It's almost Thankgiving, and you know what that means: applying a new definition to the holiday. I'll happily take the bird, I just want something that lasts the whole day....

She came in ready to unload. It was appropriate considering she had a number of issues that were of concern. However, it was a difficult session as she never stopped to inhale for an hour. Finally I had to politely interrupt her to slow the flow of complaints. Without minimizing of any of her concerns, I told her I was needing to provide her at least an observation. Maybe even an idea or two. So when I stopped her and told her I was OK to just be her sounding board, but if she was seeking some possible solutions, I had something to suggest. She agreed. So I asked her if she wanted to engage in a therapy experiment. I ventured: “for one day, 24 hours, I would like for you to reflect on how often you get negative and complain. Then, even in mid-sentence, stop and re-direct your comments. In other words, no complaining whatsoever for 24 hours. The point is to see how much of your life has become negative. You don’t have to start liking negative stuff, just no complaining for a day”. She cautiously agreed.
 
Two weeks later she came in and said, “Are you trying to make me crazy or something? You’re making me nuts. Because I messed up so much on the first day, I decided to do it the next. It’s killin’ me. Now I notice all the time when I’m constantly complaining”. Although this was not the completely expected outcome, we both found it interesting how we have to purposely make ourselves be positive. And that negative has become so easy. What the heck has happened to us?!
 
So here’s how I personalized this piece of advice for myself: on Thanksgiving I’m going to make it a personal day to concentrate on thanks giving. The pilgrims were probably brave folks, even with their weird hats. The Indians seemingly welcomed them, and of course got fleeced in the long run. But enough history…. I want a fun holiday. So on Thanksgiving I try to temporarily shut down my whining, and wallow in my gratitude. I’ll have to remind myself 500 times throughout the day, “what cool things am I grateful for?” Then really think about them for a while. Let me give you a couple of personal examples:
*My first public speaking gig was as a college senior. I was to give a five minute presentation about, of all things, juvenile delinquency; a topic which I had some personal experience in. In front of only eight other classmates, I crapped out. I couldn’t keep my voice from quivering. I couldn’t remember what to say, so I gave a lousy minute and a half presentation and got a D. Today I had a group of twenty, and it was like talking to a friend in my living room. Somehow I have developed into a public presenter, and I am amazed and very grateful.
*I was lost in the excitement and beauty of music by the age of 14. Although almost everyone my age has a big surround sound stereo, it’s only used for TV viewing. Any music, if any at all, has been relegated as background fill. As an older guy I still derive such pleasure from music, it is a constant joy. To this I am incredibly grateful.
*I only excelled at bowling and ping pong when I was younger. Well, music recognition too. Somehow, along the way I developed into a real counselor with decent credibility. How did this ever happen? It’s amazing.
 
Get it? It’s not an exercise of monotone recital of things-I-am-grateful-for, but rather a deep look into what cool stuff we hardly even pay attention to. Dig deep, give it lots of thought. After all, you have the entire Thanksgiving day to give thanks. It’s kinda disturbing it takes so much effort, but I’m ready to really celebrate Thanksgiving. So I’m going to chase away Mr. Whine and instead be Mr. Gratitude for a full day and start loving Thanksgiving again.
I’ll top it off with the big tasty bird. And the candied yams. And dressing. And cranber……

She came in ready to unload. It was appropriate considering she had a number of issues that were of concern. However, it was a difficult session as she never stopped to inhale for an hour. Finally I had to politely interrupt her to slow the flow of complaints. Without minimizing of any of her concerns, I told her I was needing to provide her at least an observation. Maybe even an idea or two. So  when I stopped her and told her I was OK to just be her sounding board, but if she was seeking some possible solutions, I had something to suggest. She agreed. So I asked her if she wanted to engage in a therapy experiment. I ventured: “for one day, 24 hours, I would like for you to reflect on how often you get negative and complain. Then, even in mid-sentence, stop and re-direct your comments. In other words, no complaining whatsoever for 24 hours. The point is to see how much of your life has become negative. You don’t have to start liking negative stuff, just no complaining for a day”. She cautiously agreed.
 
Two weeks later she came in and said, “Are you trying to make me crazy or something? You’re making me nuts. Because I messed up so much on the first day, I decided to do it the next. It’s killin’ me. Now I notice all the time when I’m constantly complaining”. Although this was not the completely expected outcome, we both found it interesting how we have to purposely make ourselves be positive. And that negative has become so easy. What the heck has happened to us?!
 
So here’s how I personalized this piece of advice for myself (i.e. kidnapping Thanksgiving): on Thanksgiving I’m going to make it a personal day to concentrate on thanks giving. The pilgrims were probably brave folks, even with their weird hats. The Indians seemingly welcomed them, and of course got fleeced in the long run. But enough history…. I want a fun holiday. So on Thanksgiving I try to temporarily shut down my whining, and wallow in my gratitude. I’ll have to remind myself 500 times throughout the day, “what cool things am I grateful for?” Then really think about them for a while. Let me give you a couple of personal examples:
*My first public speaking gig was as a college senior. I was to give a five minute presentation about, of all things, juvenile delinquency; a topic which I had some personal experience in. In front of only eight other classmates, I crapped out. I couldn’t keep my voice from quivering. I couldn’t remember what to say, so I gave a lousy minute and a half presentation and got a D. Today I had a group of twenty, and it was like talking to a friend in my living room. Somehow I have developed into a public presenter, and I am amazed and very grateful.
*I was lost in the excitement and beauty of music by the age of 14. Although almost everyone my age has a big surround sound stereo, it’s only used for TV viewing. Any music, if any at all, has been relegated as background fill. As an older guy I still derive such pleasure from music, it is a constant joy. To this I am incredibly grateful.
*I only excelled at bowling and ping pong when I was younger. Well, music recognition too. Somehow, along the way I developed into a real counselor with decent credibility. How did this ever happen? It’s amazing.
 
