Three ring circus

Pat M. is a teacher at MATC. She’s off for Christmas break - or whatever they might call it. Downtime. She teaches basic skills to adults that might not have graduated high school or that have to brush up on something for their new job in the new economy. We’d call it remedial reading, writing and arithmetic.

We’re both a little older. We remember news when there was more news on it - and less jocularity. And the weather comes with so much drama attached. Hey, it’s cold. It’s winter in Wisconsin.

She likes to watch the BBC. Me, too. It’s news without the goofing around. 

Mr. B is retired. He spends most of his better weather time on his 36 foot sailboat. Sometimes he has a small crew and sometimes he can ‘single hand’ it. He likes going across Lake Michigan to the other shore. He’s got 15 to 16 hours of solitude like that.

I told him my first experience with a sailboat was not on Geneva Lake where I grew up but on Lake Travis outside Austin, Texas. My new friends, twin brothers Mike and Pat, rebuilt a sixteen foot (?) Mystic Seaport sailboat. They kept the wooden hull and the engine and rebuilt it as a pirate ship.

And I still love the wind chimes of the rigging blowing against the aluminum masts when the boats are asleep in their slips. It’s relaxing - meditative. He did not invite me down to South Shore Yacht Club.

And, Elesio. We talked about Mexico; especially Cuernavaca, the Land of Eternal Spring. He lived so close to the dealer that I don’t know what he does, has, or likes. His brother-in-law preceded him to Fond du Lac and that’s how he wound up in Wisconsin. He did spend some time in LA. Too crazy. Too expensive.

I told him our handyman Ernesto brought tamales the day before Christmas for his pals in the wash bay. Man, that was good eatin’. We talked a little about good eatin’. We talked about Mexico City, security and the fact that most cities have their dark side; like Milwaukee, for instance.

Yes, I guess.

Here was my day. I made a parts run to Wilde on Hwy 100 south of Oklahoma and a bank run.

111 W. Michigan.
62nd and Main St. West Allis
10th and Drexel
13th and Milwaukee in So. Mil.
62nd and Bottsford
15th and Howard
98th and Loomis

It was a nicely paced day and I drove about 85 miles. Some days are lighter days. This was one. It gave me some time to reflect on the three ring circus aspect of this job.

The first ring is the driving people part. That’s the part that shows up in the blog. The second ring is what I talk about when customers ask about me. It’s the addition of my experience to whatever topics is at hand. Some of that shows up.

The third ring is a three-ring circus all by itself. It’s the stories of the ADD nature of the service drive along with the toxic and barely functional treatment of employees by management. In 18 months half the staff has turned over. And the bloodletting before Christmas this year? Think of your last check as your bonus, fellows. We’ll mail it to you.

Finally today, it surprises me to an almost embarrassing degree to discover this and then tell you about it. I used to love to listen to public radio after I dropped my customers off. Whatever the set of reasons ... I am doing that less and I’m missing the wonderful authors and their books. I miss the fresh ideas. The length of time I can listen is shorter than it had been. But wait ... and here’s the embarrassing part ... I do have a smart phone and there is bluetooth in the van. While I cannot put the radio on pause I can pause the feed on a radio app. Heck I could be listening to TEDtalks.
Why has it taken this long to figure that out?

The phone may be smart. The operator requires some remedial training.

Lately I have been looking at my entire driving tenure with a new eyes. I am looking to package the stories into book form. That is news to me.

Thanks, dear readers, for stopping by.
Happy New Year, darlings.

...

“Change your thoughts and you change your world.”
~Norman Vincent Peale

An arranged marriage

Colectivo on KK - not a quiet coffee house.

Somewhere in the conversation the first time I met Thomas I told him I write up little stories that come from people in the shuttle.

“I’ve got a story for you,” he said. “It’s about an arranged marriage. Mine.”
But he wanted his wife to tell it. Fine. After a couple weeks we set a day and the three of us met.

He said it was a quiet coffee house. Such a place is hard to find. I was excited. This was not it.

Alcita was born, raised and married in Brazil. While she did all she could do to stay married her husband left her and her two small boys. She’d met an American missionary at her church and got a visa to the US.

She’d stayed here with some Mormon’s for awhile but was happier with some new Baptist friends including Pastor David. They built her family a small sleeping area in the basement of their church. It was crude and very cold. The shower was a garden hose and sprinkler.

Things were going well enough but time was running out on her visa and she could not change her status. Immigration came looking for her and rather than stay illegally she went back to Brazil.

