Politicians and dog pee
I walk my dog Captain Spaulding in the park most days. The park is enclosed by a large stone wall on 38 hectares of forest surrounding a medieval castle and is a very dog friendly place, allowing dogs to run free. Most dogs give each other a sniff and then either go about their business or play together for a few minutes before moving on. On rare occasions they growl at each other but I have never seen a fight. There is one habit that is not quite playing and not quite fighting, male dominance type dance. A dog, usually the smallest, will raise his hind leg and pee on a bush. He will be followed by the next biggest dog that will go through the same exercise, followed by each of the other male dogs paying any attention to the ritual. Sometimes one of the early peers will double back for a shot at that final pee. The ritual is fascinating and I am sure means something, but I am never quite sure what. The dogs usually go about their business afterwards, without much of a thought.
I notice on the television talking heads news shows, a very familiar ritual occurs. Someone (usually a Senator or Congressman) starts a dialogue about the story of the week and sure enough, he is followed by a gang that goes about and soils the same topic over and over again. Of course one must exchange opening a mouth with lifting a leg and the bush for the topic of the week (with the exception of the previous administration of course) but the activity bears enormous similarities.
I don’t really know what the talking heads go off and do afterwards.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
Weddings
Weddings
Well today I head to Riga to get married, the first time this month. Two weeks from now I will get married again in Prague. I was married once before, 19 years ago, in Connecticut. You might be thinking that I may be a global polygamist. I am not. My first marriage ended three years after it started. There is one woman at both the Riga and Prague weddings. One is a civil marriage, one a church service. Two friends will be the only guests present at the civil ceremony in Riga, a Latvian couple we are friendly with will serve as witnesses. The second, a church wedding, will be at St Barbara’s Chapel at Saint Thomas Church in the Augustinian Monastery in Prague. The civil wedding was recommended to us by our priest at Saint Thomas. With both of us being foreigners living in the Czech Republic, the administrative risks for a purely church wedding was a bit too high.
We have been hosting friends visits to Prague for two weeks now, it’s nice to slow down and just get married a few times, although, for the church wedding we will have visitors from the U.S. and Latvia, as well as a few local guests. Most of the guests are Schaubs (my family) from the U.S.; they require no planning and are not capable of any. It requires a consensus, which is mathematically impossible. This is creating a lot of unnatural feeling for my future spouse, but she has been around long enough to know how manage through it. All things with my family have a bit of unbelievable quality to them. I scheduled the wedding during one brother and his wife’s tip to Prague, 16 family members and friends are coming.
We have two weddings, visits and a double relocation back to the U.S. and Latvia this summer. I will keep you posted.
Well today I head to Riga to get married, the first time this month. Two weeks from now I will get married again in Prague. I was married once before, 19 years ago, in Connecticut. You might be thinking that I may be a global polygamist. I am not. My first marriage ended three years after it started. There is one woman at both the Riga and Prague weddings. One is a civil marriage, one a church service. Two friends will be the only guests present at the civil ceremony in Riga, a Latvian couple we are friendly with will serve as witnesses. The second, a church wedding, will be at St Barbara’s Chapel at Saint Thomas Church in the Augustinian Monastery in Prague. The civil wedding was recommended to us by our priest at Saint Thomas. With both of us being foreigners living in the Czech Republic, the administrative risks for a purely church wedding was a bit too high.
We have been hosting friends visits to Prague for two weeks now, it’s nice to slow down and just get married a few times, although, for the church wedding we will have visitors from the U.S. and Latvia, as well as a few local guests. Most of the guests are Schaubs (my family) from the U.S.; they require no planning and are not capable of any. It requires a consensus, which is mathematically impossible. This is creating a lot of unnatural feeling for my future spouse, but she has been around long enough to know how manage through it. All things with my family have a bit of unbelievable quality to them. I scheduled the wedding during one brother and his wife’s tip to Prague, 16 family members and friends are coming.