Get it? It’s not an exercise of monotone recital of things-I-am-grateful-for, but rather a deep look into what cool stuff we hardly even pay attention to. Dig deep, give it lots of thought. After all, you have the entire Thanksgiving day to give thanks. It’s kinda disturbing it takes so much effort, but I’m ready to really celebrate Thanksgiving. So I’m going to chase away Mr. Whine and instead be Mr. Gratitude for a full day and start loving Thanksgiving again.
I’ll top it off with the big tasty bird. And the candied yams. And dressing. And cranber……

I have a retired counselor cyber-friend from Israel. A few years ago I was putting together my web page, so I asked Rona for some ideas. One of her suggestions was to look at other therapist’s web sites to garner some ideas. I was amazed that their blogs were full of personal political rants, opinions as to the state of the world; basically on online diary. Yow! What a weird thing to publish. So I opted for what I knew best: a counseling-based web presence. However, this week’s blog is a departure from my web philosophy. Specifically, a remarkable friend of mine just died after a long battle with cancer. Andy didn’t get out much, so most people did not know him, and that’s too bad. So this week is a tiny glimpse into the life of William Andy Wade. It’s not much, but it is the least I could do for this amazing human being.
 
William Andy Wade (Andy) just died. I wanted to come out to his place last weekend for our usual every other Sunday visit, and he texted me he was too sick to have company. Tuesday night I got another text from him informing me he was in the hospital. As a stubborn “tough guy”, going to the hospital had meant things were grim. I saw him twice Wednesday and the same on Thursday. My last visit Thursday night was indeed grim. He was in a lot of pain, and seemed to not be aware of much else. A bunch of people came to say goodbye during the day. His friend of 42 years, Gary and I stayed with him at night until the meds finally relieved the pain and knocked him out. Gary and I left about the same time, but Gary went back for a while later that night. I received notice the next morning (Nov. 2, 2018) that Andy had died. He was 68.

Through all the stories I have been privy to, it is clear I knew Andy in his “calmer” years. He lived in Brownwood for 21 years, and I knew him for about the last 15. I always felt like I was holding onto the tail of a comet as it was finishing its orbit. As a metallurgist / quality control expert / international pipeline inspector plus numerous other titles, Andy was regarded as one of the best in his field. He once slept in a large pipe lifted off the ground with a crane in Iran (“the scorpions will definitely kill you in the night”), and inspected pipeline hundreds of yards long, deep underground on a mechanics sled. The only air to breathe had to be pumped into the pipeline. He lived in Brazil, Indonesia, Nigeria, Paraguay, London, and Hong Kong to name about one third of the countries he lived and worked in. Everywhere he went, his work was held in extreme regard. One person said, “Whatever job Andy took on, he became the master of it.”

He worked hard, and from the numerous stories shared with me, he played hard. He was a tall, Shakespearean actor-looking guy. Long silver hair, a handlebar moustache and pearl white teeth, he attracted attention wherever he went. Sometimes positive attention, sometimes not. Someone recently shared this little glimpse into his past: “We were in the airport and Andy never took his sunglasses off. Once we were in the plane, Andy was sitting across the aisle from me, and I asked him why he kept his shades on. He took them off to show me a really huge black eye. He told me last night he was at a ghetto bar (they were in Rio de Janeiro), and he whipped everyone at the pool table. When he walked outside with all their money, six of them jumped him. The last thing he remembers was a boot coming down on his head. When he woke up it was dark and he had no idea where he was. And it smelled bad. He reached up and opened the lid: they had tossed him into a dumpster.” There are many stories, including his throat cancer, misapplied radiation “therapy” that destroyed every one of his teeth and slowly killed his right hand and arm, and other ailments he had to deal with.

But here’s the story we all needed to know. He came over our house to introduce to his great friend Gary a few years ago. After enjoying listening to them reminisce, I asked Gary how he first met Andy, and he began, “Do you remember the old telex machines?” [single line of paper coming out of a machine- the precursor to the fax machine]. Andy got inexplicably got mad and walked out of the room muttering, “I don’t have to listen to this shit”. Gary continued, “A telex came through the office that one of our guys in Indonesia was in a horrible flat boat accident. Everyone: men, women and their children were drowned. Everyone except Andy and a young newlywed couple. He was able to get to them and swam seven hours, all night long and saved them. I decided then that I wanted to meet him when he got back.”