She worked several part time jobs, raised the boys and found time to go to church twice a day. All the while Alcita wanted very much to come back to this land of opportunity. She prayed. She was angry with God and proposed a deal. If He was going to help her get back to America he would have to do it soon or he would have to give her some peace.

One of the missionaries she knew proposed that she make a list of the qualities she was looking for in a husband. She did. Age, health, wealth, loving her boys were on that list.

Meanwhile, God gave her some peace. She carried on.

Now, Thomas and Pastor David had known each other for years through the church. They were in a men’s group together. Thomas had had a couple marriages fail and by now had three teen daughters. Thomas was looking for a wife again but did not trust himself to make a decision.

“Why don’t you marry someone I tell you to marry?” David asked Thomas, one morning at their men’s group. (Fascinating question, right?)

Meanwhile, Alcita and the Baptist pastor, David, stayed in touch over the years. Alcita had been on Pastor David’s mind.

After six weeks of mulling that strange question over, Thomas asked for Alcita’s number in Brazil and called her. He proposed then and there.

Well ... what to do? We have to meet and deal. Thomas found an immigration attorney, filed papers, took out a loan and flew to Brazil. They met. She introduced him to the family. They liked him well enough but they all thought she was crazy. They shared their lists and made concessions. He did not want to get the silent treatment. She did want any yelling and no teasing about her age. He wanted someone that shared his love of music and could properly fold a map. Some things we have to let go of.

It was an arranged marriage. They arranged it together. That is what has made it different from what we normally think of when we hear the phrase.

It began with mindfulness and commitment rather than romance. Their blended families grew together and have now grown on as adults. It’s been 21 years last week.

Thomas was an English and Literacy teacher at MPS, has just finished seminary schooling. He is going into the coaching business; primarily for clergy and their parishioners.

Alcita taught English in Brazil and Portuguese here at UW-Milwaukee on campus and for the Continuing Education department.

She has just finished the Portuguese translation of her 2010 Biblical fiction novel Milcah. You can find it on Amazon by searching this: Milca (Portuguese Edition) by Alcita Ferreira Brown.

They are traveling to Brazil soon to visit family and do a book tour.

......

Nice to meet them both.

This is probably the first story that was proposed as a story and that occurred outside the shuttle. Given that we sat for over an hour there are lovely little details that do not add much to a story but that could add some depth to a book. Near the end of our meeting she told me that she's written this story down already. Right? She's a writer. What was I doing there?  Interesting. Different.

Word made flesh

Dean lives about twenty minutes southwest out Loomis Road between Wind Lake and Waubeesee Lake. Take a right and a left at the Old Penny Bar. You’re almost there.

He and I were not having a conversation on the way. He was giving me his entire litany, chapter and verse, of car service mishaps at our competitor. There wasn’t much I could do but nod and acknowledge him.

And that was fine enough for me. It was a foggy morning like I do not ever remember seeing. It was an entire museum of fog. Every facet of fog was on full display. It was an upper-level course in fog-ology. It was phenomenal. Fog.

There was fog on the road and fog in the trees. There was fog two feet off the ground with trees growing out of it. There was clear, bare snow on the ground with tree trunks supporting the fogged-in sky. There were clearings with wispy, ghost-like bodies of fog floating free. It went from big blue sky to nearly zero visibility in mere moments. And there were plenty of drivers auditioning for the next big crash on the six o’clock news. I slowed down so I could ... see ... it, witness it, be with it.

I was stunned; awestruck. It was so very beautiful. Once, when I noticed he’d fallen silent, I mentioned it to Dean.

“The fog.” I said.
“Uhhh ... yeah ... fog.” He rattled on about being screwed. Funny he keeps getting into those situations because he’s so smart. He knows better. Just ask him.

Two hours later I’m headed back out to pick him up. His car is ready early. The sun has burned off the fog. Now I can appreciate the snow white cornfields and the dark winter trees with the last snow still plastered to their south sides. I am amazed what the snow does to the dark tree limbs. There is a negative differentiation; the normally not-seen is available.

The oaks in particular have a lot of attitude. They remind me of tai chi masters practicing the long-form dance in a line of sad people returning Christmas gifts at a customer service counter.

I call Dean and tell him I am near. I arrive. He gets in. He’s in a different mood altogether. The sky is blue. His car is done. Early. We’re going to get it. Wheee!

