And it scared them. Then came a howl from the trees. The four boys jumped as one. They screamed. One of the bigger boys began to cry. He grabbed his bag and ran down the trail toward the village. He was going home. The small boy stared at the trail. He wanted to go home more than anything, but he had promised his chief he would stay, no matter what.

The animal noises stopped. But an hour later they were replaced by the wind. It felt like a storm was brewing to the west. The boys put more wood on the fire. It seemed like the wind was trying to do everything it could to douse the flames. It grew and grew and grew until the trees began to sway back and forth. Limbs started to drop – bang, bang as they hit the ground. As the last tree limb crashed to ground another boy grabbed his bag and ran for the village. The little boy was left with only one companion.

The two boys stared at each other, each wondering if he had the courage to stick it out. Each hoping against hope that the wind would die down. It was beginning to thunder in the distance.

The rain started then. Not hard, but steady. It’s one thing to be scared in the dark, but it’s much worse to be scared, in the dark, wet and cold. The boys took turns going to the trees to get more dry wood for the fire.

Then it happened. A bolt of lighting struck a tree not 20 yards from the camp. The bigger boy screamed and and ran. The little boy was left alone holding an armload of firewood. The fire was starting to die. The wind was howling. The rain kept coming. The animal noises began again. His upper lip began to quiver. He’d never been so afraid. He’d never felt so alone.

Then he remembered why he was there. The chief had given him a job. His village was depending on him. He carried the wood to the fire. He knew what he had to do.

Just before daybreak the chief stood in the middle of the village. He looked from peak to peak counting the signal fires. He thought he had heard the boys from peak number five come home during the storm, but he counted five fires. He smiled with pride. The boys had stayed at their post.

The village gathered for breakfast. The chief began to tell his people about what he saw that morning. He told them how proud he was of the young boys who stood up to the task and showed bravery. But as he looked into the faces of his people he realized three of the faces in camp shouldn’t have been there. Instead of being on the mountain, they were in his camp. They were warm and dry. He was sad.

The fourth boy now emerged from the trail and walked into camp. He was tired, wet and cold, but he held his head high. The chief called him to the center of the village. He listened closely as the little boy described the animal noises, and the wind, and the rain and the terrible lightning. 

The chief knew he must have been very afraid. But the boy simply said he was more afraid that he would let down the village if the fire went out. He knew keeping that fire going was the most important thing.

Then the chief stood next to the boy and said these famous words.

“Courage takes many forms. A person’s size doesn’t matter. What’s in your heart is what matters. It takes courage to battle an enemy face-to-face. That enemy you can see. You know what’s coming.

“But it takes a special kind of courage – the heart of the bear – to face an enemy you cannot see.”

With that the chief removed the bear-claw necklace from his neck and placed it over the head the little boy and said, “Today you proved you have the heart of the bear. Your village is proud of you.”

That’s when I removed my bear-claw necklace. I told the crowd how even though Kevin had to be gone a lot, he attended every Pack meeting he could. And more importantly, when he was there, he was enthusiastic and helped other boys with their projects. In short, he was a good Scout and someday would be a great leader. 

With that, I turned to Kevin. I placed the necklace around his neck, and said, “Take this bear-claw necklace and wear it proudly, for you have earned it, young Scout. You have shown your Pack and your village that you have the courage to stand and face the enemy you cannot see.”

I didn’t realize until that moment that the gym had gone completely quiet. Not a single parent moved. Then Kevin turned to the crowd and hit them with his patented 1,000-watt smile. The place went nuts. People were on their feet clapping. All for Kevin. The little boy with the heart of the bear.

I turned around and found the pit crew frozen in place, tears streaming down their faces. I’d held it together until then. Now it was my turn to tear up.

As I made my way back to the scorer’s table the guys shook my hand. Murph spoke for the group when he said as he wiped his eyes and smiled, “That was really great. And by the way, don’t ever do that again!”

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Advice For The Groom-To-Be ...or ...How To Survive Engagement

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The other day a young guy I know confided in me that while he’s excited about getting married, he’s been locking horns with his fiancé and her mother about wedding plans. I told him to pull up a chair and listen closely to some of the best advice I’ve ever received. Advice I’ve shared countless times. And countless times I’ve been thanked for sharing this wisdom.

