Set: Condition Zebra (on Compartmentalizing)

 

I was 26 years in to my Navy career when I learned that the term "compartmentalize" - often used in aviation, and I'm told used in modern psychology - originated on Navy ships.  Maybe I should have paid more attention when the ships I embarked went to General Quarters ("GQ") and I camped out in my assigned berthing* while the folks keeping us afloat ran their Damage Control drills.
(*Note: Assigned berthing is where all aviators are told to hide while this pandemonium ensues.  We will only be in the way.)

During GQ the 1MC (ship-wide intercom) is alive and loud.  Between blaring alarms there are repeated instructions to "Set: Condition Zebra".  I now know that means to close all watertight hatches in order to prevent the spread of fire throughout the ship.    
In other words, compartmentalize potential damage.

We learn early in aviation to compartmentalize things that may be bothering us on the ground in order to safely go flying and stay 100% focused.  During our pre-flight brief we discuss major human factors and, if we decide we can't leave them on the ground, sometimes we don't even get airborne that day. 
I've returned one time from a flight during which I failed to compartmentalize: I had a baby at home, and I'd just learned that an old high school friend of mine had lost her baby a few weeks post-partem.  I couldn't shake it, I couldn't concentrate, and my student was flying like a doofus.  We cut it short and went home and I was completely candid about the decision.

I've carried this concept in to office work and command leadership, and also in the other direction.  Focus at work, then leave work at work and focus at home.  (I'm not a fan of telework due to its ability to make this division impossible.)  I'm choosy about work calls I answer off duty.  I tend to choose friends who don't rely on talking about similar careers.

Now I find myself teaching Leadership & Ethics to new department heads (middle management).  There's a session I teach on self-care which is one of my favorites.  I realized after I got into it that compartmentalization is for temporary use. 
At times, completely necessary. 
But for the duration, unsustainable.

We are whole people.  Our home life affects our work life and vice versa.  If we don't deliberately learn how to coexist in both worlds, we will forever come up short in one or more arena, and lie to ourselves using terms like "work-life balance".

If the ship Set: Condition Zebra and stayed in that condition all the time, no one could pass from one part of the ship to the other.  Communication would freeze.  Only the cooks would get fed.  I don't know what would happen with human waste.

So what does harmonious coexistence of our worlds look like?  I'm not an expert -- but I feel the fight for my version of "success" is going ok:
I'm excited about the humans my kids are turning out to be.
I love and seek my spouse.
I'm watching my family thrive.
I have no physical ailments.
I am needed.
I love where I live and worship, and I love the people I do life with.
My job is consistently challenging and rewarding, and it provides enough.

Maybe "my version of success" is the first step to the compartmentalization act:

(1) Define your own success.
Why hand something as precious as your own self-worth over to another human or organization?

(2) Prioritize.
It's hard for me to accept that I'm a human with limits, but when I am forced to face this truth, priorities make my choices clear.

(3) Compartmentalize as needed.
My recent favorite iPhone feature is the "Do not disturb" function.  I use it when I'm teaching or coaching, and when I'm working out (my phone sleeps in a different room or else I'd use it then too).  

Being in front of a classroom or in a coaching session takes 110% of me, so making sure I don't side-eye a text is, for me, critical to quality of instruction and mentorship.

"Do not disturb" while working out is a recent move that gives my brain 30-60 minutes of free-play while I do something healthy for my body.  Sometimes my brain hates it when its only task is to count reps or sing along to Outkast.  Because it's uncomfortable, I suspect it is good.

These short spurts are focused and necessary, but they can't go on for more than a couple of hours at a time.  I'm a whole person.  I have people who need me on an unscheduled basis - and that's part of what makes me whole.

(4) Reassess.
This entry has made me reassess... and I admit that 'closeness with my parents and sisters' is a high priority of mine, yet it's not on my list of personal successes.  Time to take another look at that.

What does compartmentalization look like for you?
Is it damage control?
Is it stepping in, stepping out, like the salsa?

... does it exist?

What's Going on in There?

 

Buckle up for Kissells: Real Estate Edition.  We are learning a lot through requirements, twists and turns-- and what good is an uncomfortable, self-inflicted saga if the lessons learned aren't shared?

"It's not crazy, it's just a big deal."

**Read from the bottom up!**

I'll update up top as the story unfolds.

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1-Apr:  2 of 3 tenants paid rent on time without prompting!

30-Mar:  This is what $1,000 worth of leaf cleanup looks like (done by 4 Kissells in 3 hrs for a total of $50 in lawn bags and dump fees).

29-Mar:  A promising day for the Wampanoag house!  We receive an Air BnB booking for the entire month of June, and after being listed for less than 24 hours on Zillow we have some promising long-term tenants for July.  Shout-out to our realtor who is still hanging around - now as our listing agent.

28-Mar:  What do you mean, someone needs to MEAL PLAN?!

27-Mar:  Our first Wampanoag booking on VRBO!  This should pay for the permit and fire alarms.