It turns out Dean drives school bus out that way. It’s six hours a day with a five hour split in the middle. There’s enough time to have lunch and take a nap actually.

He told me about a set of twins recently -  five years old. The boy is a perfect angel on the bus. Sits up front. Talks like an adult. And the twin sister is the devil on wheels. He recalled her picking a fight with some fourth graders and winning, until ... She had a boy down on the bus floor and another girl trying to pull her off. Apparently one of her five-year old front teeth was loose and it managed to get snagged and torn out during the scuffle. And he’s trying to drive ... keep a schedule, etc. Blood everywhere.

And at some point there was another student that gave him a big hug - just like that. I congratulated him for his courage and patience. I said I’d thought about school bus driving once - briefly. I decided I don’t have the constitution for it. Hugs are good. Blood not so much.

Mind you, the stories on the trip back were not all about driving bus. There were plenty of hunting and fishing tales with his grand kids in Spokane. It was so unbelievable that I had to research STURGEON when I got home. Now there’s a fish story for some other time.

So, yesterday morning between 5 and 6 a.m., before I met Dean, I wrote a piece about the very day before, meeting Wayne; another driver. He and I talked shop and had a good, old time. I called ‘the Wayne meeting’ a busman’s holiday and then reflected that I had yet to meet a bus driver.

By 9:30, less than four hours after I wrote that, Dean, my first bus driver, climbs into the front seat.

Word made flesh.

----

"Love really is the answer to human problems: love of oneself, love of others, love of where one is, love of what one is doing, love of nature, love of life, love of the world, love of spirit in all its wonder and splendor. Love sets our energy free. It opens us and puts us in a flow with spirit and life on many levels.  Love is the true secret behind manifestation."

~ David Spangler

Drivers, geeks, beans and life after death

 Wayne was the third of three on the first trip out today. We took a guy to 555 Airport Way, another guy to 25th and Tripoli and Wayne sat behind me as we went home to 94th and Cleveland.

He drives for Ewald Automotive for the last three years: dealer trades. That is to say he moves cars from lot to lot. It’s mostly intra-corporate around the greater metro area but sometimes he drives to upstate and out-of-state dealers. He’s tried shuttling people a couple times. Too much pressure to get people to wherever they’re going - on time. When you’re alone in a car you might be able to take a bathroom break or stop for lunch.

I’ve met plenty of drivers over time. It’s the people for me. Still, it sure was nice to talk to someone about driving and dealers though - a regular busman’s holiday. Hmmm, I have yet to meet a bus driver now that I think of it.

I came back to the lot, greeted Kevin and loaded him off to his condo on College. He’s between gigs at the moment.

“Gigs?” I asked. “Sounds like musician code.”
“Yeah. No. Contract IT consultant. I just finished up a project with Johnson Controls and I’m off till the 20th.”
He did not say what the next gig would be.
“Do you have a specialty?” I asked.
“I’m kind of a liaison between the, uh, geeks ... and ...”
“Bean counters?” I offered?
“Yeah, that’s it. I speak geek to bean counters.”

We decided that it was a very handy talent. He’s going to catch up on some reading and possibly get a little travel in before the new job starts.

“Down time.” I said. “Sounds lovely. Merry Christmas.”

I headed toward Oak Creek to pick up Miriam and bring her back for her car. I dialed her 787 area code to tell her I was nearly there and the first thing I asked was where that area code was from.

“Everyone asks,” she said. “Puerto Rico. I moved down there to be with my parents. My father had bone cancer and I thought I was going to stay and help my mother. The last six months were very painful for him. The doctor said he probably had it for a couple years before he was diagnosed. He was Stage 4 when they found it. He wouldn’t go to the doctor.”

“Men,” I said, “What can you do with them?” She laughed.

After her father passed her mother sent her home to be closer to her own kids and grand kids.

“Grandmother?” I asked. “ I can hardly believe. Your skin cream is really working for you.” She laughed again.

She was off shopping this day after Christmas and was quite happy about that. She obviously loves it. She told me a bit about the deals she made and I thought it’d be great to have her along; she knows the tricks.

...

Then I met John and his wife. They drove sixteen hours straight across Nebraska from Woodland Park, CO to his boyhood home in Cudahy. His mother died the Friday before Christmas. The wake was the day after. His dad and sister want him to stay the week until the ashes are ready. He can’t. He has to get back to work. It was understandably somber.