Although I am pleased to share my friend’s greatness, I am so sad as I close this. William Andy Wade, all of us that knew you well knew we were the privileged few that got to be your friend. I will always be grateful to having been a friend of yours. I close by quoting you when you wrote a kind note to Denise shortly after she shared that her Mom had just died. “Head stones are for those left behind. As a child of God she is free of all earthly things and now is basking in the glory of the Lord.”
As are you my fine friend. Faretheewell.

 For you un-religious folks, you might want to slide on over to another entry, as this one, as we approach Christmas, appropriately enough, has some religious content to it.
 
If part of this essay looks somewhat familiar, it because I'm reusing some of my first essay of this blog-thing of mine. With all the activity around this great holiday, it's really hard for me to stay focused. In the Great Old Days with three massively excited kids running about, getting ready for Christmas there was little left-over thinkin' time. So many years later, with the adult kids set to arrive with a bunch of next generation children excitedly running amok, there still exists little time for reflection. Although I find myself almost giddy with the joy of everyone coming home, I really need to also process this religious event. Celebrating the day Jesus was born; a day that, two thousand years later is remembered and widely celebrated is a mind-boggling joy and privilege. If you're not a believer, you might want to be happy for all those people who are joyously celebrating. If you are a believer, perhaps we can remind ourselves: Jesus? Really? For us? Thanks a lot.
 
Picture this scenario: you're a sixteen or seventeen year old girl, snuggly asleep in your bed, and you wake up and there's a huge angel with big ol' wings standing next to your bed. Yow! It'd scare the dog out of you. So he says: "God has sent me to tell you that you are chosen to be the Mother of Jesus, the Savior of the world. She somewhat fearfully agrees, and zzzzt! she's just conceived God. Nine months later she gives birth to baby Jesus. Does she know what the Father knows? Out of love for us, he gave us his son, that in thirty-three years he would be beaten almost to death, then agonizingly nailed to a cross. For us. To save mankind. Unbelievable. What a deal. What a gift. The birth of Christ. Merry Christmas world.

Thanksgiving 2015
You know, the pilgrims were probably brave and slightly crazy pioneers, but the more you learn about the history and subsequent demise of the Indians, the less cool the tall hats and tossing a fish into the corn stalks were. Not wanting to flush this holiday away due to my slightly aging cynicism, I instead decided to mutate Thanksgiving into a day of, well, thanksgiving. Simple rules of this day: no bitchin', no whining, no negativity. Rather, I remind myself, possibly 600 times throughout the day of the things I am grateful for. It's interesting that this takes a fair amount of effort, meaning I must be spending a lot of time the other 364 days complaining. Man! What's wrong wit' DAT picture?! Happy Thanksgiving all, especially my family. What numerous things are you contemplating about on this day of thanks?

Thankgiving 2016
[John Wayne voice please, nice and slow] Well pilgrim, did your Mamma and Daddy raise a hard workin' schmuck, or didja grow up to be a lazy bum? This is a day, li'l pilgrim, it’s time to work hard at thinkin' about what we're grateful 'bout. It could be your gran'ma, or pa, that nice teacher that shoulda flunked ya, put didn't, yer Ma and Pa who taught ya manners and how to work 'till the job was done, yer kids who come back to see you on  holidays - you know: all sorts of things. Yer Ma and Pa didn't raise no snivelin' crybaby. Time to count yer blessin's today. And pass that turkey leg over here, pilgrim.

     I know our actions don't represent anyone other than ourselves. Still, it's hard to remember that. For example, if someone has seen a counselor they didn't like, then their Mom wants them to come see me, I have extra work to do at the start to "prove" I'm different then who they saw before, because they think their previous counselor represents all counselors.  So, nine years ago when I met this gentleman I knew this man didn't represent the Irish nation, but he embedded such a memory with me, it's hard to remember it was him that did this, and not all of Ireland.
     It was our last day in wonderful Ireland, and we were in Dublin. Just like the old days here at home, Sundays are primarily a day of rest over there. Thus, few restaurants were open Sunday morning, and we were starving. We went into a packed restaurant, and when a waitress told us they had no more room, I went into tragic-begging mode. Out of kindness and pity, she found a tiny spot for us to sit. We were seated only a few feet away from a family of four: a mother, father and their two daughters. I guessed the girls were about thirteen and sixteen years old. We had a brief conversation with them, and when I told them we were from the States, specifically Texas, he told me his agent advised  him that he should visit the "cultural" part of Texas: Marfa. Marfa? So I gave him a few additional recommendations of places he could also visit. Basically everywhere else in Texas.
     Denise and I began eating our beloved breakfast, and I noticed almost everyone else had long since finished. That’s what they do: they visit. I had noted the sixteen year old daughter had basically never stopped talking with her parents. No earbuds. No scowl. Just talk. It was a pleasure to behold. I really wanted to say something to the parents, but I was a long way from home to be so uninhibited, so I didn’t. When they finally left after a two hour breakfast, we all said a quick farewell. A minute later the waitress came over with two flutes of champagne. It was a little early to enjoy champagne, and besides, I didn’t order it. When I told the waitress, she said, “oh, the gentleman at the door ordered it for ye”. So I jumped up before they could all get out the door to thank him for his kindness and generosity. So I told him what I had been thinking: “I was a little hesitant to tell you this because I thought I would appear a little too strange, but I am a counselor in Texas, and work with a lot of teenagers. To watch the interaction of your family, and particularly your older daughter who never tired of talking to you, speaks highly not only of your family, but you as a father.” And he tipped his derby slightly towards me and replied: “that, sir, is worth far more than a glass of champagne.” With that, he shook my hand and left.
     When I got back to the table, the waitress returned to ask us, “so how do ye know Mr. Banville?” I told her that we had just met him in the restaurant, and who was he? She seemed genuinely surprised and answered: “Mr. Banville? He’s the most celebrated author in all the UK. Why just recently  he received the highest honor in literature, the Booker Prize.” Yow! A Really Famous Person. And a fine gentleman and father. We left the restaurant and found an open bookstore. Not only did they have John Banville, but they had an entire section for him. He is a prolific and renowned author. It was a fine way to depart this beautiful country.
     So years later, even though I know our actions only represent ourselves, nevertheless, I think of Ireland as a whole bunch of John Banvilles, showing  kindness and class. It’s not logical or necessarily accurate, but I suspect it may be a universal truth: right or wrong, our actions represent a great number of people. I think I’m going to have to start working harder at showing kindness, generosity and a lot more class.

