Typing Out Loud

I venture to say that all parents leave some sort of impression on their children. Good or bad, if a parent is present, something gets passed along. My experience there is not unique.

Most people who have even a mild interest in cooking collect recipes with which they have achieved success. They are the go-to recipes for good-tasting creations that garner guest approval. Again, not a unique experience.

This past weekend my wife and I were going through her own recipe collection to make selections for an upcoming party. Seeing her clipped and annotated collection reminded me of my father’s, stored away in a memory box in the basement.

Dad loved to cook and bake. Within our family and circle of friends he was recognized for several creations: cake donuts, whipped cream and banana cake, and vanilla ice cream. Many of my best memories of time spent with my dad involve me sitting on a counter top “helping” him (I developed a special skill in the beater-licking department).

The brief article above was published in his company’s employee magazine more than 60 years ago, in August, 1953. At that time I suppose it was a novel idea for a man to be in the kitchen, and baking no less. It was the common everyday of my dad for me.

My dad, who never went to school, had the most basic of reading skills and wrote with a crude, block print, recorded his recipes on scraps of paper. As the article above states, he kept the records of his kitchen work in a wooden box. In the 1960s he transferred that collection to a small binder. By the early 1970s that binder was overflowing and he moved to a larger one.

We RV camped a lot and he wanted a recipe book just for camping: a collection of recipes that were suited for whipping up in the outback. Our RV was a Terry model so he called the cookbook Mrs. Terry.

The Mrs. Terry cookbook was Intended to be a small collection. Over time, however, it simply became home to the overflow of items that would not fit in the main book.

Today as I peruse dad’s collection I remember the hours spent cooking with him, the flavor and texture of his donuts, the rich vanilla-infused whipped cream of his whipped cream and banana cake and the brain-freezing joy of his hand-churned ice cream.

The haphazard collection of clipped and hand-written recipes, complete with misspellings, errors and marginal commentary reaffirms my dad’s kitchen legacy and the man, and foodie, I’ve become.

My meager collection of recipes is on a computer, I’m more likely to wing-it when I’m cooking, watching cooking programs on TV is how I like to relax and I’m a sucker for a cool kitchen gadget. All thanks to my dad’s legacy.

(Click on an image for a larger view).

A photo shot for the magazine article.

A photo shot for the magazine article.

A photo shot for the magazine article.

A photo shot for the magazine article.

A photo shot for the magazine article.

Dad’s primary recipe collection.

The Mrs. Terry cookbook.

This isn’t going to be pretty!

Each alphabetic section has its own index.

This recipe originated with Better Homes and Gardens. Dad rewrote it to group preparation methods together.

Complete with arrows, boxes, and instructions here, there and everywhere, somehow he made it work.

The index page for Section C indicates recipes that had been removed. They simply didn’t stand the test of time.

Any scrap of paper, even a union Absentee Notice card, could be put to use.

Dad went to the effort to measure the temperature output of the “Left front burner on medium.” 300°F

Dad proudly pasted the “professional” recipe along with his notes for “fixing” it.

In case you wondered, this was the “good” donut recipe.

Another donut recipe. Good? Passable? Decent? We’re left to wonder.

When our strawberry patch produced, this freezer jam recipe would be put to use.

Oooh, these pancakes are not only “very good” but they’re also “Great for camping!”

I can not convey to you how amazingly delicious dad’s pickled watermelon was.

This recipe page shows the remnants of ancient cello-tape. This one was also a winner — even for camping in the woods!

Dad’s dandelion wine. I sure did not enjoy my job of dandelion harvester.

And then there was wine from the bitter and tart rhubarb plant.

The importance of dad’s recipe book is proved by the back pages which include vital information about his kids and grand-kids.

Further evidence of the place his recipe book held in his life, more family birthdates.

Seriously, how many family recipe collections include blood types and dates of military service? Leonard Kuehn’s did!

Oh, let’s not forget the names and addresses of distant family members not seen for decades!

I had a mentor and his name was Dave Anderson. While he had a common name, he was an uncommon man.