He grew up around here. He worked at the power plant until he didn’t anymore. Then he worked at the Heating Unit at UWM. That was crazy. Finally a job opened in Colorado. His wife had spent her teens and twenties there. Loves it and was glad to be going back.

He was happy to talk about the differences in winters between here and his new home in Colorado. They are so much more pleasant there. Maybe he can talk his father in to coming out for a month.

“Sounds nice.” I said. “I hope he takes you up on the offer. It sure beats shuffling around home by yourself.”

Near as I can tell, it is only the living that talk about life after death. On we go. One day at a time.

Christmas at the Casino

John J comes up from Racine to get his car serviced. I’ve taken him to the casino twice now. He is not the only customer I’ve taken either. Anyway, John calls ahead to reserve a spot at the poker table.

His service has taken about three hours both times and it requires an hour total round-trip time to drop and fetch him. It’s quite a service we offer.

However, we are not taking him all the way home. It’s too far. We’d spend the whole time on the road. He doesn’t want to sit in the customer lounge. I don’t blame him.

I’ve mentioned to management that we should look into slot machines in the lounge as another profit center. Folks could pay us to wait for their cars and then pay us again. I’m not getting a lot of traction on that.

I could take John to the mall. Not a shopper. John like to talk sports but we have to move to politics, tribes and casinos for me to get a reasonable word in.

Actually he’s an IT guy. We have talked about Cloud Computing a bit. He has cautionary tales. Your cloud is not in the cloud. It’s on a farm. Sometimes the farm buildings get seized by foreign governments. That is a cloud that rains on your parade.

He also knew of a wind turbine company out of Madison. Their engineering designs we’re hacked and sold. They were losing bids for a while before they realized that they were competing against their own product offered at a lower price. Not willing to spend a decade and hundreds of thousands of dollars with international intellectual property attorneys against the Chinese, they folded up and blew away.

The cloud is the way the wind is blowing at the moment. You should think about your rain gear and your parade. Maybe you could get gear from Land’s End. At least you can return it.

The picture is from the bridge between the casino and the parking structure. John’s phone gets very limited reception in the building. I had to go in and fetch him.

I’m glad I didn’t lend him any money they way he tells it that day.

Change happens

Claudio, the chemist from Carmex, was in the shuttle with me and three other people. John was in the ‘little people’ seat ... way back. Sad, too, as he actually lived the closest. But, everyone else was going south and west and everyone else was getting to work and ... he was not.

Claudio is sometimes like Santa with his samples. He’s always carrying product and he is most happy to give it away. He says he’s a chemist but all we ever talk about is marketing. We all thanked him and put some on our lips. Well, I did. I didn’t see everyone do it. I’m driving.

Jim was getting off east of Bootz. Carmex was next off Ryan Road. Darla was off S. 51st and Hilltop. What a view. And, finally John and I went north of the airport and headed left at Amelia’s.

John used to be a junior editor at a publishing firm that closed shop after 9/11. He had studied library science. He works primarily at the Humanities desk at the Central Library. He’s also the primary buyer of psychology, religion and philosophy books for the Milwaukee system.

How does he choose books? He reads trades, is up on pop culture and does indeed take requests from citizens on what books to buy. I think he said there’s a link to click on CountyCat. I’ll be looking for that.

“Have you ever been up in the rotunda?” he asked.

“My wife has,” I said. “Not a place for me. On Doors Open Milwaukee weekend we spent nearly three hours in the building. She went up the rickety steps and learned how to change the light bulbs. I stood on the solid ground of the fourth floor. We promised to share our adventures.”

I congratulated him on being the first-ever non-retired librarian aboard the shuttle and, in my wish to make him feel special, I think I ... lied. There had been a two or three week amazing spate of retired librarians, but ... one was still actually working in the Marquette university library.

He’s special anyway. We shook hands. “Welcome aboard,” I said.

Later that day I met Lisa. Given her age and attitude I never would have guessed she is a private investigator for the Unemployment Claims division  for the state. Private investigator? Really? Really.

She’s undercover. She takes video of people lifting more than the doctor told them to lift so that she can report back to the court and cut their benefits. She catches people cheating. As soon as her car is fixed she’s headed to a motel in Wausau so she can tail a guy for a few days or as long as it takes.

Mark is a 45 year old, second shift, suburban police officer. We talked about arrogant attitudes, wrong-way drivers, huge intersections and poor signage. He’s glad he works in the suburbs and he hopes there will be a pension plan still intact when he gets there. (Yes, Governor Walker, your name came up in conversation.)