Music Review
Let's get the negative stuff out of the way first. At the amazing Paul Simon concert at the Winspear Opera House in Dallas, Paul had a newbie on the lighting. There was a panel of near laser-like lights at the rear of the stage that were oddly aimed directly in our formally dilated pupils. So, for the first four songs or so, we were all forced out of self preservation to listen to the music with our arm  and hand outstretched to block the painful assault on all of our eyes. Does anyone remember what the songs were? Is anyone still seeing dark spots everywhere? So there's the stupid part of the concert.
As for the rest, the ten man band coupled with the greatest acoustics I have ever heard in my life made this a concert worth driving six hours for (although we did stay overnight in Ft. Worth). This 74 year old (!) performer was all-pro. New songs, old songs, a little chatter and an absolute WALL of sound made this unlike any other concert I have ever seen. I have never experienced a handful of songs with FIVE percussionists. The acoustics were so perfect, I could easily tell you where on the stage each instrument was being played. Did I mention the ultra plush carpeting? How about the joyful attendants every thirty feet? The outside patios to enjoy the amazing view of Dallas? Indoor parking? Easy departure?
Two encores and a conclusion of ten performers lined up, hand in hand taking a bow capped off a spectacular show. Job well done.

Dad had been stricken with pancreatic cancer for an amazingly long time. We were back in California in the summer of 1995, and I sat on Dad’s bed and asked a question I had never asked him before. Dad was a pretty private man, so asking personal questions was rare. His Dad, Grandpa Henry Sommer died when Dad was only seven years old. So I ventured into uncharted territory and asked: “do you remember your Dad?” He weakly said, “John, that was a long time ago….”. But I asked again, “still, do you remember him?” He paused and very quietly said, “no”. Three weeks later, my Dad died.

If Grandpa Henry Sommer had known he would die so early in life, leaving behind his wife and two young sons, I wonder what he would have done. Would he have taken numerous pictures of him with his family? Would he have started a diary, or written a long letter for his sons to read one day? Would it have been important for him to have been remembered so many years later by his seventy-two year old son lying in bed, himself dying?

This Easter, I was blessed with an extended time with my grandsons, the eldest two themselves now seven years old. I wonder if I depart earlier than I anticipate, will they remember me when they are seventy-two? What can I do to help them not only remember who I was, but perhaps a few lessons imparted to them? Should I take more pictures? Should I write them a long letter? Should I fill our time together with conversations and experiences?

One thing is for certain: I should do something.


 
This note is dedicated to my Dad, Ralph Sommer, and his Dad, Grandpa Henry Sommer.

I am trying to keep my blog stuff my personal essays. That being said, there are a few essays that have had a significant impact on me. The following short essay from Ann Wells, then a writer for the LA Times is one of those important essays. I sometimes forget to follow her insightful advice, but then I read it again (or present it to a group), and I am re-invigorated.

Cherish Each Day
My brother-in-law opened the bottom drawer of my sister's bureau and lifted out a tissue-wrapped package. "This," he said, "is not a slip. This is lingerie." He discarded the tissue and handed me the slip. It  was exquisite; silk, handmade and trimmed with a cobweb of lace. The price tag with an astronomical figure on it was still attached. "Jan bought this the first time we went to New York, at least 8 or 9 years ago. She never wore it. She was saving it for a special occasion.  Well, I guess this is the occasion."  He took the slip from me and put it on the bed with the other clothes we were taking to the mortician. His hands lingered on the soft material for a moment, then he slammed the drawer shut and turned to me.  "Don't ever save anything for a special occasion. Every day you're alive is a special occasion."
 
I remembered those words through the funeral and the days that followed when I helped him and my niece attend to all the sad chores that follow an unexpected death. I thought about them on the plane returning to California from the Midwestern town where my sister's family lives. I thought about all the things that she hadn't seen or heard or done. I thought about the things that she had done without realizing that they were special.
 
I'm still thinking about his words, and they've changed my life.
 
I'm reading more and dusting less. I'm sitting on the deck and admiring the view without fussing about the weeds in the garden. I'm spending more time with my family and friends and less time in committee meetings. Whenever possible, life should be a pattern of experience to savor, not endure.  I'm trying to recognize these moments now and cherish them.
 
