It is very clear to me that Ringler was Dad's second family. In fact, I would venture to say that he felt as close to some of his co-workers (if not closer) than he did was some of us kids. That feeling of safety and love was always evident during the D&K Fishing Trip, and even more so this year during the 35th anniversary and Steve memorial. From the special CD photo montage to the rub-on tattoos, I was floored at how well this man was celebrated. Talk about leaving a legacy!
What became most remarkable, however, upon leaving Kevin's apartment in Chicago yesterday, was how much this trip was all about him. It was a chance for him to shower us with food and drink and then watch us run around like children (no matter our true age). It was a weekend without the moms to divert their attention off of what he most enjoyed - relaxing in a circle of like-minded guys and having his kids all to himself. After all these years, I finally now see the melodic orchestra through the clamorous fanfare, the balance amidst the seeming chaos. The point of D&K is exactly in the name: It's about being a Dad to your kids, in the most unadulterated location, and with a loving fraternity to assist in the fun.
I look forward to the day I repeat the 8-hour journey to Holiday Acres but through the lens of a father. I can't even speculate what that scenario would feel like. I'm sure it is pretty fantastic, as evinced by my peers who are now proud dads and who were perfectly happy just hanging around their toddlers in lieu of drinking heavily with us childless, older kids. The annual trip is going very strong (75-80 folks this year), and I see no diminution in site.
Thanks, Dad's second family, for loving us kids as much as your own. Take care and keep in touch.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Saturday, March 10, 2012
How do we know?
I spent last weekend working a marathon in Little Rock, AK. While overseeing the "tag scan" station of Saturday's expo/packet pick-up, I heard a song blasting from the room's PA system that made me stop and tap my foot to its beat. It was prominently country but with a strong influence of modern pop, making it appealing to most in the room. The teen-aged girls, of course, had all the lyrics memorized. I struggled to decipher the catchy refrain. Nevertheless, I was soon joining the room in the mass singalong, our voices oscillating between two notes of basic words, "Whoa-oh, whoa-oh, stuck like glue.."
I should have known about Sugarland's Top 40 hit. They were supposed to perform the dreadful day the stage collapsed at the Indiana State Fair. I guess my attention was attuned to the technical details of the stage, the legal implications, and the proposed amendments to public policy. My heart reached out to the families of the victims, but I never thought about the band. How did they fare? Would they ever come back? What made them so special to the Fair's music lineup?
In looking up history on the band, particularly its talented lead singer Jennifer Nettles, I was drawn to the page that listed the song's full lyrics. It is an obvious love song easily read from a girl's perspective. It does, however, contain an aspect that I believe we all can relate to and is the impetus of this entry. The chorus leads in with a couple powerful emotions that no one can deny as joyous: "There you go making my heart beat again, heart beat again, heart beat again. There you go making me feel like a kid, won't you do it, and do it one time." Now, I'm usually not one to draw prophetic conclusions from song lyrics, and I surely am not here to write a literary interpretation of the chorus with respect to its musical elements. Not only would you be bored out of your gourd, but it would be a disservice to this blog's intent.
I was rather reminded of a book I read about four years ago called Blink written by Malcolm Gladwell. Its chief premise is that our subconscious works so efficiently in identifying our feelings that it can make a decision before we can even bat an eye. The best explanation he gives involves a study done some years ago whose objective was to determine how long it took the participant to become aware of a hunch. A large stack of cards, colored either red or blue, were shuffled and then revealed one at a time. Unbeknownst to the participant, one color dominated the deck by a ratio of about 3:1. The participant was to alert the scientist the second a hunch about what card was expected next. The average was about after the 20th card. The more interesting aspect was that the participant's pulse, which was being monitored, made a clear delineated increase after about the 13th card. Our body had made a connection 7 cards prior to our brain.
Which leads me to the title of this entry: why aren't we more aware of these early signs of hunch? Why aren't we better dialed in to what our subconscious is telling us? Is rational decision-making influenced by our hunches or do many of these signals go unnoticed?
As declared in my last post, I enjoy psychoanalysis. My interest began at a young age in my search for identity. I suffered from indecision and I guess I looked to theory for remedy. I figured science had the answer. I took all the personality tests, read many stupid self-help books, and asked myself a billion introspective questions. The deeper I searched, the more questions emerged. I created list after list after list of preferences, abilities, and goals. I definitely discovered some truths, and I probably could double as a pretty good counselor. Does it mean that I can identify my own subconscious. Haha - No.