Dave hired me at the Kalamazoo Gazette newspaper in the mid-1980s. He had spent most of his career as a typesetter/compositor. When computerized typesetting, or cold type, came on the scene Dave, with his curiosity and expertise made himself a key player in the burgeoning technology side of the newspaper business. Back then it was called “Systems”, what we now call I.T.

I had long wanted to work at the Kalamazoo Gazette, my local newspaper. I grew up in a rural area and had a carrier who would toss rolled newspapers from his pickup while speeding down the road. Later we graduated to having a plastic tube to receive our Gazette, which arrived in much better shape having not been thrown across our rough or snowy Michigan yard.

Even as a youngster I was fascinated by the newspaper. When I was old enough to work I applied for several jobs at the paper. I was ignored sometimes, denied others and at least once very constructively turned away by the editor, Jim Mosby. I was not deterred because my desire was so strong.

One of the Gazette’s executives, Carl Gilbert, was our neighbor and he paid a visit to my sixth-grade classroom. He showed us pasted-up pages, page negatives, printing plates and other gear from the world of newspaper production. Who knew that fewer than 10 years after that classroom visit, I would actually be shooting pages, burning plates, hollering “REPLATE!” to the pressroom and becoming familiar with many jobs within the newspaper.

But it was after responding to a rather generic ad for “TYPIST” at the Gazette that I met up with Dave. Dave had only recently left his highly-respected and important position in the Systems department where he managed the computerized writing and typesetting system called Atex. His new role was as manager of a department called Production Services which comprised the people who set type for advertising, did paste up of display and classified ads and later the paste up of the editorial content.

Dave asked me in for an interview. Because he was new as a manager, his first few hires were done under the supervision of publisher Dan Ryan. Ryan was a WWII veteran, locally famous, stood nearly seven feet tall and was an imposing man. But Dan had one of the biggest hearts and I quickly respected and liked him. But when I went into his office that first time I was nervous, in disbelief and unprepared for what would follow.

On the way to the interview I had driven three blocks down a one-way street – the wrong way! Fortunately I had no accident or constabulary contact, but I was shaken, stirred and sweating.

I entered the Gazette’s front door and the receptionist called for Dave. I had a few moments to work off the nerves from my driving mistake and to put myself together for what was maybe my fourth job interview ever.

Dave took me to his tight and cluttered office just outside the climate-controlled computer room. He said only a few words and then we were called to Dan Ryan’s office. Once in Dan’s office he and Dave exchanged sports banter. Not knowing anything about sports, that immediately made me feel like I was on the outside of something. Then they talked about a display ad that had run upside down in that day’s paper. Dan showed the page and turned to me to say “Some advertisers would pay extra to run their ad upside down. We don’t do that.”

Dan asked Dave if he knew who’d made the mistake. Dave chuckled and mentioned the name of the woman who’d made the error (you know who you are!). Clearly both men lacked any sense of surprise over the name of the culprit. Dan said “You made sure she knows not to do this again?” Dave said “Yes.” And that was the end of it.

Then the “interview” turned to me. Dan asked about my parents: where they were from and how they made their living. That was it. Then he said “Well, we’d like to have you join our family. Would you like to join us, starting tomorrow?”

I accepted and was on my way. I’ve always wondered who really hired me, Dave or Dan. When I left the building at 401 S. Burdick Street, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d been hired! I may have made a one-way-street error going home as well, but I don’t remember a thing.

Dave and I rapidly formed a bond. I was a very shy 19-year-old college student and he was a late-50s divorced Korean Era veteran and well-known industry expert. What did we have in common? A love of computer keyboards along with fast input speeds and typography. But we had an important friendship and he mentored me at some important forks in the road.

I’m fairly sure he made no conscious effort to be my mentor and he probably would have been surprised to know that I viewed him that way. I knew at the time that he was playing a pivotal role in my life, but it took several years before I gained enough wisdom to realize the full import of it.

In high school and early college I was driven to have a writing career. I was also very interested in politics and international relations. I dreamt of writing books, newspaper columns, doing political reporting and the like. I was working on degrees in English and Political Science at the time.