27-Mar:  The dog is finally spending time outside at The Estate without crying at the door.  He's on an electronic radial fence (the base is a hub in our kitchen).  His radius  of comfort is slowly expanding and we're finding poops farther and farther from the door.
Add to chore list:  Poop-scoop with frequency the paths our tenants travel.

26-Mar:  Ants in the downstairs bathroom sink (Estate).  Why?  Where are they coming from?  Where are they going?

25-Mar:  A victory!  Received our AirBnB permit from Town of Portsmouth for the Wampanoag house.  

24-Mar:  Today's growing pain in an old house is the sea of floors -- meaning, they aren't level.  They gently roll like an ocean.  The home inspector wasn't surprised or concerned. 
Put "furniture shims" on shopping list.

23-Mar:  Slept in the 'new' house.  Still fussing around with temporary mattresses and bedroom heat, but we and our support gear are all here.

Why are we so much more exhausted than a normal move leaves us? 
Andrew named it:  Usually packers are doing the labor and we're doing the mental work of organizing and settling.  When we move ourselves, we are doing both.  And we haven't moved ourselves since 2016 (shout-out Dova Family + Sierra & Seth!).

Note:  We're on partial furniture at the Estate due to the AirBnB project at Wampanoag.  We'll be 'glamping' for the better part of 90 days.

Shout-out to Portsmouth Schools for making the bus transition as easy as it could have been.  Drew gets picked up at the front door!

22-23 Mar:  Days 5 and 6 of moving.  First tears are shed as I take family photos down from the staircase which we only hung last November.

What I'm praying:  Lord, allow me to recognize my sadness but don't let it turn in to regret.  

Lesson learned:  Real estate investing, at its best, should be a no-emotions-attached financial transaction.  But moving out of our home and starting over is deeply personal, and deeply emotional (at least for me). 
I still defend that we needed to start here - and there's a good chance these two properties will enough portfolio for us to manage - but leaving a place is hard and always will be for me.

We love on our homes so hard.

Additionally, I find myself extremely uncomfortable lately.  I've ripped apart the comfort zone I created for my family and there are financial and legal unknowns. 
It occurs to me: This discomfort is what risk feels like.  Avoiding this feeling is what's been holding us back from a project like this all along.

21-Mar:  Lesson learned:  Get a quote from a tradesman before he(or she) sees the size of your Estate.  Surely leaf clean-up doesn't cost $1,000 and moving a washing machine doesn't cost $5,000.

-- I think you think we're people we are not!

21-Mar:  Fire marshal returns to Wampanaog:  PASS!!!

17-18 Mar:  Andrew spends afternoons in the Wampanoag attic crawl space wiring smoke alarms together for each bedroom.  

15-Mar:  87C stops by with his rent check and asks if he can have until 1-June to vacate.  He makes sure we're aware of his age and his ailments, and he attempts some detective work on behalf of our other tenants who have sent him to find out if everyone is getting the boot.

We are compassionate and firm and friendly, don't answer questions about the other tenants (the can stay), and haven't had interaction with 87C since (written 28-Mar).

15-16 Mar:  Days 3 and 4 of moving:  closets.  

For the first time in years all of our clothes (his and hers) fit in one walk-in.  I'm embarrassed by the number of my shoes I can count in one place.

(I'm tempted to purge right then and there, but I have "purge clothes" on my calendar for 1-June as an incentive to lose weight this spring.  So far I haven't lost any and this move isn't helping with cortisol effects and meal-planning.  There's a good chance I just kicked this purge down the road.)

The physical toll of moving starts to rear it's head and I remind myself that sometimes it's ok to sit down and have a beer in the walk-in closet.  (Yes, I know what the previous paragraph says.)

Word is out among our local friends and church family that we've taken on another transition.  I feel a little sheepish about it because I don't want to give the impression that I'm not grateful for our home.  I'm also reticent to accept more help moving because this is entirely self-inflicted.  

I decide to relax in to our community's genuine excitement for us and continue with a grateful heart. 

 

13-Mar:  Visit from the building inspector and fire marshal to see about turning Wampanoag in to an AirBnB.  The building inspector reminds us that we can only advertise 3 bedrooms (vice the 4 that we have) due to the size of the septic.  I don't know why this is so important to the Town of Portsmouth, but it came up a lot when we bought Wampanoag in 2023.  Ok, guys.  Va bene.

The marshal teaches us requirements for fire extinguishers and interconnected smoke alarms.

My takeaway:  I guess we're not making this an AirBnB.
Andrew's takeaway:  "I can totally do that myself." 
We decide to invest $200 and our faith in him and go for it.

The ultimate goal is to "make more than zero" off Wampanoag while we wait for inbound military families to arrive this summer.

Lesson learned:  There are still surprises over my spouse's hidden talents 16 years in to marriage!

10-14 Mar:  Utilities, utilities, utilities!

10-Mar:  We apply for a short-term-rental permit with the Town of Portsmouth for the Wampanoag house.  They require visits from the town Building Inspector and Fire Marshal.  