Dad couldn't elucidate on these theories either. I always looked to him as the perfect male role model, as do, at least initially, many sons of their fathers. Sometimes he would sit with me as I went through the rigmarole of a complete rational thought. Othertimes (and later I learned was his preferred method), he wouldn't change any body language and would simply say, "For-geht ab-aht it." Oh boy would that frustrate me! The easiest way to irk a golfer about to tee off is to steal his driver. Maybe Dad foresaw the imminent duck hook into the woods, where I'd be spending the next five minutes looking for a lost ball. Or maybe he knew that I was the kind of kid who would spend about 5 minutes looking for a cheap, replaceable ball. Perhaps he had similar, juvenile tendencies and this was his way of teaching me a lesson. Succinct yet indirect wouldn't be how I would describe Steve Cochran, but a teacher nonetheless.
Speaking of succinct, political columnist David Brooks, at my college graduation in May 2003, ended his speech with 8 words, half of which are germane to this topic: "Read widely, marry wisely, and trust your own instincts." I wonder how much DePauw paid him per word?
Whether it comes to experiment, introspection, or literature, the identification of our true feelings isn't easy to execute without some help. We fill our days with so many appointments, games, and faces that it consumes our attention. The gurus told me to come to understand biology and the components of my personalities DNA. Dad had another solution: stop thinking and just be. I think both hold water, but each held in moderation. Only after you play a game of cards multiple times can you act on hunches and still win. Only after mastering a skill can one rely on muscle memory to carry out the task. Our instincts exist because many a human helped to ingrain them into our condition.
Nevertheless, a simple increased heartbeat tells quite a lot. It's probably the most palpable signal that our subconscious gives us about innate preference. What person hasn't spent minutes perusing the menu only to choose the one that makes us sit up a little straighter? Who doesn't remember picking a book from the library just because our hand seemed to quiver upon recognition of its title? At the extreme, when is the memory burned more permanently than when we feel that quasi-painful feeling of a intensely thumping heartbeat as our teenage crush approached us in the hallway? Not to be denied.
Before going to bed that evening I played "Stuck Like Glue" on YouTube. One's preference in music can't be explained with rationale. That's probably why people identify so well with songs. This song was one of those. And I knew it about the same time as my foot started tapping the ground.
I should have known about Sugarland's Top 40 hit. They were supposed to perform the dreadful day the stage collapsed at the Indiana State Fair. I guess my attention was attuned to the technical details of the stage, the legal implications, and the proposed amendments to public policy. My heart reached out to the families of the victims, but I never thought about the band. How did they fare? Would they ever come back? What made them so special to the Fair's music lineup?
In looking up history on the band, particularly its talented lead singer Jennifer Nettles, I was drawn to the page that listed the song's full lyrics. It is an obvious love song easily read from a girl's perspective. It does, however, contain an aspect that I believe we all can relate to and is the impetus of this entry. The chorus leads in with a couple powerful emotions that no one can deny as joyous: "There you go making my heart beat again, heart beat again, heart beat again. There you go making me feel like a kid, won't you do it, and do it one time." Now, I'm usually not one to draw prophetic conclusions from song lyrics, and I surely am not here to write a literary interpretation of the chorus with respect to its musical elements. Not only would you be bored out of your gourd, but it would be a disservice to this blog's intent.
Which leads me to the title of this entry: why aren't we more aware of these early signs of hunch? Why aren't we better dialed in to what our subconscious is telling us? Is rational decision-making influenced by our hunches or do many of these signals go unnoticed?
As declared in my last post, I enjoy psychoanalysis. My interest began at a young age in my search for identity. I suffered from indecision and I guess I looked to theory for remedy. I figured science had the answer. I took all the personality tests, read many stupid self-help books, and asked myself a billion introspective questions. The deeper I searched, the more questions emerged. I created list after list after list of preferences, abilities, and goals. I definitely discovered some truths, and I probably could double as a pretty good counselor. Does it mean that I can identify my own subconscious. Haha - No.
Dad couldn't elucidate on these theories either. I always looked to him as the perfect male role model, as do, at least initially, many sons of their fathers. Sometimes he would sit with me as I went through the rigmarole of a complete rational thought. Othertimes (and later I learned was his preferred method), he wouldn't change any body language and would simply say, "For-geht ab-aht it." Oh boy would that frustrate me! The easiest way to irk a golfer about to tee off is to steal his driver. Maybe Dad foresaw the imminent duck hook into the woods, where I'd be spending the next five minutes looking for a lost ball. Or maybe he knew that I was the kind of kid who would spend about 5 minutes looking for a cheap, replaceable ball. Perhaps he had similar, juvenile tendencies and this was his way of teaching me a lesson. Succinct yet indirect wouldn't be how I would describe Steve Cochran, but a teacher nonetheless.
Speaking of succinct, political columnist David Brooks, at my college graduation in May 2003, ended his speech with 8 words, half of which are germane to this topic: "Read widely, marry wisely, and trust your own instincts." I wonder how much DePauw paid him per word?