I never made it a secret that my goal was to work in the newsroom. My initial role as a typesetter was to be a stepping stone to a writing career. That’s how I saw it.

But Dave, my boss, friend and mentor saw something. Some of his best friends were writers and editors. And he’d spent 40 years in the newspaper business so he’d seen people come and go. But beyond that, Dave was a people person. He loved people, he wanted to know them, what made them tick, where they were from and where they were going. All of that led him to talk to me one day about my career plans.

It was in an informal setting during the early hours of a morning. I was cutting cold type coming out of automated film processors. The type later would be pasted up into news stories for that day’s newspaper. Dave, coffee cup in hand, made the casual remark that he didn’t think a job as a newspaper reporter was a good fit for me. He felt that I was quickly and easily grasping the technological side of the print production business and that maybe I didn’t have a true understanding of what it was like to write for a job.

Now in many situations getting “feedback” like that would be hard to take. One might resist it as having their parade rained on. Others may have seen an ulterior motive. But with Dave I didn’t have those kinds of thoughts. He was too sincere and well-meaning for me to consider that he didn’t have, at least in his mind, a valid point.

He went on to tell me that writing for a living often meant writing what someone else told you to write. And writing to a certain length. And in a certain way. And to have your words and ideas edited by others. He said he thought I was a better fit for the technological side of the business.

We talked it out and I was dubious. I had spent a fair amount of time pursuing a writing education as well as learning about politics so that I could cover it intelligently. Nothing he said was news to me, but he laid it out for me in a way that really preoccupied my mind with “what ifs.”

That was Dave being my mentor. Maybe it was because we had such a good relationship that he was able to so frankly talk to me about this. I don’t know. But what came next at first thrilled me and later put a significant scare into me.

A few days after that conversation Dave again brought up the topic. He said that he had spoken to Mary Kramer, the Metro editor (who later went on to be the publisher of Crain’s Detroit Business), who had agreed to let me shadow her for a day. I worked for Dave and he was going to pay me my day’s pay to sit with Mary. I was so excited at the opportunity. I still had in mind Dave’s earlier thoughts that writing wasn’t where I belonged, but I was still very confident in my education and career direction and saw this as an enormous opportunity.

I already knew Mary through my role in the Production Services department. Mary was a well-respected senior member of newsroom management and a very and open person. She worked with reporters, photographers, union printers, kids like me hired to replace union printers, political officials and angry readers. She did it all with great professionalism. She started each day early as did I and we’d often exchange minor chit-chat while getting our days started. I liked and respected her. I really thought this could lead to something.

I spent a day with her. It started early with a budget meeting for that day’s paper. She then worked on the page dummies for that day’s paper and the stories that would be used. That was followed by some editing of copy, reviewing proofs, another budget meeting, reviewing a pile of press releases, numerous phone calls, writing letters and more meetings. It was a full and busy day.

By that point I had been at the paper a couple of years and knew almost everyone and how the newsroom worked. But that day with Mary changed the course of my career. And my life. It was an oportunity that would not have happened without Dave stepping in. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t think about it. But he did.

I saw and felt what it was like to be assigned a story that you had no interest whatsoever in. I saw reporter A get a story that reporter B would rather have written. I saw Mary lament a story that was too long…there just wasn’t room for all of it. I saw that reporters would put a lot of effort into a story and for a variety of reasons it never saw the light of day. I saw reporters turn over stories to an editor who would write a headline that they didn’t like. I saw editors strike sentences that were perfect, but simply didn’t fit.

It was eye-opening. Up until that point I had seen the role of a newspaper reporter as one with more autonomy, more of a seek-and-destroy attitude toward topics and issues. But Mary, at Dave’s urging, showed me the reality.

What I would come to know from Dave was that he guided me because he truly believed there was a better path that I wasn’t considering. He absolutely respected reporters and editors and didn’t have anything negative to say about their work nor their roles, but he could see it wasn’t a fit for me.

In addition he was seeing my personality of being shy and reserved and quiet. I of course knew that in my dream role of a reporter I’d have to talk to and interview people. That scared me. But my interest in doing the writing gave me imaginary courage. I think he realized that, at least at that point in my life, I wasn’t ready for such a thing.