10-Mar:  We receive an email from our attorney informing us that they mailed 87C his termination of tenancy and he has to be out by 1-May.  While we're relieved that this Band-aid has been ripped quickly, we never meant for 87C to find out this way.  

Our real estate agent makes good on a pre-closing promise and sits down with 87C and his adult son, making sure they understand the letter and verbally offering them our 'cash-for-keys' incentive ("Leave sooner and we will give you some money.").

8-9 Mar:  Day 1 and 2 of moving.  Andrew's crew from work shows up and moves our entire garage and basement to the Estate in under 3 hours!  They scarf down pizza and are gone by 3 p.m.

We're deeply thankful for this solid start to the next three weekends of moving our life over piecemeal.

Lesson learned(?):  I really don't know what is worse.  When all our stuff shows up in boxes and we are forced to deal with it ASAP (I typically take a week off work for this), or this slow Band-aid pull of a move over weeks with life happening in between.  Lugging and organizing an hour here and there.  Trying to coexist with the chaos.

7-Mar:  Closed! 
We're entertained for exactly one billable hour by one of Newport's oldest real estate attorneys.  He is well versed in Portsmouth's history and knows one of the previous owners of the The Estate.  His even-paced storytelling between signing and shuffling documents is methodical and friendly.  Once I realize I need to settle in to this transaction, I enjoy it.  

The sellers remain a mystery as they've already signed at their attorney's office.  I often wonder if the real estate profession intentionally keeps buyers and sellers apart.  Surely we could reach agreements faster if we put the actual decision-makers in a room together.  

After closing we reach out to both realtors to find out how to get in to the house.  We pop over for a selfie with the kids and to make sure we can get in before we start moving the following morning.

4-Mar (3 days until closing):  After repeated questions about rent monies and transfer of deposits, I threaten not to sign at closing without these - and magically I'm presented with a prepared document containing all of this information.

The sellers inform us that they'll be leaving the curtains.

Current overall vibe among our party:  Alternately excited and terrified.

Late Escrow (end of Feb):
- We learn of some Rhode Island landlord requirements that have not been met by the sellers.  Wondering if this is a deal-breaker, we start to ask uncomfortable questions to our realtor and the mortgage company.  Our realtor lends me an ear, our lender rep blows me off, and we don't hear from anyone for two weeks.

I hate this part of escrow.  Without fail, at this stage no one has our best interest in mind:  Every single party in this transaction only benefits only if we close the deal.  As my coworker commiserated, "We always feel slimy by the time we get to closing."  
I'm very thankful at this point that we at least have retained legal counsel who are in our corner.

What I've been praying:  Lord, either bless this or get in our way!

Mid-Escrow (Feb):
- Our family gets sick for an entire month.  We cancel a vacation to Florida.  Depleted health makes nonstop requests from the mortgage company for additional documentation extremely annoying, and makes decision-making agonizing and foggy.  

- The level of detail and badgering from the bank are unlike any escrow we've experienced.  Either (a) we chose the wrong bank; or (b) we came pretty close to the maximum someone is willing to lend us!
Silver lining, Andrew's work hours became very important to the lender during this time, and our canceled vacation allowed him to provide the complete pay stub they were asking for.

(This makes me wonder what "preapproved" even means!)

- Multiple requests to the sellers to deliver Termination of Tenancy to 87C go ignored.  Instead, they start a back-and-forth over whether they will take their "$10,000 worth of curtains" with them at closing.  We've never mentioned the curtains but now we wonder if we should have asked for them(?).

- The VA appraiser determines that the stairs to the barn loft are unsafe and a handrail needs to be installed.  All parties concur that Andrew is the handyman for the job, so he spends a day in our prospective barn hammering away while I sit with the flu on the couch.  The property appraises for agreed purchase price.
Note:  87C also present for the appraiser's visit.

- While we were waiting out the escrow clock we decided to do some Wampanoag projects in order to make the property tenant-proof.  Connecting a hose to the basement dehumidifier (so we aren't asking a renter to empty a bucket every two days throughout the summer).  Tearing up the dirty carpet (age unknown) on the screened-in deck and finishing the wood. 
Projects we definitely would not want to be doing once we moved in to the Estate and had projects to do there.

The Rear Cabin, "87C"
This topic might become deserving of its own blog.

The rear cabin is 400 square feet of dust, nicotine and mold.  The outside is in great shape - previous owners have taken care of siding and roofing - but the inside hasn't had maintenance performed in the 17 years the tenant has occupied it.  In our opinion, this is a health hazard and a liability.  

This 78-year-old man has been on a verbal month-to-month lease this entire time and is renting at about half market rate.  As our realtor remarked, "He's had a good run!"

Knowing full well the condition, we forged through escrow with plans to end the tenant's agreement, gut and renovate the cabin, then rent it at market rate until we can convince my mom to move to New England.

On my sister's advice (she's a real estate attorney in South Carolina and gave me this nugget pro bono):  "I'm assuming you're retaining a lawyer who is well versed on tenant-landlord law in Rhode Island.  It'll be the best money you spend in this transaction."  We took care of this detail the next day.