Whether it comes to experiment, introspection, or literature, the identification of our true feelings isn't easy to execute without some help. We fill our days with so many appointments, games, and faces that it consumes our attention. The gurus told me to come to understand biology and the components of my personalities DNA. Dad had another solution: stop thinking and just be. I think both hold water, but each held in moderation. Only after you play a game of cards multiple times can you act on hunches and still win. Only after mastering a skill can one rely on muscle memory to carry out the task. Our instincts exist because many a human helped to ingrain them into our condition.
Before going to bed that evening I played "Stuck Like Glue" on YouTube. One's preference in music can't be explained with rationale. That's probably why people identify so well with songs. This song was one of those. And I knew it about the same time as my foot started tapping the ground.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Three boys, one Dad
Last night I had to laugh at how long it took yet another friend of my parents to remark how unique in build and in personality are each of my brothers. We understood this concept at a very young age and even used it to confuse strangers for a moment of fun at their expense. A photo is attached below -- see how well you can determine the order of lineage!
At polar opposites of merely all self-defining spectra situate myself and Kevin. This disparity used to cause familial contention but has since turned into a harmonious relationship. In fact, we are quite good as teammates: a quarterback and a receiver, a sniper and an infantryman, a banker and a salesman, one brashly curious the other cautiously bold. It's no surprise that one carries traits obviously similar to his father and the other his mother. Nature has a funny way of bringing people together -- it's in the genes!
Oh, I forgot Jeremy! Ah, he's used to being lost in the middle ;). Actually, Jeremy is perfectly suited to bridge the gap between his elderly and younger brothers. At the same time he can be both brazen and careful, cerebral and instinctual. The only married Cochran boy, Jeremy identified his passions earlier in life than us and, therefore, was always the easiest to buy gifts for. We're all looking forward to having him closer to Indianapolis, hopefully by this summer.
So it was good to hear that our dinner companions Steve and Eve (yes, really -- although after a brief Google search I realized that couples with shared phonemes are not as uncommon as I had thought) finally picked up on this link. They have been so nice to Mom over the past month that I almost consider them part of the family, even though I hardly know them personally. Once just friends of friends, the Schmidts soon became integral members of my parent's Friday night crew. And last night, with most of the crew out of town, it was my turn to experience the generosity and conviviality that my parents so blissfully enjoyed.
This past week was, as I mentioned in the last post, an anxious return to normalcy. And, it was. The only aberrant detail was the continual outpouring of empathy and concern for my family's emotional health. Don't be mistaken -- I am flattered and feel extremely supported. However, the wise-ass that I am couldn't help but to comment, after hearing if there was anything they could do for me, "Dang, I need to start coming up with some needs!" Perhaps I am not being as truthful with myself as I could, but I still feel quite grounded. Like a tree that had been slightly uprooted due to a forceful shock, deep roots prevented replanting. All I needed was a little splint and some nutrients and nature took care of the rest.
Which leads me to the heart of my reflection -- how amazing it is that despite our differences we are virtually indistinguishable at the core. After dinner I came home to pick up some supplies and chat with Mom for a bit. Looking straight up from the black leather chair where I was sitting hangs the huge family portrait of 2006. Intermittently during our conversation I was drawn to the picture and its strange aura of cohesion. By no means is the composition perfect -- I think my shoes were untied, Dad was pinching Kevin's back and Jeremy probably had a stain on his shirt. But that's what makes it beautiful -- our contrasting personalities give the composition depth and balance. Plus, what speaks the loudest is what is unspoken and it is obvious each of us was posing out of honor for our father.
Honorable mention: Dad always used to say to me, "Jeff, you are over-analyzing this way too much." His way of dealing with problems was simple: drop the details and just move on. This thought struck every discordant string in my body. Analysis is what I did best! But as any high-strung individual knows, a snap is ultimately worse than the gradual, albeit painful, stretch. So thanks Dad for teaching me how to let things go and just move on. Life is about connecting with people, as much as ideas, and you are probably laughing too how long it took me to figure that out.
 |
| Kev, myself, and Jer in Philly June 2008 |
Oh, I forgot Jeremy! Ah, he's used to being lost in the middle ;). Actually, Jeremy is perfectly suited to bridge the gap between his elderly and younger brothers. At the same time he can be both brazen and careful, cerebral and instinctual. The only married Cochran boy, Jeremy identified his passions earlier in life than us and, therefore, was always the easiest to buy gifts for. We're all looking forward to having him closer to Indianapolis, hopefully by this summer.
So it was good to hear that our dinner companions Steve and Eve (yes, really -- although after a brief Google search I realized that couples with shared phonemes are not as uncommon as I had thought) finally picked up on this link. They have been so nice to Mom over the past month that I almost consider them part of the family, even though I hardly know them personally. Once just friends of friends, the Schmidts soon became integral members of my parent's Friday night crew. And last night, with most of the crew out of town, it was my turn to experience the generosity and conviviality that my parents so blissfully enjoyed.