I'm not "saving" anything; we use our good china and crystal for every special event-such as losing a pound, getting the sink unstopped, the first camellia blossom. I wear my good blazer to the market if I feel like it. My theory is if I look prosperous, I can shell out $28.49 for one small bag of groceries without wincing. I'm not saving my good perfume for special parties; clerks in hardware stores and tellers in banks have noses that function as well as my party-going friends'.
 
"Someday" and "one of these days" are losing their grip on my vocabulary. If it's worth seeing or hearing or doing, I want to see and hear and do it now.
 
I'm not sure what my sister would have done had she known that she wouldn't be here for the tomorrow we all take for granted. I think she would have called family members and a few close friends. She might have called a few former friends to apologize and mend fences for past squabbles. I like to think she would have gone out for a Chinese dinner, her favorite food. I'm guessing-I'll never know. It's those little things left undone that would make me angry if I knew that my hours were limited. Angry because I put off seeing good friends whom I was going to get in touch with--someday. Angry because I hadn't written certain letters that I intended to write--one of these days. Angry and sorry that I didn't tell my husband and daughter often enough how much I truly love them.
 
I'm trying very hard not to put off, hold back, or save anything that would add laughter and luster to our lives. And every morning when I open my eyes, I tell myself that it is special. Every day, every minute, every breath truly is...a gift from God.
 
by Ann Wells   Los Angeles Times

I was raised 25 miles from San Francisco. Then, at age 28, I was working at a children's ranch, working with a bunch of abused, neglected children. We had nothing in terms of materials to work with, and really, back then, with nothing much to do. Thus, I was thrust into the semi-extreme world of very "rural" Texas. This 15 hour Sunday, I took the nine teenaged boys in my care on a little hike:

This Calls For Brief Solution-Oriented Therapy

I was working at a kid's ranch with mainly abused, neglected kids. My group consisted of 9 boys, ages 12-15. We worked 48 hrs in 4 days, with hell day being a weekend day, a 15 hour workday. Man! All this for an amazing low salary....... This was in the summer, about 1981.

One Sunday we agreed on a nature journey down the Pecan Bayou (central Texas). Though it was hotter n' hell, it beat hanging around the "ranch" doing nothing for 15 long hours. The kids stayed within sight for about the first 45 minutes, but the older kids started to get further and further ahead. A few kids walked along the edge of the bayou (a slow moving muddy creek of sorts), and the rest of us were up on a slight ledge, about 10 feet from the waters edge. As I was about to yell my warning for the "scouts" to slow down and let us catch up, I heard THEIR yell for help. We ran for 30 seconds or so to catch them, and I was horrified to see Drew pulling himself out of what appeared to be a muddy hole, but James still stuck. As he struggled to get out, he sank from his knees to mid-thigh. He was clearly sinking in front of my eyes! I yelled for him to stop struggling, but panic ruled, and he put it into overdrive to extricate himself. This resulted in his sinking further. I might have seen this on Bonanza or the Rifleman, but hey, I'm a cityboy from California, not Pa Cartwright. I was having a stinkin' heart attack. I grabbed a dead tree branch off the ground and fed it to James, all the while assuring him to calm down and everything was going to be alright. However, when the rotted branch snapped in half two seconds after he grabbed it, my credibility was seriously diminished. This caused him to thrash about again, and he was down to his waist. As I broke off a long tree branch, he sobbingly informed me he thought his feet were touching something. He stopped sinking, I started pulling, and he slowly came out. He lost both boots in the struggle. His jeans turned to very stinky cement on the painful journey back, and he couldn't even bend his pants at the knee when we arrived at the ranch. We ended up throwing away the pants, and he didn't sleep a wink that night. Some of the older countryboys told me they had always heard the bayou had pockets of quicksand somewhere about, but they had never seen any. I sincerely hoped I would never see any more.

​What an introduction to my profession.........

As I was penning the lobster story, I was amazed that I was simultaneously reminiscing about my vacation in St. Kitts and visiting with my father in the back kitchen of our Holiday House banquet room when I was a teenager. After I finished the lobster tale I realized why this memory was rekindled: it’s a similar theme separated by twenty years. Even today, both examples continue to provide me guidance.

​Part One:  The Busboys
My best friend, Jack, and I were busboys at my Dad’s huge banquet facility during our teenage years. We spent most Saturday nights moving bus trays of dirty dishes from the banquet room to the dishwasher. By midnight we would then haul the incredibly heavy trays stacked tightly with clean dishes to the back kitchen. At 17, Jack told my Dad that his father was needing him at his paint store, so he gave his two week notice. After he left, my Dad declared to me, “You know, when an employee gives me notice, I’d just as soon pay them and have them not bother to come in.  Every person’s work turns to junk after they give notice—everyone except Jack. If it’s possible, I think he worked harder those last two weeks than he did before.  If he called me needing a job and there was nothing available, I’d create one for him."

This teenage lesson stuck with me throughout my lifetime of work.  I would like for all my employers to mourn my departure.  I want to set a precedent that no one could match.  So many years later I think—thanks Dad for the lesson, and thanks Jack for setting the bar so high when we were so young.