Follow-on details regarding 87C are in the timeline above.  Stay tuned...

What I've been praying:  Lord, provide a solution for 87C that none of us have imagined.  Make a blessing for him out of this necessary change.

Early Escrow (first week of Feb):
- Home inspection went well.  Andrew and our realtor followed along intently.  Andrew learned a lot about the home's systems and our realtor got minor frostbite on his feet (snow on the ground).  We asked the sellers to fix the [advertised-as-working] dishwasher and continued to move forward. 

- Rear cabin "87C" tenant present for the inspection that he told us was at an inconvenient time.  (87C was also present when we toured the rentals during our second showing.)  Sellers have to step in to ensure he allows the inspector inside.
Spidey sense activated: The tenant refuses to step outside for an hour??

Lesson learned:  "Don't inherit tenants."  We should have had this non-transfer of tenants written into our original offer and signed contract.  Now this is our problem.

Another discovery during early escrow was just how much a VA funding fee costs on a loan this size.  A couple of pointed questions encouraged Andrew to begin his disability claim 17 years after leaving the service.  If this project stopped in its tracks, this alone would be a useful endeavor.

Before we signed anything:
- Number crunching:  What will it cost to live in the new place?  And can we rent our current home for the monthly cost of our mortgage?  
- Considerations:  Influx of Navy families moving to Newport for 1-3 years, mostly arriving in the summertime.  If we rent out our current home (Wampanoag), it may sit empty for a few months (Mar-Jun).  Should we leave it furnished and attempt to AirBnB it during the gap?

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Wait, so you guys are moving again?

Things that are true as of January 2025, and Why:

- We are home in Rhode Island at least until our kids get through school (2029).  It helps that we love it here.

- Yes, we adore the house we bought here in 2023 and yes, we've enjoyed the pickleball court we installed right next to it.

- We have bought four homes along our journey through adulthood and only currently own the one we are living in (Wampanoag).  The more we learn about real estate, the more we realize we're late to a profitable long-term game... and that our unused  VA entitlement (0% down) is an untapped opportunity.

- I was supposed to retire from the Navy on 1-Sep-2025 and cancelled my retirement for a few reasons.  The best way to summarize the decision is "it's not time yet."  One part of this calculation was the desire to invest in some more property -- and right now, we're still lendable while I'm on the Navy's payroll.

- I'm taking a 6-month real estate investor course through my service academy network, and it's providing needed resources, encouragement and support to take the plunge on an investment.

- On a Sunday afternoon in January I stumbled on an open house for a multi-unit historical property up the road.  Andrew, Levi and I paid a visit.  The main house is old (1865) and quirky but everything has been upgraded in recent years (kitchen, bathrooms, electric, heating systems, etc).  The grounds are beautiful and the barn was used by previous owners to host dinner parties.  The third floor and two external cabins make up three additional occupied residences -- off-setting the cost of my family living here to be near equal to what it costs us to live down the road in a single-family home.  The location is accessible by sidewalk to the high school, grocery, and Drew's best friends.  Levi (16) ran up and down the stairs, poking through hallways and closets like a child, exclaiming, "I want to move here!"  Andrew and I exchanged glances that indicated we were on to the same far-reaching idea.
For fun, in this blog I'll refer to the prospective property as 'The Estate'.

I sent a text to a local Navy/realtor friend asking if he'd represent us.  As it turns out, he's intimately familiar with the property, knew the previous owners and placed one of the tenants.

We decided to make an offer and see how far it went.  Using a VA loan we could enter with only closing costs and the price of moving ourselves.

Offer accepted and mortgage pre-approved by the end of January... we were off in to the sticky swamp of escrow!

Getting it Right

 I pulled up to the Bristol State House in the dark like I've been doing the past five Wednesday evenings.  This time, I had skipped out of the house with my violin case and a surge of energy I didn't think possible after the first half of the week - which always seems especially stacked with life.

Coming down the old wooden stairs of a building that quite possibly predates the Declaration of Independence was the Beginner Adult class - a dozen or so women whose conversation poured down the bannisters and still filled the rafters of the large gathering room at the top.  My group, Intermediate, would be much smaller and more reserved - but kind, welcoming, and accepting of each other's mistakes.  They'd been together for a while and were still getting used to me.

I had followed Bill and his cello up the stairs, and when he removed his coat I was satisfied in my prediction that he'd have suspenders on underneath.  Scott, a fellow violinist, had returned from a ski trip without hurting himself and we all congratulated him.  Glen was still out which left us without a bassist.  Surely Pam would turn up and share her pencil with me since I always forgot mine.  I'm the youngest in this group by at least 10 years, and I admire everyone's dedication and seeming gratitude just to be part of a learning environment ... and a place where sometimes we make something beautiful.

Then... who is this guy?  Our pink-haired teacher was nowhere to be found, which was slightly disappointing since I'd been asking her about a different tattoo each week.  Each piece of art made her eyes sparkle with a different story, and it always brought me joy to watch her go to each of these places.