We have two weddings, visits and a double relocation back to the U.S. and Latvia this summer. I will keep you posted.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Leadership and Eastern European Housing
Leadership and Eastern European Housing
The online dictionary definition of Leadership:
1. The position or office of a leader: ascended to the leadership of the party.
2. Capacity or ability to lead: showed strong leadership during her first term in office.
3. A group of leaders: met with the leadership of the nation's top unions.
4. Guidance; direction: The business prospered under the leadership of the new president.
I have been in Eastern Europe for eight years now, working in the mortgage industry, or using the more politically correct term; housing finance. My first employer was a technical assistance fund sponsored by the US government, my second a large US financial company. The technical assistance funds’ interest in the mortgage market was part of a program to assist in the transition from a planned economy (communist) to a market economy (capitalist). The mortgage market, which supports the housing market was a core program with the belief that home owners make better citizens, so the benefits of our work was both economic and civic. At my latest employer, we pushed “Housing Leadership” with a communication campaign which yielded over 400 articles in the local press across the region. From 2006 through the first half of 2008, mortgage was a core product.
Well times change. Hundreds of thousands and perhaps soon millions of new capitalists are losing their home ownership during this economic cycle. The benefits of home ownership, both economic and political are retreating.
So I am left with a question; what do leaders do during a retreat?
The online dictionary definition of Leadership:
1. The position or office of a leader: ascended to the leadership of the party.
2. Capacity or ability to lead: showed strong leadership during her first term in office.
3. A group of leaders: met with the leadership of the nation's top unions.
4. Guidance; direction: The business prospered under the leadership of the new president.
I have been in Eastern Europe for eight years now, working in the mortgage industry, or using the more politically correct term; housing finance. My first employer was a technical assistance fund sponsored by the US government, my second a large US financial company. The technical assistance funds’ interest in the mortgage market was part of a program to assist in the transition from a planned economy (communist) to a market economy (capitalist). The mortgage market, which supports the housing market was a core program with the belief that home owners make better citizens, so the benefits of our work was both economic and civic. At my latest employer, we pushed “Housing Leadership” with a communication campaign which yielded over 400 articles in the local press across the region. From 2006 through the first half of 2008, mortgage was a core product.
Well times change. Hundreds of thousands and perhaps soon millions of new capitalists are losing their home ownership during this economic cycle. The benefits of home ownership, both economic and political are retreating.
So I am left with a question; what do leaders do during a retreat?
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The Visit
Below is an article I hope you find interesting:
The Visit
In the spring of 2002, I was visiting my parents on the Easter holiday from Europe where I started working a new job the summer before. I was staying at my parent’s home in Vero Beach with my 9 year old son William. In my son’s nine years he had not met my father’s 2 brothers and one sister who all lived in Largo Florida, about 3 hours from Vero. So I offered to drive my parents to Largo from Vero Beach for a visit if they would arrange it. Arguing that with me living overseas now and my son having never met these relatives, it was important to me that he should have some knowledge of my fathers’ family. As I mentioned, he had never met them, even though we had lived in Florida until he was six, then Chicago until he was 9. My parents agreed to arrange the trip, which they needed to do anyway, my father had been a tax attorney during his career, and he prepared tax returns for his family every year, and Easter usually provided an opportunity to get together.
In some cultures there is identity in name. I have always felt a sense of who I am by knowing I was named after my father’s father. I am William Christian Schaub (Bill), no Jr., I am not to the son of the first one, nor did I ever co-exist with him, which is why I am not the second. He died three years before I was born. My son is William Christian Schaub III, the suffix a nod to this tradition of identity in name and tradition. My father appreciated this and thanked me at my sons’ birth. Uncle Bill sometimes went by Bill Jr. or Sonny, but his name is actually William Robert Schaub. Even without the middle name, I always had a special connection with him as my godfather.