The prodding by Dave and help from Mary brought me to a crossroads. It was a very painful decision point.

In terms of credit hours, I was about halfway done with college. Because I’d more or less gone to university part time, it was slow going. But now I was challenged to continue with my course of study or change it. Changing it would be expensive and dramatically increase my time to graduation.

And I wasn’t sure what I would change my majors to even if I decided that was best. The newspaper technology field has always been a hybrid of unique skills. Even today many in the I.T. department at newspapers worked their way up from other areas of the business. A programming or computer science education can be very important, but knowing about printing, typography, graphic design, writing, database management, customer management – those are all key areas that I.T. professionals live in. Back in the late ‘80s, breaking into the I.T., or “systems” department was tough. But after that day with Mary, and some introspection, I realized that working in I.T., specifically at a newspaper, was what I was meant to do.

Decades, many positions and a couple of employers later, I’m still in the newspaper technology field. I’ve never looked back nor regretted my decision to change paths. I ended up completing my degree in Political Science with a minor in English/Professional Writing because of the time I had already invested in it. And that, too, has served me well. On paper it may not make sense that I studied with an emphasis on constitutional law but spend my days writing JavaScript code, SQL queries and being a Scrum Master. But my formal education gave me many soft skills, and Dave gave me the foundation of the hard, technical skills I also needed.

Dave recognized the big change I was making and he supported me 100%. Once he knew that I was committed to the technology side of the business he helped to open doors to other opportunities, training and positions that allowed me to advance.

I worked with others who were at least equally if not more qualified for some roles. But Dave pushed me and made a way for me.

I have always struggled with math. Dave did complex math in his head. And in those days in particular computerized typography required a fair amount of math and abstract visualization. For example, an advertiser might give you a hand-written list of furniture items for sale. How many columns would you need in their 3×12 ad in order to make that content appealing? That was after accounting for their logo, the border, their phone number, address and hours. What point size and leading would work? Does the text need some tracking adjustment to make it more readable? There were many variables. And those were the days before WYSIWIG: typesetting was text and codes. You didn’t see the result of your work until your code was burned onto photographic film. And Dave, through his mentoring and training, got me past my fear of math. Math is still hard for me and beyond balancing a checkbook I have to really work at it. But I’m not afraid of it like I once was. He made math practical for me in a way that no teacher ever had.

Another thing I learned from Dave was his attitude towards people. He accepted and was interested in all people. To my knowledge he never saw color nor religion nor ethnicity. He saw “folks.”

“Folks” was a word Dave used daily. I once asked him about that because he used it so much. He said it was a conscious decision, a generic way to refer to people, that got away from the male/female debate. It wasn’t men nor women, his nor her, it was “folks.”

Over the years Dave hired a lot of foreign exchange students from Western Michigan University, as well as recent immigrants. I’m not sure how many people realized that this was something he made a point of doing. Later when I was a manager of the Ad Creation department and would review resumes, I learned that Dave had a love of country that caused him to want to share it with people from less fortunate backgrounds. It was subtle, but Dave would often lobby for resumes from non-natives.

Dave was also a mentor to some of those folks from time to time. I remember one in particular, I believe his name was Shoga-David and I think he was from Africa. Shoga was a meek and quiet guy with very limited English. But Dave hired him and took him under his wing. Dave looked out for him and if anyone dared slight Shoga or deny him any opportunity, Dave quietly stepped in.

After Shoga graduated from the university and returned home, Dave kept up written correspondence with him while Shoga worked to set up a printing business in his home country. That’s just how generous and big a person Dave was. Dave shared Shoga-David’s letters with me, proud of Shoga-David’s success, happiness and new family. He gave in order to help other people become better, professionally and personally.

Looking back I realize that my relationship with Dave was unusual in some ways. Maybe it was due to my shyness or my age, but while we were good friends, we rarely did things together outside of work. But when we did they were special to me.