He was the last of three people out. He moved up front when the second person left. We talked about miles per day and I think I was doing a fine job; driving, I mean. I was glad I didn’t know he was a cop until nearly the end of our ride.

Somewhere in these recent days I met an internal change consultant for a local big-name place. She helps roll it out and make it smooth. She bounces around from campus to campus working in small teams or on larger corporate projects. She has a reasonable budget and a high level of autonomy. Just get the work done.

“Change happens while you sleep. Keep up or risk becoming irrelevant.” she cautioned.

“Change agent?” I asked.
“Long story,” she said, and then told it to me. A firm foundation in finance helped her along.

Her kid is a swimmer of note at UW-Whitewater. They have two cars for three people. Sometimes she rides her bike to work to make that happen. She’s happy to have had some mindfulness training. Her aging father is convinced he won’t make it through the holidays.

“One day at a time, dad.”
Another person I’d love to spend some more time with.

Change agent? Fascinating. Sounds like coaching on the radar to me.

A quiet coffee shop

When I met Thomas he had a final paper due for his seminary degree. Rather than serving a congregation he thinks that he’ll be more attuned to his gifts as a Christian coach; most specifically for clergy.

I’ve been thinking about coaching lately and I thought we should have coffee.

On our first trip I did mention that I tell stories I hear in the shuttle. He said he’s got one for me. That’s a first. Usually they flow naturally. He seems to have one all packaged up and ready to go.

Here it is. He is a partner in an arranged marriage; to a Brazilian woman.

“Maybe you could write that up some time.”

Oh, goodness.

I arrived for our coffee date before he did and on his way in to our booth stopped and chatted with a couple at the adjacent table. He knows them from tai chi classes. Small world. He also knows Brian, a long time local tai chi guy I know who also writes poetry. Smaller world.

(Brian and I meet sometimes at Brewed on Brady for a poetry circle. Actually it’s not a circle - it’s a rectangle; the old yellow dining table in the back.)

Oh, goodness.

It turns out that Thomas and I discovered some multi-faceted synergies between us. We may have more work/play to do together.

His wife has just finished the Portuguese translation of her historical religious fiction novel. They will be visiting her family in Brazil and doing a book tour soon. Among other things I will be making a proposal on custom bookmarks for them to take along.

This next Saturday the three of us will meet at what he calls a quiet coffee shop. (As if. There’s a potential miracle story right there.)

“And then,” he says, “we will both tell you the tale of our arranged marriage. She tells a really good version of it.”


I'm thinking about inviting my wife - just to keep it interesting.

Oh, goodness.

No gloves. Nothing else.

On Lincoln Memorial looking south to downtown Milwaukee.

Gary lost his wife on October 21st. He was a carpenter most of his life. He ran his own business. He’s used to paperwork.

“This end of life stuff ... the system sits on its ass.” he said.
He’s pretty matter-of-fact about it. I think he’s still in shock.

I told him it took a year and a half to go through probate with my dad’s little estate.

“She was 58. On dialysis the last year. Went pretty fast. We planned and saved. We were going to see the world. Now all that money’s sitting there. For what?”

I told him that I met the hospice nurse in the shuttle. She and I both lost a brother a year ago October.

“October sounds like a popular month.” he said.

They were going to see the world. Now he has a hard time doing the laundry and washing the dishes.

“Don’t wait,” he said, “do what you’re going to do.”

“Thanks,” I said, “I’ll remind my wife.”
Timeless advice.

.....

Cold as heck that day, it was Rosemary’s first outing since the surgery two weeks earlier.
“I picked a heck of a day, didn’t I?” Cold. Very cold. Windy.

She had something done on her left leg. Hip, knee, ankle. I didn’t ask. She’s using a cane. We walked arm in arm. Slowly. I carried her purse. I braced her right foot while she hoisted herself into the van. It’s a surprisingly high vehicle sometimes.

She knows her car is staying overnight. She’s got friends and neighbors to fetch her the necessaries. She was going to make a soup later. Beef vegetable.

I told her I made a root vegetable soup and was disappointed with the flat flavor. What meat did I use? None. Oh. That was probably my problem. She doesn’t use any herbs and spices either. She might have called them fancy. Salt and pepper. That’s it.

I’m sure she made a fine soup.

.....

Cloudy, overcast and 16 degrees, I drove Brad to Northwestern Mutual.
He was dressed in a medium-weight jacket. No gloves. Nothing else.