Now I mentioned my fathers’ oldest brother, my godfather, above for a particular reason. My Uncle Bill provided us with a rarity that particular trip. It was an incredible experience for me, my father and my son. My Uncle Bill had been serving in the US Army in the Philippines when the Japanese invaded the Islands. He was taken prisoner, contracted malaria, was assisted by a fellow soldier on the Bataan Death March and spent three and a half years in a Japanese prisoner of war camp. My fathers’ family did not know if he was alive for over three years, and when they heard from the Red Cross that he was alive and had been rescued, he weighed 90 pounds (he was 5’10”). That was the sum total of everything I knew because my father would not permit me or any of my siblings to ask him questions about his experience in the war because my father said he did not want to talk about it. My father had softened quite a bit with his grandchildren, and my son received no such warning before the visit. He was somewhat aware of the story, having been told by me and made inquiries to my father. After dinner at my Aunt Clara’s house, out on the porch with me, my Uncle Bill and my father, my son asked the forbidden question to my Uncle Bill; what was it like and what happened to you in WW II?
My Uncle answered him immediately, and started a narrative that I will remember the rest of my life. His tone was of that of anyone of a certain age sharing their youthful memories, he was jocular and laughed at most of the anecdotes, showing reverence when appropriate for a lost colleague. The starting point was the propaganda the Japanese would recite to the prisoners every day. “We occupy the western United States and are moving on Washington” he said was the consistent theme of the messages. He said that when the war was over, the messages just stopped with no warning, they woke up one morning and all the guards and administrator were gone, the guns neatly stacked in the middle of the camp and the camp gate left open.
Soon after US airplanes dropped leaflets telling them the war was over and help would come soon. After the leaflets, he said they started dropping supplies. One crate dropped from a plane exploded on impact, decapitating one on the American POW’s. The first crates contained to his astonishment, chewing gum, not what they had been dreaming of or even expecting. At this point Aunt Clara walked in and offered some more coffee or cake. When she heard a bit of what he was talking about, she scolded him for talking about such things. Fortunately for us, he ignored her.
He was in what was known as Pine Tree Camp, which was not very far from Nagasaki, so after liberation but while still at the camp he and a few friends took a day trip to Nagasaki to see what the atomic bomb did. He was shocked to see a train engine half melted into the ground. He was awed by the sight.
When relocating him back to the US, the hospital ship was filled with wounded, so an Army troop ship to take the rescued POW’s whose primary malady was malnutrition was used. The ship’s scheduled route was from Japan to Pearl Harbor, then on to San Francisco. Once at sea, the ship got caught in a typhoon, which knocked out its engines. They drifted for three days. A British Navy ship finally found them and within a day had the ship repaired and on its way again. Having lost three days, the captain of the ship decided to bypass Hawaii and head straight to San Francisco. A few days prior to docking in San Francisco, the ship supplies ran out of most food groups, having not had the opportunity to resupply in Pearl Harbor. The POW’s were left with primarily rice to sustain them. This being the principle diet for three and a half years, they were pissed. They threatened mutiny and the Captain of the ship with hanging. Things fortunately got calmed down before anyone got hurt.
When the ship docked in San Francisco, the FBI was waiting for the POW leaders of the threatened mutiny. No charges were brought against the POWs; they were warned not to cause any more trouble.
The next phase of the trip was a hospital train to deliver the former POWs to a rehabilitation hospital in upstate New York. The train had doctors, nurses, rules and lots of very rambunctious former POWs. The soldiers were not allowed to drink alcohol. On a short late night stop in Chicago, my Uncle and a friend left the train, purchased bottles of booze, and to hide those purchased stuffed animals. They tore out the insides of the stuffed animals and hid the booze inside, and successfully got back on the train. The next day, when one of the soldiers went for his daily check up, the doctors saw that he was intoxicated and figured out the scam. They confiscated the alcohol and warned the former POWs to behave.
Once at the Rehabilitation Hospital, the POW’s were regaining their strength and energy by the day. They were getting into all kinds of mischief. The Head Doctor, who was military, began assigning them to light work details, mostly cleaning up and washing windows. The soldiers complained to the military and got the orders overturned. A former POW cannot be ordered to perform such tasks on a military base, which the hospital technically was. The shenanigans continued.