We took several business trips together. In fact, I had never flown on an airplane when in 1989 we spent a couple of weeks in Boston to be trained as system administrators for a new computerized typesetting system called Camex. Dave had been in the Air Force during the Korean War and his older brother was a pilot in WWII and Dave was a huge aviation buff. We sat side-by-side and he talked me through everything that was happing during our flight. I never told him that I was terrified but he knew and got me through that first flight. I enjoy flying and in fact years later got a student pilot’s license and started to learn to be a pilot (a topic for another blog).

We took a few road trips together to other newspapers that were owned by the same parent company. We both reveled in the opportunity to learn from what others were doing and to share the things we were doing that we thought were innovative. To this day if you notice an ad in a newspaper with a tiny number hidden in the ad’s border – that was our idea back in 1989. It was a way to hide an I.D. number for an ad so the advertiser could specifically refer to an ad that they wanted to use again later. We tried it out and it helped us, our advertisers and our sales team. We shared that with our counterparts in the Booth Newspapers chain and from there with our parent, Newhouse. More than 20 years later, you still see this in practice. I’d like to think we invented this idea that was made possible by the new typesetting technology that came along in the late ‘80s.

Dave and I worked on a mainframe computer system called Atex. At the time Atex was the premiere computerized typesetting and content-management system. It was developed in the late 1970s and was the computer system used by the New York Times, National Geographic and most major newspapers in the world. Dave was a recognized expert on the system. Even 15 years later, at another company, I mentioned that I’d been trained by Dave Anderson and that brought immediate head-nods of respect. I learned from one of the masters. He taught me not only how to set type but how to write custom programs (called “formats”) on the Atex system to automate and standardize the work of a typesetter.

Toward the end of my time at the Gazette, that background and education really paid off. By 1999 the world was in the grips of Y2K fears. The Atex system was known to not deal well with the Y2K change. Dave had retired, was travelling, diving the oceans, photographing WWII shipwrecks and living a full and active retirement and I was enjoying a good job in the systems department at the Gazette. But then I was contacted by a manager at The Virginian-Pilot newspaper in Norfolk, Virginia.

The Pilot was a very large newspaper whereas, at the time, the Gazette was considered a small- or medium-sized outfit. The Pilot had an Atex system as well, had a small but expert staff, but was coming up on Y2K and they wanted more depth…they wanted additional help. Most Atex experts were dead or retired, but the manager had heard about me. And that manager knew of Booth Newspapers (the Gazette’s immediate owners), and Dave Anderson. Long story short, I was made the proverbial offer I could not refuse. The Pilot offered me dramatically more salary, an end to regular night and weekend work, a regular daytime schedule, the opportunity to work on the one of the largest and most customized Atex systems and to be a key player in the Pilot’s move from 1980s technology to the latest in modern print production systems offered by Digital Technology International (later to become NEWSCYCLE Solutions, where I now work).

The move to the Pilot, and ten years later to DTI and then NEWSCYCLE Solutions is all because of Dave. Because he gave me direction. He was my friend. He saw in me things I didn’t see in myself.

I had accepted the Pilot’s offer and was tying up loose ends at the Gazette, getting my house listed for sale and getting myself ready for one of the biggest changes in my life. Sadly, at that time Dave lay in a hospital room at Borgess Medical Center in Kalamazoo. He had lung cancer and he was dying. He had only had about five years of retirement. I had been to his home a couple of times during his illness. Before he got sick we made one trip together to the Air Force Museum at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Ohio. We’d also spent a few hours looking over an amazing collection of slides that he’d shot while in the Air Force in Korea where he’d worked on the early development of Radar. But I wrongly thought that in his sickened state, he had bigger things on his mind than my career move.

Emphasis on wrongly.

I was at home one night, in between accepting the Pilot job offer and actually leaving, when I got a phone call. It was from Dave, in his hospital bed. He had a very weak voice at that point. He said “When were you going to tell me that you’re leaving, that you’re going to the big time?”

I was crushed. Because I’d crushed him! After he’d invested more than a decade in me, as a person and in my career, I didn’t share with him the story and the news. News that only came about because of his investment in me. News that showed him that he was right.