Carlos approached me with the wisdom of an elder and a demeanor that I often associate with a massage therapist.  He asked how long I'd been playing.  "Violin? Coming up on two years. ...Music?  Since I was a kid."  He proceeded to the next uncomfortable adult fumbling with rosin and sheet music.

Looks like we have a substitute teacher on our hands here, people!

I'd worked hard on the two-octave F scale this week since 5th position was new to me.  This did not matter.  Carlos fumbled through our usual teacher's notes with the aptitude of a ballet teacher at a NASCAR race.  Turns out he was exactly what we needed.

1- We needed to not take ourselves so seriously.  Under our sub's direction, and his hit-or-miss conductor's beat, we tackled the B-flat scale at a pace we'd never had the audacity to play.  The cacophony of screech and pitch would have made my dog's ears bleed and sent him running from the room.  But we just started giggling.  

And then we did it again.  More torture.  More giggling.  Until Pam and I needed "a minute" to get ourselves together.  Pam: "I think I started on the wrong string."  Me: "This is exactly what my husband thinks we do on Wednesday nights." 
It was okay to need a minute.  Carlos gave us plenty of these as he ambled through storytelling and philosophizing about the notes on the page.

2- He forced us to work together.  We tried "Moon River" and destroyed it (not in a good way) with no one really keeping the beat and our cellist carrying the harmony alone.  Carlos suggested that the cellist kick it up a notch volume-wise so he wasn't drowned out by the three screeching violins and their wild guesses at finger positions (my words, not his). 
What happened on that second try is that the cellist became the metronome and we stayed together until the end of the song.  

I'm a strong believer that in every group there must be a leader -- and without anyone conducting, we turned to the most strong and steady sound.

Carlos was thrilled to hear this come together.  He began to articulate a life lesson that has a true metaphor in an ensemble:  If the metronome is off, don't just keep playing to the correct beat on the page -- play to the metronome for the sake of keeping the song together.

It's more important for the team to get it right than to be the one who's right.

It's no surprise that my evenings at the statehouse inspire me to put words on a page.  Art has a way ... of inspiring, connecting, and sprinkling in reminders of life's truths.

The Grown-ups are Talking

A typical Saturday night on Edwards Air Force Base (according to my 6-year-old brain) included sitting on the back of my dad's MG convertible (yes, on the back) with my feet dangling behind the seats, cruising around the base to house parties.  My 4-year-old sister was next to me and my parents were ready to dominate whatever room they entered -- the double-extravert, not-afraid-of-a-dirty-joke, life-of-the-party team that they were at the time.  

The expectation for my sister and me was simple: Go play with the other kids and don't interrupt the adults.  It was assumed that our age was the only thing we needed to have in common with others - and, that young, it probably was enough - and when we were ready to leave, it was acceptable to ask our parents once, maybe twice, if we could go home.  It never worked.  We were going to leave when their party ended, not ours.

All of us military brats operated under this same code.  We knew the drill, and none of us were eager to interrupt an adult conversation for fear of the consequences and the overall futility.  I feel that Andrew and I put this same expectation on our kids when we get together with other families.  Interestingly, I've made few adult friends who do the same.*  Some kids are allowed to interrupt and some are thrown a vertical index finger to "Wait: The grown-ups are talking."  
*This is a judgement-free observation.  

These rules extended beyond Edwards A.F.B. and followed me through childhood almost every time we traveled.  Our family grew and I got older and vacations were usually road trips without hotels -- my parents seemed to keep friends in every U.S. city.  I remember being 12 or 13 and expected to go 'play' with the other teenagers.  This was awkward as hell but I did pick up bits of culture along the way, such as being introduced to The Offspring, hanging out with foreign exchange students, and trying to understand why our Texas friends had to sneak their house cleaner and gardener home every weekend under the cover of night.

A few years ago when I was stationed in Newport, Rhode Island with my own family, my mom came up to visit.  She had only one request which was to drive to New Hampshire to see a dear friend from her Air Force days.  This family I remembered clearly:  We'd known them at Edwards and were neighbors again during my high school years in Palmdale, California.  The oldest four kids surrounded my age.  They were always a level of cool to which I could never aspire.  One of the boys was in my first grade class.  I had a huge crush on his older brother, who somehow got talked in to taking me to a dance his Freshman year.

Visiting our friends in New Hampshire was like dropping into a time capsule:  These cats were still the coolest.  Everyone was an older version of who I remembered.  And that 14-year-old crush made the corners of my mouth twitch with nostalgia.  We were all parents now, and through the course of the evening the younger kids wandered off together and we X-gens found ourselves at the kitchen table.  The hours went on and I was finally ready to pack up my mom and go.  

I hadn't seen Mom since dinner.  She was off catching up with the other Mrs. and I looked around the table to faces that silently communicated, "We're not going to interrupt them.  You do it."  Like a 6-year-old girl, I quietly approached their lair and, with my best manners, tapped on the door.  "Mom?  Do you want to hit the road soon?"  She turned and gave me a look (no vertical pointer finger, thank God) that said, "The grown-ups are talking."  I retreated back to the kitchen table to hang out with the kids my own age (late 30s) and found conversation until the real grown-up party had run its course.