Part Two: The Lobster
Actually, truth be told, it was what happened to me on the way back from a lobster.  It was Denise’s and my tenth wedding anniversary celebration, and we had saved up for the last five years to take a vacation.  So, there we were, sharing a large patio area with only one other couple, and drooling about ordering my first (and only) lobster.  We saw a branch with a half dozen coconuts break off and crash to the ground.  Beyond the trees a woman was feeding her goats on the meager grass area leading up to the sea.  It was peaceful and incredibly beautiful.  After our long and delicious meal we began the hour drive around the west side of the island to our hotel.  As I was mentally recounting that evening’s events, I had a strange “vision”.  I found myself viewing my three children.  The eldest, who was currently eight, was all grown up, sitting at the table Denise and I had been sitting with his two younger sisters.  To my amazement, they were all long past being “grown up”; actually, they were old.  Very old.  Justin was in his mid-eighties, still tall but a little stooped over.  He had bottle of Red Stripe beer near his left hand.  I was shocked to see his aged and wrinkled face; though still handsome.  Monique, only a year younger, still looked like my little koala bear—but gray and a bit wrinkled herself and still quite adorable.  Adele was around 80, sitting upright with uncommonly good posture.  Rather elegant I thought, and beautiful.  Both girls had drinks on the table with little umbrellas in them.

The girls were leaning over the table laughing so hard they could barely talk and Adele was begging Justin, “Justin, please.  Stop.  I can’t breathe!”  Justin, looking innocently at his sisters replied, “What?  I was just asking… remember what Daddy said after coaching Monique’s soccer team?”  Both girls howled in unison, “Daddy said, ‘Never coach a sport you don’t know the rules to!’”  Then Monique shared a memory about my squeezing into her Volkswagen “Thing” to test drive it with my knees practically in my face, followed by a story from Adele recalling the last year of city softball she played with me as her coach.    

Then their voices grew fainter, and as they became more distant I realized it was an image I was “seeing” from heaven.  I had been dead for a number of years—that’s why the children were so old.  What a strange “vision” of sorts.  What’s the deal here?  Then the answer came to me:  How do you want to be remembered? Will I be long gone and never be thought of again?  Will I evoke memories or lessons that are passed on to generations who never met me?

In my years of counseling I have encountered an amazing array of people’s experiences and memories.  I have met children and adults who have recounted fathers who never kept their promises, and angry, stressed out mothers who kept the house in turmoil.  I’ve also visited with people who need help in dealing with the sadness of losing a father who was always protective and provided guidance all their lives; and mothers who went out of their way to nurture and unconditionally love their child—even well into their adult years.  Included in people’s recollections are endless stories of loving, kind grandparents who “taught me so much and were always there for me”.  

​If a parent (or grandparent) finds themselves coming up short, the time is overdue to refocus on what it is they need to do push themselves to create their legacy.  What kind of memories do we wish to impart?  How do we want to be remembered?

I wrote this note last year, almost to the day. Like the children he worked with, I was also blessed by our relationship. He was torn up with his first stroke (which also left him with a West Indies/Jamaican accent). Two years later the second stroke left him slowly withering away in a nursing home. I had the inspiration to read to him, and now a year after his passing, I know it was me who gained the most from the experience. I still think of him on a daily basis. The following was written on Feb. 14, 2015.

An extraordinary man just died.  Charles Webb, father of four and miraculous counselor of thousands of children, died after a long and most difficult existence following two strokes. 
 
I met Charles in 1978 when we both began our counseling work at New Horizons Ranch, a residential treatment center for abused, neglected children. We were hired only two weeks apart.  Previously, we had both worked, unknown to each other, at the State School (for incarcerated kids) for a year or two.  Both of us were city boys, me from the San Francisco Bay Area, and Charles from Port Arthur.  Way out in the country, we were introduced to occasional snakes, foot-long centipedes and me, unfortunately, to a brown recluse spider. 
 
In 1980, as I lay dangerously ill from my spider bite, the only co-worker to come see me was Charles.  When he came in my hospital room, due to his size, he had to wear a gown on his left side and another on his right.  Although I was racked with pain, the giant yellow combination accented by a silly looking surgical mask had me doubled over in laughter and love for my friend. 
 
I left the Ranch in 1982 and began counseling different populations and different ages. For twenty-something years, Charles worked only with the most severely abused of children.  The Ranch owner, knowing the power and beauty of Charles’s magnificent voice, asked him to create a children’s choir.  He created one of the most beautiful and amazing choirs in the state.  They toured numerous cities, calling attention to not only the needs of children in residential treatment, but also the joy and wonder of magically performed music. 
 
He finally retired, but was always drawn to the aid of children.  He was hired by the local MHMR, but the stroke of the previous year disabled him too much.  He finished his long and illustrious career with me as a therapist in my office.  I felt then, as I do now, that our final opportunity to work together was our gift from God. Shortly thereafter, he was felled by the second stroke.  He lay in the nursing home, with occasional trips to the hospital for a year and a half.  He was immobilized and his already weakened voice became inaudible.  His caretaker and love, Jane Cadena, was by his side throughout the terrible ordeal.  I’m certain his final months were made so much more bearable by being cared for by Jane’s nursing abilities and her great and loyal love of Charles.
 