I could try to justify it several ways but they would be weak. The next day I went to the hospital to see him and tell him all of the details. He couldn’t even sit up in bed and he was weak and worn out. But he congratulated me a dozen times, asked a lot of questions, said how proud he was of me and wished me the best. I think we both knew we wouldn’t see each other again, his end was coming soon. But his last words to me were to be happy and do good work.

Dave died a few days later.

15 years ago this June, 2014, Dave Anderson died of lung cancer. He’d spent a career working at the Kalamazoo Gazette. He’d spent more than a decade making me a better person and guiding me toward a career that would make me happy. I saw him hold out a hand to numerous other people during that time as well.

15 years. I still remember the smell of his cologne, the stutter of his speech, his instant and easy laugh, his love of people, his understanding, his lack of judgment towards people, his dirty coffee cup and that ugly coconut he kept on his desk! Why on earth he was my friend I’ll never know.

But Dave, nearly 30 years after our first meeting, I still think about you. Many of the good parts of my personality, if there are any, are thanks to you and your example. Your example as a good, genuine, honest, interesting and caring person influenced me. Apart from my parents, Leonard and Charlene, you, sir, made me who I am today.

Thank you, my friend.

My first day of school was a drama. I was just a few years old and it was the morning that my dad was to take me to the Gilchrist Nursery School.

The school was run by a woman named Carol Gilchrist who started the first nursery or preschool in the county. She was important locally due to the early education programs she started and for her involvement in the public school system. Perhaps only hours later I would develop a bond with her and the other staff at the school and in the future look forward to each day’s attendance.

But on that first day, it was war. War between little, terrified Aaron and his big, frustrated parents. I still remember standing in our dining room, crying like crazy, scared out of my sneakers and refusing to cooperate or do anything useful.

My mom was trying to head out to her job as a teacher and my uber-patient stay-at-home-dad had exceeded his monthly patience allotment. He suggested that perhaps a baseball bat would give me something to really cry about. At that moment I would have preferred the bat over going to school.

The start of anything new, particularly to a kid, can be scary. No matter our age or the experiences we’ve had, change and the unknown can give us a shake. Each new school experience was no exception for me. When I look back on my years of formal education I am frustrated over the difficult times and have gratitude for the good times and great teachers.

Getting started that first day was really tough, but all of my other memories of nursery school are good ones.

For example, the nursery school had these huge, to me at least, red cardboard building bricks. They had a red design on them that made them look like bricks. They were large enough that we could build forts that were big enough for several kids to play inside. I had a lot of fun with those. And a lot of fun busting down our creations.

Another strong memory I have is of Mrs. Gilchrist’s kitchen, in the living quarters above the school. I may have the details wrong, but I believe it was her daughter who had travelled and gotten a blowfish light fixture.

No, that wasn’t a typo. It was an actual preserved blowfish in its fully blown-up glory, hung from the kitchen ceiling, with a light bulb inside. We were once taken upstairs to see the fish light and boy was I impressed. And freaked out. But mostly impressed.

Another fun thing we did in nursery school was learn how to use the telephone. To this day I hate to talk on the phone. But back then using the phone was a grown up thing to do and was fascinating. For the lesson many real telephones were brought in and set up on a table. Someone from the phone company was there to connect the phones together so they really worked, without being on the real phone lines.

For we kids it was just fun, but in hindsight I realize the point was to get us to memorize our phone number, parents names and our address. And to know how to properly use the phone in an emergency. But it was such a practical and fun experience that we didn’t know we were learning. Which is probably the highest compliment to a teacher: to learn without the effort of learning.

The next major milestone on my educational journey was kindergarten. This was at the town’s public school, about six miles from my country home. It was my first time to ride a school bus as well.

We lived next to a drive-in restaurant called The Country Drive-In. It was one of those standard drive-up joints that had bellhops and served hot dogs, hamburgers, fries and drinks. The bus would pick up a few area kids from the parking lot.

Our family was friends with the owners of The Drive-Inn, Ken and Marge Zantello. I remember going to the bus stop that first day and Mr. Zantello was hanging around with the kids (his daughter, Stacey, was my age and starting school as well). Mr. Zantello loved kids and was great fun (nobody could do a better Donald Duck impression – and make us giggle until we overheated).