In the past months we were twice blessed to host some recently-retired friends we met in Italy on their way through the country.  I insisted on making them feel welcome.  As I was rolling out the trundle bed and counting pillows, it occurred to me why the opportunity to provide this hospitality was so deeply important to me: It's how I grew up.  And my 2nd-generation military brats will have the unique memory of friends we made across the world dropping in to our living room in East Tennessee. 
My 11-year-old dutifully entertained their 10-year-old on the trampoline and gave up his room for the night. 
The teenagers all made an effort. 
The grown-ups talked forever.

----------------------

~ Rest in Peace, Jeremy Moser.  Your departure from this earth was way too soon. ~

Conversations in D Minor

I'm 10 weeks in to learning the violin.  My family has suffered through hundreds of agonizing iterations of 'Twinkle, Twinkle' and our dog is experiencing this pain at frequencies I can only imagine.

My mom came to visit and asked, "Why the violin?  What are you hoping to do with it?"
I shrugged and replied, "Maybe play in an orchestra someday."
While that is a real answer and a daydream I haven't dared yet to form in to a goal, her question left me thinking.

Music:  It tickles a part of my brain that I don't use in any other part of my life.

Music:  It is a dance of challenge and reward that I thrived on when I was flying, and experience occasionally in the gym.

Music:  There are days I can feel it reverberate in my heart!

Musicians:  We come from completely different backgrounds and meet on a common day, at a certain time, in a shared key.

Ms. MaryAnn, the fiddler, is no exception to the music teachers that have formed a cast of characters in my life. 

When I was twelve I rode my bike to a man's apartment in Las Vegas (yes, take that in) where he had two bedrooms: one for his piano studio and the other for his shoes.  When I asked - as kids will do - he told me he slept on his fold-out futon in the living room.  He figured out that I could fly through Clementi's Sonatinas and dance over scales, and the pieces he taught me I can still sit down and play like no time has passed.

I remember the devastated look on my high school piano teacher's face when she found out I wasn't going to major in music in college.  She had brought me from the notes of the sonatinas to forming music, with all of its varying feeling and tempo and volume.  One day I pointed out to her that the second movement of Beethoven's Sonata Pathetique had been turned in to a Billy Joel song.  I never did finish that piece before going off to the Naval Academy.  It's still on my bucket list. 

When I was pregnant with my oldest, suspecting that my days of selfishness were soon coming to a long pause, I sent myself back to piano lessons in San Diego.  I asked for the best teacher in the county and there I met Celeste in her breezy apartment.  (She also had an entire bedroom dedicated to her piano.)  Celeste was upset by the military helicopters expending exhaust over the ocean where she swam every morning, so we didn't talk much about what I did for a living and instead focused on her taking me back to basics on musical theory. 
Celeste told me, "In any ensemble, the piano player has to be the smartest person in the room." 
She had flyers in her living room for piano bar jobs.  Had I remained under her tutelage, that was my goal:  "Benny and the Jets, key of G."  Go.
Piano bar player:  Also on the bucket list.

I'll never forget how Celeste approved of my fingernails clacking on the keys.  She was proud to be a woman and a professional musician and this came with the territory.
I'll also never forget the day we were discussing D minor and, messing around, I said "It makes me weep."
There we met:  From two different worlds, sitting at the piano, we both knew that line from Spinal Tap and thought it was hilarious.  This was the laugh that connected us until I moved away.

Present day:  Ms. MaryAnn leaves her front door unlocked.  When her students arrive they are to silently let themselves in, take off their shoes, and remove their instrument from its case.  She'll be there on her perch every time - sitting on a piano bench in front of an upright Yamaha covered in trinkets, a metronome snuggled in between photos and notes from old students.  No one can play the bottom dozen piano notes because they hold a variety of writing utensils and sticky notes.  In front of her is an aquarium with a turtle in it, the mesh lid doubling as a surface to hold her practice violin and a stack of un-cashed tuition checks.  Note: instead of a shoulder rest, the practice violin has a car-wash sponge rubber-banded to it.  

Nearby there is a music stand set up at eye level with an open method book that is no longer in print (my take-home version is a pdf).  Ms. MaryAnn has been using this book so long that she'll tell me to play, "Page 15, line 6" while she takes care of some bookkeeping and, mid-measure, quips, "I think that note is wrong."  She is always correct.

My teacher plays in various professional orchestras and teaches mostly kids who have never read music.  We're both learning what I need to practice and where she can speed up my curriculum.  We talk a lot about parenting (she is a grandparent now) and how kids these days have no respect.  I wonder if she would approve of mine.

This leads me back to "Why the violin?  What do I hope to do with it?"

First, I think these relationships with people from completely different backgrounds are important for me - and for everyone.  In these conversations we grow and stretch and are forced to respectfully consider another point of view and the lifetime of experiences that formed it.  