It was startling. Remarkable. So, I remarked.

“No gloves?” I asked.
“They’re in the car.” he said. (Which we just left in the shop.)
I did not mention anything about a hat. Who am I - his mother?

The remarkable part was that he was not carrying anything at all.
No book, bag, briefcase or beverage. He was not fondling his phone.

As much as we Americans might like to think and talk about our freedom so many of us are chronically weighted down with stuff.

No gloves. Nothing else.

He looked free.

Remarkable.

Clearly a parade

 Mark locked himself out of his car this morning. He said it was a gust of wind that pulled the door from his grip. I’m surprised. Maybe the keys were no longer in the ignition. I don’t know. There are parts of the story missing. His war-bag, laptop, sandwich, and ID were still in the back seat.

He called in his VIN and we cut him a new key. I took it to him. He was going to follow me back because he needs to prove who he is in order to request a key for a car. Right?

He works about 12 minutes away. His work place has secure entry including the parking. I picked him up at the front entrance and we went around back to the parking structure.

We cut him a key for the wrong car. He has a Highlander and a Camry. I called in. Mark and I drive back to the dealer, get the second key cut, drive back to his work, only to find that the second key would not unlock the car either. It was another copy of the first key that did not work.

At this point we did not know we made a second mistake. Baffling.

Our service adviser said, “Tell him to go back to work, we’ll figure something out and you (me) can go back later and, you know, fix it.”

Mark, the customer, said that there is no work with the laptop in the back seat and, oh, “there’s a 9:30 meeting I wouldn’t mind missing.”

“Yes,” I said, “let’s take you back to the dealer and have you stand around there in order to keep their minds focused on YOUR problem.”

Meanwhile he and I have spent so much time together that I now know that he has a 1980 Camaro he’s restoring. His daughter Emily is off to University at Denver with her skateboard, bike and guitar. She interested in microbiology and languages. There was some talk about the school selection process; Madison, Vanderbilt, etc. Already she does not like the dorm life. Too much binge drinking. Not her. Her new friends.

After dropping her off for her first year away from home, he and his wife spent a day antiquing in Walnut, Iowa on the way home. One more trip and I might have found out his dog’s shoe size.

He was amazingly good-humored all this while.
“Stuff happens.” he said.

Speaking of stuff - I bought a new cap today. I had decided to do that before I even punched in. It’s a black and white cap. It’s going to be a day with that much clarity. Something has shifted in my thinking; clearly.

Lo and behold, as I come in and start to make the coffee, I’m told the coffee is already made. There’s a new coffee roster in place, the work load has been dispersed and there is no spot for my name anywhere on the clipboard. Let’s let that sink in: there’s no spot for my name anywhere on the clipboard.

I’ve been talking about this to anyone who would listen - including the boss - several times over months and months. Why should the guy that is hired to be OUT OF THE BUILDING be tasked with overseeing the coffee? That is how we are running labor and training. There is no body to do it. I always said let’s get a simpler system and let more than one body share the load.

My perspective finally becomes very clear to management over the last six weeks because the three coffee vending machines have been out of service more often than not. Customers like their coffee and the dealer was starting to hear directly from them on the post-service surveys.

Now we have a temporary coffee brewing workaround in place. Today two of the three dead machines were removed. The one last machine is limping along ... so we’ll keep it. Right?

It was a day for a parade - clear as black and white - and I was all ready in my bright and shiny new cap.

Drive Time Peru

It never ceases to amaze me who jumps into the shuttle.

Here I am contemplating how to enlarge the practice of ‘drive time’ to ‘quality time’ in a coaching practice.

Thomas is finishing his last class at Central Baptist Theological Seminary in Elm Grove. He’s not imagining placement to a congregation but thinks he might start a Christian-flavored life coaching practice. Really!

He's working on a website and will appreciate an extra set of eyes on his copy. We are going for coffee next week to see how we may benefit and complement each other.

And a little while later Janet jumps in. When I worked for VW I drove by a particular house in Franklin several dozen times at the very least. It's a remarkable mini-mansion and it's Janet's. I almost could have cried.

She's a Peruvian native with a bit of Chinese heritage. People think she's Polynesian. It turns out we both know another person from her homeland. "Say hello," she said. I will be happy to make that report.

And, as it happens, she brings Peru, the 39th country on my shuttle customer list.

She was surprised I keep track. Why not? People are important.