Charles once told me that he was at Wal-Mart when a twenty-four year old man shouted out for everyone to hear, “There’s Charles Webb!  He’s the man that raised me!  He’s the man that saved my life!”  Although embarrassed, he was thrilled to the bottom of his heart to have succeeded in saving this young man’s life with his wondrous counseling.  I wonder what the other thousand grown children would say. 
 
It is likely that Charles Webb’s work with kids was some of the most gifted and blessed of all men.  We have lost a great man.  God bless you, my loving friend. I will miss you for the rest of my life.

I was 19, and in college in Austin when I joyfully was reunited with Belaire fruit popsicles while shopping. When I was a kid, a box of six popsicles and four children in the Sommer family meant two lucky kids would get two popsicles apiece, while the slower-to-the-freezer kids would get one apiece. As I loaded the treasure popsicles, I realized all six were mine. Six popsicles! Then, a few moments before I was to check out, I was struck with the Popsicle Awakening. I breathlessly left the checkout line, went back to the freezer section and snagged another box of popsicles. Greed? Negative. With an amazing enlightened view of my life, I realized that regardless of my previous life experiences, I was now graced with the ability to make my own decisions. This fantastic revelation has impacted almost everything in my life. Raising children? I (well, really we) can write the book of clever, joyful parenting. This includes clever, not so joyful discipline. I don’t have to follow the former rule of my parents, or with some limitations, even society. It’s my call. Marriage? Same inspiration. Why be like everyone else? Do I want to be a romantic old man? Sip wine, exchange stories, and play new board games? How about as a therapist? Yesterday I plugged in a kid’s phone into my good stereo to sample his taste in music. It was mainly enjoyment with only a touch of suffering. Today a teen and I transplanted an angel leaf begonia, peeled a luffa sponge and had a good conversation along the way. Plus he got the luffa and about 200 seeds. Hey, I’m an adult, and now I get to make the rules. Why mindlessly follow a worn down path when you have the ability to make your own? I love being an adult and writing my own book of life. After all, it all began at nineteen with two delicious boxes of popsicles. Yum.

I was 18 and new to Austin, and the Armadillo World Headquarters seemed like a smaller and “Austinish” version of  San Francisco's  Fillmore West. Even back in 1970, my freshman year of college at St. Edwards University, Austin had its own hip, simple, southern flavor. You'd go to a concert, sit on the floor, share crowd commodities (such as large bottles of inexpensive wine passed around, etc.) and absorb the music.
 
One always feared that their car, regardless of size, might fall into one of the sinkhole “potholes” in the back of the Armadillo. Although unconditioned in Austin, the huge fans near the ceiling provided enough oxygen to keep us from suffering too much. As we grew older, we realized the Armadillo’s existence from only 1970 to 1980 was a short-lived era of inexpensive and energetic music for we lovers of music to enjoy. If only we had known of the tiny, temporary slot in our lives we were living at the time……
 
Roy Buchanan was a spellbinding magician of the "crying guitar. Cheech and Chong were amazingly funny for virtually no props. The same was true with the fabulously and insanely funny Committee Theater from North Beach in San Francisco. Jerry Jeff Walker, Willie, even Frank Zappa (who later shared it was his favorite concert venue to perform at). Hundreds and hundreds of performers for a mere couple of bucks. Still, Freddie King was the King of the Armadillo. Every time he played, he performed like it was Carnegie Hall. He and his music were massive, hypnotic and almost overwhelming. It was an awesome experience for Denise and me. We should have gone to the ‘Dillo more.....
 
My wife of forty-one years, Denise, reminded me of our post-wedding reception as we walked into the Armadillo beer gardens the evening of our morning wedding . We were greeted with cheers and a standing ovation from the entire outside beer garden crowd, led by our family as we arrived as the newlyweds of only a few hours. Beer, nachos and family on a warm, humid evening in Austin was a fine start to our blessed marriage.
 
We will both always remain grateful for having the opportunity to experience music in a now sadly extinct manner: simple, naïve, cheap, and simply for the pleasure of loving music. Armadillo World Headquarters: a permanent place in our hearts.

 For you un-religious folks, you might want to slide on over to another entry, as this one, on Christmas night, appropriately enough, has some religious content to it.
 
Here it is, Christmas night. I sit writing an entry in my blog while the rest of the family watches my favorite movie of all time, Smoke Signals. I'm only partially involved, as I have seen it numerous times. I really want to never tire of it if possible. Great Indian flick or not, my thoughts are on Christmas, and what it's really about. Hard not to be grateful.
 
Picture this scenario: you're a sixteen or seventeen year old girl, snuggly asleep in your bed, and you wake up and there's a huge angel with big ol' wings standing next to your bed. Yow! It'd scare the dog out of you. So he says: "God has sent me to tell you that you are chosen to be the Mother of Jesus, the Savior of the world. But you have to agree to have this child." So, despite her great fear, she agrees, and zzzzt! she's just conceived God. Nine months later she gives birth to baby Jesus. Does she know what the Father knows? Out of love for us, he gave us his son, that in thirty-three years he would be beaten almost to death, then agonizingly nailed to a cross. For us. To save mankind. Unbelievable. What a deal. What a gift. The birth of Christ. Merry Christmas world.