Second, I'm not so sure that the answer to this question ("why?") is an end state; rather, the goal may be the fruits of the process.  (This is a big statement for me, a type-A overachiever addicted to results.) 
Keeping my bow perpendicular, my wrist posture correct, and playing the same thing over and over is hard! 
When I watch Andrew work at a mindless task with the patience and diligence of a true tradesman, I'm envious that he can do it without going insane.  I'm no good at it.  But hundreds of iterations of 'Twinkle, Twinkle' are forcing me learn this skill of slowing down and mastering the basics.

Finally, I feel far from finished.  When I met MaryAnn, she asked what I do for work.  I told her I'm in the Navy and she pragmatically replied, "Is that what you've done with your life?"  
I blinked, "well... yes."  She blinked and had no further questions about that.  

In a season when my impending retirement from the military weighs heavy on my entire family, I must keep this at the forefront of my mind.  There is so much beauty and diversity and community outside of the one in which I operate.  I can't leave it unexplored.

"... in D minor which is the saddest of all keys ... People weep instantly when they hear it." 
Nigel, This is Spinal Tap

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Shout-out and many thanks to my parents and late Oma, Lola Mae Coates, for my exposure to the arts.

Snippets: Ch.1, "You mean this one right here?"

 

My YN1 and I just had our circuit-breaker moment. 

Before I unpack that, a quick explanation of my current day-to-day: 

I'm part of an organization that tracks, trains and sends East Tennessee's finest Navy Reservists out the door.  A large part of our duties are administrative, but nevertheless I work with Sailors from all walks of Naval service.

Term:  YN1 is a Yoeman (secretary) First Class (E-6).  She basically makes my office look good. 

Now travel with me back to a time when my job included flying a 20,000-lb helicopter... 

Starting up the SH-60B or MH-60R Seahawk was not a quick flipping of switches and shaking out of the controls.  It could take us anywhere from 20 min to an hour from the time we strapped in to actually pulling the chocks.

During this extensive checklist and startup process, a great maintenance department would have multiple troubleshooters standing by – and on a perfect day, one of each rate:

AE (Electronics), AT (Avionics), AM (Structural & Hydraulic), AD (Engine), AO (Ordnance).  

I think it’s safe to say that our AE’s and AT’s set the record for ‘most needed troubleshooter’ once systems were fired up and pilots were pushing buttons. 

Friends, let me tell you, I have lost count of the number of times I have been that pilot – or witnessed that pilot – fuss and cuss and dig through checklists and system menus only to call in that AE or AT (sometimes both) to watch this exact scene unfold: 

Troubleshooter:  Arrives at cockpit door, opens it, leans in real close and shouts over the rotor wash, “Ma’am, what seems to be the problem?”

Pilot:  “The flibbety-jibbet won’t flibbety jib.  We’ve tried everything.”

Troubleshooter:  Grinning so I can see every tooth, he or she places one foot on the door step, grabs the door frame with one hand, and dramatically reaches the other arm over my head, pointer finger extended, zeroes in on its goal….. 

And pushes in a popped circuit breaker.

 

Fast forward to current day.  I was without a YN1 for a while.  It’s been a refreshing relief to watch our new arrival get settled, set up her work space, and train me on her office flow. 

One day she enters my office,

“Ma’am, could you do something for me today?  Will you change the greeting on your voicemail?  It’s… the last guy.” 

I laugh because she is not the first person to tell me this, and give her my standard answer, “Do you know how to do that on these phones?” 

If you could be so kind, please pause at this moment in the story and remind yourself that I am a competent human doing competent work on most days. 

What YN1 does not know is that earlier that morning I accidentally dropped this monstrosity of an office phone on the floor and broke off the stand.  So it’s sitting in a jalopy on my corner desk when she arrives and takes in the troubleshooting situation. 

I see her eyes crinkle under her mask and her shoulders start shaking. 

“Well, Ma’am, first of all, is this red light always on?  That means you have a voicemail.”

Me: “That light has been on since I took this job four months ago.” 

More shoulder shaking.  They’re really starting bob up and down now.  Her face begins to flush. 

“So, you want to press this button that looks like an envelope in order to hear the voice mail.”

Male Siri rats me out: “43 … messages.” 

Her eyes are starting to tear up a little. 

Then this poor girl watches me scroll through unheard messages spanning four months and systematically delete each of them, one at a time.  Her eye crinkles turn to wide open horror at my audacity. 

I respond, “There’s no way these are still problems.  I’m sure they found me on e-mail.” 

We get through the recording of the outgoing greeting and recover.  But I will never forget her moment: leaning over me, pointer finger extended, then patiently, practically explaining that the ‘envelope button right here’ will allow me to listen to my voicemails, indicated by the flashing red light.

 

There are days when I know that the end of this duty station is when I need to leave the Navy.  But then there are days when it is alive and well: When the enlisted expert gets the best of the commanding officer just by doing her job.  Respect and tact remained in place, we all had a good laugh, and the playing field was leveled once again.

 

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Welcome to 'Snippets'.  I have many little blog entry ideas with no common theme, and I’m not getting paid to write a column, so I'll try putting them here. 