The soldiers had three and a half years back pay due them and they had at the hospital a cashier to provide them with access to that back pay in the form of advances on it. One troubled soldier took money every day and headed to town to drink. He drank excessively and everyone knew it. The doctors could not order him to stop and he did not listen to advice. He died of alcohol poisoning within months, never getting back home to his family.
That completed the night’s story. Uncle Bill was drained by the telling of the story, the last segment bringing him to a somber place. My son had been entertained enough and my father and I were dumbstruck. We all needed a rest from the visit.
My father that evening heading back to our hotel was in shock. He could not believe what he had heard. He had never heard any of those tales before. We discussed whether it was all the books and television shows about the POW experiences and broader WW II experiences made it okay to discuss these things, or maybe he needed to talk about it after keeping it to himself that long. Another thing that struck us was that the narrative began with the wars’ end, not being drafted, the details of Army life or capture, the Death March, the prison experience beyond the propaganda. The Japanese were mentioned only about propaganda, and the bulk of the narrative was him and his comrades in arms against the establishment trying to bring them back home. The memory and questions of that visit will stay with me forever. I will never know the answers to my questions, both my father and my Uncle Bill passed away in 2006. The lesson for me is; my perpetual advice to my son is; ask questions.
The Visit
In the spring of 2002, I was visiting my parents on the Easter holiday from Europe where I started working a new job the summer before. I was staying at my parent’s home in Vero Beach with my 9 year old son William. In my son’s nine years he had not met my father’s 2 brothers and one sister who all lived in Largo Florida, about 3 hours from Vero. So I offered to drive my parents to Largo from Vero Beach for a visit if they would arrange it. Arguing that with me living overseas now and my son having never met these relatives, it was important to me that he should have some knowledge of my fathers’ family. As I mentioned, he had never met them, even though we had lived in Florida until he was six, then Chicago until he was 9. My parents agreed to arrange the trip, which they needed to do anyway, my father had been a tax attorney during his career, and he prepared tax returns for his family every year, and Easter usually provided an opportunity to get together.
In some cultures there is identity in name. I have always felt a sense of who I am by knowing I was named after my father’s father. I am William Christian Schaub (Bill), no Jr., I am not to the son of the first one, nor did I ever co-exist with him, which is why I am not the second. He died three years before I was born. My son is William Christian Schaub III, the suffix a nod to this tradition of identity in name and tradition. My father appreciated this and thanked me at my sons’ birth. Uncle Bill sometimes went by Bill Jr. or Sonny, but his name is actually William Robert Schaub. Even without the middle name, I always had a special connection with him as my godfather.
Now I mentioned my fathers’ oldest brother, my godfather, above for a particular reason. My Uncle Bill provided us with a rarity that particular trip. It was an incredible experience for me, my father and my son. My Uncle Bill had been serving in the US Army in the Philippines when the Japanese invaded the Islands. He was taken prisoner, contracted malaria, was assisted by a fellow soldier on the Bataan Death March and spent three and a half years in a Japanese prisoner of war camp. My fathers’ family did not know if he was alive for over three years, and when they heard from the Red Cross that he was alive and had been rescued, he weighed 90 pounds (he was 5’10”). That was the sum total of everything I knew because my father would not permit me or any of my siblings to ask him questions about his experience in the war because my father said he did not want to talk about it. My father had softened quite a bit with his grandchildren, and my son received no such warning before the visit. He was somewhat aware of the story, having been told by me and made inquiries to my father. After dinner at my Aunt Clara’s house, out on the porch with me, my Uncle Bill and my father, my son asked the forbidden question to my Uncle Bill; what was it like and what happened to you in WW II?
My Uncle answered him immediately, and started a narrative that I will remember the rest of my life. His tone was of that of anyone of a certain age sharing their youthful memories, he was jocular and laughed at most of the anecdotes, showing reverence when appropriate for a lost colleague. The starting point was the propaganda the Japanese would recite to the prisoners every day. “We occupy the western United States and are moving on Washington” he said was the consistent theme of the messages. He said that when the war was over, the messages just stopped with no warning, they woke up one morning and all the guards and administrator were gone, the guns neatly stacked in the middle of the camp and the camp gate left open.
