Final Password

I finished Kristin Kimball’s The Dirty Life Friday.  Peg read it and loved it.  I enjoyed it, too. And I used it for my final password on Saturday morning. Password? What the heck is a password?

I’ve served on the Board of Directors of Camp Manito-wish YMCA for the past 11 years.  In the Northwoods of Wisconsin, Manito-wish is entering its 95^th year as a superior organization that focuses on character development and leadership, while every year giving thousands of participants truly wonderful, life changing, and FUN experiences.

Essence of Camp: Manito-wish This is a great video that shows what Manito-wish is all about.

And this is a still from the video of someone I know

Anyway, every board meeting begins with someone delivering a password.  This is typically a passage from a book, a poem perhaps, or even just personal reflections with a point.  The annual meeting of the Board was held on Saturday in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and I had told my friend Jeff the Board President that I would be there for my final meeting, as I have decided to retire from the Board.

A few weeks ago, Camp Executive Director Anne emailed asking if I would do the password for the meeting.  Of course I would. I don’t know if Anne recalled, but she had also asked me to do the password for my first Board meeting in 2002.  That time, I chose a passage from Bobos in Paradise by David Brooks. So this would be a nice “bookend” for me – delivering the password at both my first and last Board meetings (I’ve done several in the interim, as well.)

First I thought I would tell a couple stories about our first months as sheep farmers, and how skills and values I had taken up from Camp had helped me through – resilience, perseverance, willingness to try new things and take risks, humility, collaborative leadership, try it – change it – try it again. Easy! I didn’t even need to write notes – the stories would flow for a few minutes and I’d have a nice message.

But then, Thursday morning while waiting to board my plane back to the Midwest, I got to page 77 of The Dirty Life. I stopped. I read it twice. Hmm. Maybe I should think about this a little more.

Later that day, I visited with my mother in her new home in Evanston, Illinois. She had moved at the end of October, and I told her I would visit and spend the night before heading north to Milwaukee for the Board meeting. I read her the passage from page 77.  That evening,  I read page 77 to Peg over the phone.  She agreed it should be the password.

OK, before going on to page 77, here is a quick summary of what The Dirty Life is all about – from the back cover of the paperback:

“When Kristin Kimball left New York City to interview a dynamic young farmer named Mark, her world changed.  On an impulse, she shed her city self and started a new farm with him on five hundred acres near Lake Champlain.”

So here is the passage from Page 77 that was the core of my final password:

“Once, an elderly neighbor, Trudy, came over with a box of extra pots and pans and gadgets she’d gleaned from her kitchen. They were good enameled cast-iron pots, and we accepted them gratefully. Later, another neighbor came by and asked if Trudy had brought us the pots and pans. “She thought you were poor!” he said, cheerfully. “She thought you were, you know, needy. I tried to explain to her that you’re needy by choice.” That exchange depressed me for days. I kept seeing the kids in my grade school who were labeled “needy,” kids with drawn faces and crusty snot mustaches and clothes that didn’t seem fresh, and I’d look in the mirror and compare.

When we would talk about our future in private, I would ask Mark if he really thought we had a chance. Of course we had a chance, he’d say, and anyway, it didn’t matter if this venture failed. In his view, we were already a success, because we were doing something hard and it was something that mattered to us. You don’t measure things like that with words like success or failure, he said. Satisfaction comes from trying hard things and then going on to the next hard thing, regardless of the outcome. What mattered was whether or not you were moving in a direction you thought was right.”

After reading page 77, I looked around the table at my fellow board members and said, “This is how I feel about what Peg and I are doing, and it feels so right and we are so happy.  If this describes your life, too, I am happy for you. If not, I hope you can find something like this someday.”

Typically, passwords conclude with one or more members of the group saying “Thanks” or “That was nice.”  I received spontaneous applause – sort of a soft golf clap.  That was nice.

Todd