It was a Monday morning in 1990 and I was the new guy in my office. I was feeling a little down, and my buddy Rich noticed. Rich was a great big bear of a guy. He lived large. He did everything big, fast and loud. He owned a Corvette and drove it like it was a cheap rental. He smoked like it was his job. And he never missed the weekly rack o’ribs special at Rib Haven. In short, he was the guy who could just as easily lead you astray as he could point you in the right direction. The perfect mentor.

I took a seat in his office and explained how I’d just spent the weekend at Penny’s parents’ house and that I unexpectedly had stirred up a hornet’s nest with my future wife and future mother in law.

My story was simple. I was innocently walking through the kitchen – otherwise known as “wedding-planning central.” I had almost cleared the door when Penny asked me about the wording on wedding invitations. I read the draft. All was good until I suggested including a line at the bottom about “no gifts necessary.”

Rich shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut real tight, then let out a big sigh and asked, “Let me guess, all hell broke loose?”

The simple answer was, “Yes.” At the time I wasn’t really sure I was going to make it out of the kitchen alive. Apparently there’s an unwritten code in the Female Book of Rules that’s a corollary to the Golden Rule. It goes something like, “I gave every one of my relatives’ and friends’ kids a wedding present, and they’re by-God going to do the same thing for my kid.” I think it’s called the “Universal Rule of Good Taste and Sensibility,” or the “Payback Rule” for short.

Rich took a deep breath before speaking. “O.K. Simple rookie mistake. You’re not dead, just beat up a little.”

He then proceeded to share with me the advice he’d received more than two decades earlier when he was engaged and made a similar blunder.

“Here’s the deal, kid,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “You love her and she loves you. That’s the bottom line and you need to stay focused on that.

“Now, regarding wedding planning. Wedding planning can be like a spring meadow filled with flowers, or it can be a minefield waiting to remove a limb with every step you take. The choice is yours.”

I told him I’d rather go for option A.

“Good choice,” he said. “So here’s a little secret that nobody tells us guys. When you pop the question, it’s like you’ve knocked over the first domino, or lit the fuse on a stick of dynamite. You’ve set events in motion and you’re not in control. And forget about sharing responsibilities. You’ll have plenty of time for sharing down the road. This is about survival.”

“To survive wedding planning you’ve got to be smart and nimble. It’s a big chess game and there’s only one winning strategy. Play dumb.”

I stared at him. A dumfounded look on my face.

“Good. You’re catching on,” he said. He continued in a hushed, conspiratorial tone, “You see, women feel compelled to ask your opinion. But the truth is, they neither want nor care about your opinion – even though they ask for it.

“Weddings are a caldron of hundreds of details. And if you think about it, you’ll realize you really don’t care about most of them. What you need to do is find that one – or maybe two – things you really care about. Something truly meaningful.  Find that one – or maybe two things – and stick to your guns. The rest? You didn’t even hear the question.

“So go back to the kitchen scenario. You’re walking through. They ask a question about something that isn’t one of your “two things.” What do you do? You just keep walking. The good ones don’t even break stride. But that takes practice,” he said, beaming with pride.

“She asked the question – check. That item wasn’t on your short list – check. You kept walking – check.  She fulfilled her need to ask your opinion – check.  Everybody wins!”

I sat there. Stunned. It was so straight-forward, so elegant in its simplicity. Such wisdom. I felt like Buddha himself had just imparted the secret to happiness.

Two weeks later history repeated itself – except this time I followed Rich’s sage advice. I’m pleased to report that it worked! And after almost 25 years of marriage I can safely say I’ve done well when I remembered Rich’s advice.

It’s not just sage advice for surviving wedding planning. It’s good advice to follow each and every day of married life. I’ve found that when I focus on what’s really important, the little things take care of themselves. 

Thanks Rich, wherever you are.

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Penny & James O'Connor, June 9, 1990

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What advice do you have for the engaged? Please share your thoughts.