Soon after US airplanes dropped leaflets telling them the war was over and help would come soon. After the leaflets, he said they started dropping supplies. One crate dropped from a plane exploded on impact, decapitating one on the American POW’s. The first crates contained to his astonishment, chewing gum, not what they had been dreaming of or even expecting. At this point Aunt Clara walked in and offered some more coffee or cake. When she heard a bit of what he was talking about, she scolded him for talking about such things. Fortunately for us, he ignored her.
He was in what was known as Pine Tree Camp, which was not very far from Nagasaki, so after liberation but while still at the camp he and a few friends took a day trip to Nagasaki to see what the atomic bomb did. He was shocked to see a train engine half melted into the ground. He was awed by the sight.
When relocating him back to the US, the hospital ship was filled with wounded, so an Army troop ship to take the rescued POW’s whose primary malady was malnutrition was used. The ship’s scheduled route was from Japan to Pearl Harbor, then on to San Francisco. Once at sea, the ship got caught in a typhoon, which knocked out its engines. They drifted for three days. A British Navy ship finally found them and within a day had the ship repaired and on its way again. Having lost three days, the captain of the ship decided to bypass Hawaii and head straight to San Francisco. A few days prior to docking in San Francisco, the ship supplies ran out of most food groups, having not had the opportunity to resupply in Pearl Harbor. The POW’s were left with primarily rice to sustain them. This being the principle diet for three and a half years, they were pissed. They threatened mutiny and the Captain of the ship with hanging. Things fortunately got calmed down before anyone got hurt.
When the ship docked in San Francisco, the FBI was waiting for the POW leaders of the threatened mutiny. No charges were brought against the POWs; they were warned not to cause any more trouble.
The next phase of the trip was a hospital train to deliver the former POWs to a rehabilitation hospital in upstate New York. The train had doctors, nurses, rules and lots of very rambunctious former POWs. The soldiers were not allowed to drink alcohol. On a short late night stop in Chicago, my Uncle and a friend left the train, purchased bottles of booze, and to hide those purchased stuffed animals. They tore out the insides of the stuffed animals and hid the booze inside, and successfully got back on the train. The next day, when one of the soldiers went for his daily check up, the doctors saw that he was intoxicated and figured out the scam. They confiscated the alcohol and warned the former POWs to behave.
Once at the Rehabilitation Hospital, the POW’s were regaining their strength and energy by the day. They were getting into all kinds of mischief. The Head Doctor, who was military, began assigning them to light work details, mostly cleaning up and washing windows. The soldiers complained to the military and got the orders overturned. A former POW cannot be ordered to perform such tasks on a military base, which the hospital technically was. The shenanigans continued.
The soldiers had three and a half years back pay due them and they had at the hospital a cashier to provide them with access to that back pay in the form of advances on it. One troubled soldier took money every day and headed to town to drink. He drank excessively and everyone knew it. The doctors could not order him to stop and he did not listen to advice. He died of alcohol poisoning within months, never getting back home to his family.
That completed the night’s story. Uncle Bill was drained by the telling of the story, the last segment bringing him to a somber place. My son had been entertained enough and my father and I were dumbstruck. We all needed a rest from the visit.
My father that evening heading back to our hotel was in shock. He could not believe what he had heard. He had never heard any of those tales before. We discussed whether it was all the books and television shows about the POW experiences and broader WW II experiences made it okay to discuss these things, or maybe he needed to talk about it after keeping it to himself that long. Another thing that struck us was that the narrative began with the wars’ end, not being drafted, the details of Army life or capture, the Death March, the prison experience beyond the propaganda. The Japanese were mentioned only about propaganda, and the bulk of the narrative was him and his comrades in arms against the establishment trying to bring them back home. The memory and questions of that visit will stay with me forever. I will never know the answers to my questions, both my father and my Uncle Bill passed away in 2006. The lesson for me is; my perpetual advice to my son is; ask questions.
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