This past week was, as I mentioned in the last post, an anxious return to normalcy. And, it was. The only aberrant detail was the continual outpouring of empathy and concern for my family's emotional health. Don't be mistaken -- I am flattered and feel extremely supported. However, the wise-ass that I am couldn't help but to comment, after hearing if there was anything they could do for me, "Dang, I need to start coming up with some needs!" Perhaps I am not being as truthful with myself as I could, but I still feel quite grounded. Like a tree that had been slightly uprooted due to a forceful shock, deep roots prevented replanting. All I needed was a little splint and some nutrients and nature took care of the rest.
Which leads me to the heart of my reflection -- how amazing it is that despite our differences we are virtually indistinguishable at the core. After dinner I came home to pick up some supplies and chat with Mom for a bit. Looking straight up from the black leather chair where I was sitting hangs the huge family portrait of 2006. Intermittently during our conversation I was drawn to the picture and its strange aura of cohesion. By no means is the composition perfect -- I think my shoes were untied, Dad was pinching Kevin's back and Jeremy probably had a stain on his shirt. But that's what makes it beautiful -- our contrasting personalities give the composition depth and balance. Plus, what speaks the loudest is what is unspoken and it is obvious each of us was posing out of honor for our father.
Honorable mention: Dad always used to say to me, "Jeff, you are over-analyzing this way too much." His way of dealing with problems was simple: drop the details and just move on. This thought struck every discordant string in my body. Analysis is what I did best! But as any high-strung individual knows, a snap is ultimately worse than the gradual, albeit painful, stretch. So thanks Dad for teaching me how to let things go and just move on. Life is about connecting with people, as much as ideas, and you are probably laughing too how long it took me to figure that out.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Back (somewhat) to normalcy
The weekend is over, the extended family has gone home and I returned to work today. The past four weeks have felt like four months of activity. Between trips to France, the hospital, and to dinner with friends, I can't remember the last time I simply sat to collect my thoughts. The Rosebay house, surprisingly, didn't look like the aftermath of a categorical tornado, although the kids did manage to clean and reset the house Sunday. The cleaning lady may still make her round this week, but it was nice to spread a little elbow grease that morning. As Dad always begrudgingly said, "We have to clean the house to get the house clean!"
All this still feels surreal. I have been as honest to myself as humanly possible, but even amidst Friday's gloom in seeing his human body so cold and lifeless, I can't help to approach the situation a bit lightly. Sure, I can force myself to think about the somber details of his passing, but the positive memories are simply too copious for me to concentrate on anything else. Intellectually I know that he is gone and that life will be different. Physiologically, however, I don't feel any different. I still crave oatmeal and coffee in the morning. I still need my exercise. I still reflect on past reunions, dinners, and vacations with joy. Not much in that spectrum of life has changed.
The emotional forecast looks bright but, as anyone who has lost a loved one will say, will undoubtedly fluctuate over time. I guess I can be thankful that my parents did such a great job with me in understanding life to the brink that I am doing so well right now. That's where this blog comes in handy. There are new paths that were once too scary to trod that have since become illuminated. Plus, I am learning more about the man I only knew as "Dad" and some of this knowledge transforms into epiphany. All that I learned from him is now fair game to re-examination and further interpretation. These lessons weren't just about how to field a ball or write an essay -- we are talking crucial tenets about love, laughter, social interaction, and personal wealth.
But, as we were repeated during the process at the hospital, "growth comes best taken one baby step at a time." That's a good lesson for today as I attempt to get back on the routine.
All this still feels surreal. I have been as honest to myself as humanly possible, but even amidst Friday's gloom in seeing his human body so cold and lifeless, I can't help to approach the situation a bit lightly. Sure, I can force myself to think about the somber details of his passing, but the positive memories are simply too copious for me to concentrate on anything else. Intellectually I know that he is gone and that life will be different. Physiologically, however, I don't feel any different. I still crave oatmeal and coffee in the morning. I still need my exercise. I still reflect on past reunions, dinners, and vacations with joy. Not much in that spectrum of life has changed.
The emotional forecast looks bright but, as anyone who has lost a loved one will say, will undoubtedly fluctuate over time. I guess I can be thankful that my parents did such a great job with me in understanding life to the brink that I am doing so well right now. That's where this blog comes in handy. There are new paths that were once too scary to trod that have since become illuminated. Plus, I am learning more about the man I only knew as "Dad" and some of this knowledge transforms into epiphany. All that I learned from him is now fair game to re-examination and further interpretation. These lessons weren't just about how to field a ball or write an essay -- we are talking crucial tenets about love, laughter, social interaction, and personal wealth.
But, as we were repeated during the process at the hospital, "growth comes best taken one baby step at a time." That's a good lesson for today as I attempt to get back on the routine.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)