Having so many years of counseling experience (39 years?!), I suppose that qualifies me as a kinda expert (if such expertise truly exists). I love comments from other counselors when they say: "I don't know how your can work with teenagers!" I secretly think: I don't know how you don't".

Plenty of parents would like to drop off their kids at the counselor's office, not unlike the dry cleaners, and come back to pick up their clean and lightly starched kid. Amazingly, some times that works. However, logically, it seems like parents should realize in order to get their kids to change, they need to make some adjustments as well. Unless I'm in a crisis situation, I normally insist on seeing the parent(s) first. Then, if I get my way, I'll see the parent once every four or five visits from their child. I also need current info. I encourage parents to call or email me information about how their kid is doing (good and bad). I do not let parents ream out their kid in my office, as it messes up my credibility as a neutral "friend". I will certainly take a stand on issues, but privately with the kid.

None of this addresses the "how to counsel kids" technique, but who wants to read a blog that's too dang long? Coming up, hopefully sooner than not, I will address a couple of ideas, including my I-ought-to-copywrite-it idea of uncommon responses. Stay tuned....

You know, the pilgrims were probably brave and slightly crazy pioneers, but the more you learn about the history and subsequent demise of the Indians, the less cool the tall hats and tossing a fish into the corn stalks were. Not wanting to flush this holiday away due to my slightly aging cynicism, I instead decided to mutate Thanksgiving into a day of, well, thanksgiving. Simple rules of this day: no bitchin', no whining, no negativity. Rather, I remind myself, possibly 600 times throughout the day of the things I am grateful for. It's interesting that this takes a fair amount of effort, meaning I must be spending a lot of time the other 364 days complaining. Man! What's wrong wit' DAT picture?! So here's only one little sunbeam: WaHoo! I am finally blogging! Even if I am the only one to read this stuff, I have grown to enjoy writing (grateful #2), and this is an enjoyable forum. Happy Thanksgiving all, especially my family. What numerous things are you contemplating about on this day of thanks?

          I sure wish I was a fast learner, but sadly, plenty of important lessons are processed long after the event has passed.
          My wife’s terrific parents were in from Austin for a weekend visit.  Late Saturday night there was a strong knock on the door.  11:30 at night?  Uh oh.  To my surprise it was my Korean lady neighbor, a single parent, “Sam”.  She was in a panic. “John Sommer, please help me!  The neighbor boys are trying to get my 13 year old son to leave with them.  I want them to leave, and they are ignoring me.  Please help.”  I knew these little knuckleheads.  They were likely the ones who, a few months back, had written “rape” on Sam’s back door.  They weren’t gang bangers, but a group of three bullies.  So, mad as a rabid dog, I tucked my “doggie knocker” (bicycling protection stick) into the back of my belt and started to head out the door.  Before I got out the door, my kindly professor-ish father in law told me he wanted to come with me.  As I was intending to perform a major intimidation to these teenage bullies, I really didn’t want a kindly gentleman to nurture these boys.  Regardless, I couldn’t tell Claude he couldn’t come with me. 
          So, we charged across the street and stomped into Sam’s kitchen where the three little tough guys were hovered over Sam’s son, still insisting he leave with them.  I immediately had the upper hand as I angrily burst into the room confronting them, scaring the hell out of them.  I threateningly ordered them out of the house with the dire warning to them that Sam had better never have to come get me again.  Tails between their legs, they slinked out the back door where Claude was stationed.  As they crept out the back door, Claude advised them individually, “Be kind”.  Be Kind?!  Oh man.  I had a vision of the Terminator (me) generously allowing three kids to depart after deciding to not dismember them.  As they leave, Mother Theresa (Claude) gives them a blessing.  I was displeased that Claude’s “kind” advice was watering down my imminent threat.  “Be kind”.  *sigh*  I never told anyone, but I was unenthusiastic about the interference. 
          It was many months later that I realized the depth of Claude’s advice.  What he was telling the boys was exactly correct:  be kind.  If that principle was applied in this bully-boy example, they, in being kind, would immediately leave at Sam’s request.  In being kind they would not have written “rape” on her door. 
          I have since taken Claude’s simple advice into the realm of my counseling.  It applies to a majority of circumstances.  Recently I began working with a very troubled married couple.  In their many angry moments, they were being extremely verbally critical of each other.  Can they resolve their numerous issues?  We shall see.  Still, even in angry moments, what if they applied the principle:  be kind.  Being kind in our anger means we temper what we say, we are not cruel, and are not inappropriate.  An endless barrage of criticism is not kind. 
          A teenage senior was in trouble for vandalizing someone’s car.  His rationalization was that the other kid “was a smart ass”.  We applied the principle here.  What would you do if you were being kind?  We used this principle in his treatment.  With his consent, we agreed on his rather simple treatment plan:  be kind.  He went out of his way at talking to lonely-looking kids, offered rides to some students in need, sat in the cafeteria with the nerdy kids, etc.  As he graduated, he said he was liberated from his misplaced anger.
          It seems that the advice offered by my father in law is almost too simple, but nothing could be further than the truth.  At times, being kind is tremendously difficult.  Nevertheless, should we not hold ourselves to a high standard of conduct regardless of anyone else?  Perhaps we can be a positive model for others by our proper behavior of being kind.