Somewhere, sometime, what I have to say is going to make a difference for someone else - whether it's a relatable moment, a good laugh, or just an interesting story.  As always, I welcome any good conversation that comes from this exchange! 

Hats off to those who have the attention span to write a novel!  I am not among your numbers...

Lessons on Draught

Original post:  Oct 30, 2020

This seldom-enjoyed taste of beer sends me right back to the Yuengling tap at Whiting Field.  I'm not a beer drinker - and the fact that this Belgian import just reminded me of Yuengling would make many the craft-connoisseur cringe - but I do credit these bitter bubbles for any bit of successful public speaking I've enjoyed in adulthood.

I'm rewinding the clock about a decade for this memory: The privilege of standing up with my flight students, at the end of the syllabus, and publicly roasting them in front of family and comrades.  It terrified me every time, but a single solo cup of Yuengling later, I would consistently bring the room to tears.  With a little help from props, some hilarious antics from which to choose, a healthy dose of genetic blessings, humility and a beer in the belly, the lesson is this:
1) Draught beer, in moderation = Easier public speaking.

I'm in a weird place.  Not only am I on a weird staff*, and in a foreign country, trapped alongside you all in a pandemic, but I'm also in a weird place wondering "how did I get here?" and "where to next?"  I've spent a career in the air and now I ride a pendulum between "I can make a difference" and unexpected kicks in the face.
(*Staff, in the Navy world, is the part of the bureaucracy that specifically supports the Admirals and their ability to execute decisions.  The staff I'm on supports six Admirals, a very high-ranked civilian, and a political advisor from the State Department.  They're all big deals.)

What better time than now to list some lessons learned thus far?

I'm not sure these will help anyone to be more successful in a military or civilian line of employment, or in a generic leadership or life-and-death endeavour, but who am I to be stingy? 
Enjoy.  Critique. These aren't all-inclusive, but most of them are fresh.

2) Find a trusted peer: Quickly.
Sometimes your job is hard.  Sometimes people are dumb, and jerks.  If you don't have the right person with whom to commiserate, or to bounce things off of, or to proofread what you think might be the perfect retort, work life can be very isolating and downright hopeless at times.  This person might not even be in your organization: But chances are, someone out there is doing the same job somewhere else.  Find them.  Vent to them.  Bring them freaking chocolate chip cookies.

3) People really don't like to hear that their 'stuff' is 'messed up.' 
I had a Master Chief who used a different phrasing for this when he described me, his boss, with what sounded like affection.  "Oh, she'll tell you when your 'stuff' is 'messed up'!" 
This is all fun and games - and quite effective when properly delivered - if you're working with the salt of your trade.  But at the higher levels, best to keep your mouth shut unless someone is really going to get hurt. 
Don't like it?  Move on and create a different dynamic in your start-up organization.

4) Get your butt home for dinner.
This is not original.  I've heard this advice, and I've lived by it ever since I became a working mom.  There will be days that demand it, but 29 days out of 30, I'm out the door by 5:00, ringer on silent once I pull up to my house.  
Most of my "customers" are on time zones 6+ hours earlier than mine.  I stopped answering e-mails after 4:30 p.m. on weekdays, and guess what happened: The expectation of immediate response after that time was quickly reduced.
The best part?  The people who work for me have become more efficient and they're all home for dinner too.

5) Don't opt for the extra work phone.
Compartmentalize your work life.  Also, see #4.

6) "Quick to listen, slow to speak."
I recently intercepted an e-mail from a subordinate, meant for someone else, dogging my organization and - bonus - assuming I'm a man.  I've been sitting on this one for about 48 hours and have come up with several witty responses, none of which I've sent.  I probably won't send any of them.
a) E-mail war is beneath you.  E-mails can be kept forever!
b) James didn't mean for others' words to be held against them when he wrote this scripture.  I know what I need to know about this young man (the e-mail author, not James), and now I know how much I can trust him the next time we work together.
(Plus, he'll probably figure out the intercept on his own in time, and the anticipation of retaliation may cause him protracted agony, which is better.)

7) Give the people who work for you the benefit of the doubt.  But be careful who you choose to follow.
I've been commissioned in the Navy for 17 years and I still can't figure out who to look up to. 
But the people for whom I'm responsible have never let me down.
I can't explain this one.  The data speaks for itself.

8) Ignorance (and inexperience) really is bliss.
I can not count the number of times a scenario went down like this:  Hairy situation in a helicopter with someone less experienced.  After landing, I'm actively praying my thanks for another day on this earth, and the youngster says "That. Was. AWESOME!!!"
If you are currently ignorant, enjoy the bliss.  

9) Garbage in equals garbage out, and Crossfit is good for you.
Yup. Work out until you pass out, but if you are eating and drinking whatever you want, you'll just be a strong frame under a layer of happy fat.  Own it or change it.
Also, don't hate on a good Crossfit organization.  I'm at my mental-health peak when I'm part of one.

10) Call your mom.
I can't get to mine.  It's killing me.

More to follow; love to hear yours!