On the side of the restaurant was a menu board of what the Zantellos had available. I pointed to the sign and told Mr. Zantello: “When I come home tonight I’m going to be able to read that sign.”

That’s how optimistic and excited I was about school and learning! That story remains a funny family story.

Of course, I didn’t come home from my half-day kindergarten class with the ability to read, that would come later. But the excitement and hope of school was by that time fixed in me.

Some years later the bus routes changed as well as the bus stop location. Instead of getting on at the Country Drive-In, I would get on directly across the street from my house, in the driveway of Dr. John Zettelmaier.

Dr. Zettelmaier was a local who had grown up on the farm adjacent to where he then lived. He’d gone to my school. He’d gone to college for his undergrad in nearby Kalamazoo and later got his medical degree from Michigan State University.

He was a real character and I remember many a wintry morning sitting in his car with his kids, waiting for the bus. When it was time to get out he would implore all of us with his mantra: “Learn lots, get smart.”

Especially as my junior high years took over, and school got harder, and the stresses of growing up took hold, the phrase “Learn lots, get smart” just annoyed me. He made it sound so easy, like “smarts” were in a jug that you simply poured yummy knowledge into your head.

My day to day experiences with education were augmented by my parents. My dad was born to immigrants from Germany and essentially never went to school. All of his education came from his own initiative, from the on-the-job-of-life training. He had great trouble writing (he could only print) and struggled to read. However, he could do amazing math sums in his head. He was very smart and knew about the world and understood people.

My mom on the other hand has a lot of formal education. She has a Bachelor of Science degree in special education. Beyond that she has a dual Master’s degree in counseling and personnel management. Plus a permanent K-12 all-subjects teaching certificate. By the time she retired she had earned a Specialist in Education degree in communication. She also lectured at two state universities on special education topics.

So I had these two extreme examples of what education could be. And most would probably expect a lot of pressure from my mom to go to college, get a degree or degrees and have that as a primary focus of my youth.

That was so not the case. In fact, my mom had a solid view of what my educational future should be and I remember her talking about it, in different ways, all the time.

She believed in the value of a college education. She also believed in the education that one could gain at a community college. Or a vocational school. Or as part of an apprenticeship. She was about the learning and having skills and knowledge. She strongly believed that the delivery method was more or less inconsequential.

She ended her professional career as a career counselor at the county’s vocational school where juniors and seniors would spend a half day each day to learn a trade or job skill. These were things like data processing, commercial photography, construction, foods, marketing, clerical, retail, etc. Students would graduate with a high school diploma as well as real-world job skills.

But what was important for me was that college was not a given for my future. She and my dad both made it clear that they weren’t paying for college or education or anything after high school. From as far back as I can remember they told me that college would be a good thing, but if I wanted to go, I’d have to figure out how to pay for it – they wouldn’t be helping.

I’m sure that some of that reasoning was due to their own financial situation and not wanting to “promise” an education fund upon which they could not deliver. But the fact that “any” option after high school, either some type of school or training or a job, was okay with my parents, was very freeing.

So many of my contemporaries were feeling the pressure of picking a school, picking a major, etc. I simply didn’t have that stress. That left more time to dream about my first car.

In high school I struggled to find a post-graduation direction. I took numerous “interest inventories” and “career aptitude tests” and they all said I should be a forest ranger. While the outdoors and nature interested me, I didn’t see myself doing that kind of work.

I was also very interested in writing, printing and woodworking. I explored programs at the vocational school where my mom taught. I just didn’t know what I wanted to do. The curse of being a Pisces perhaps. And being young. And the bounty of so many options.

Fortunately my choice was more or less made clear. At the age of 16 I signed up for a media conference at a college an hour from home. It was led by one of the communications professors at the college, who was also the faculty advisor for the student newspaper. Guest lecturers included people from local TV, radio and newspaper outlets.

The conference had each of us do real-world work for print, TV and radio. We were given assignments and had to do them on a fictional deadline and we were then critiqued by the pros.

For the first time I felt like I was in my element. I was in a college atmosphere and the things I was being asked to do seemed natural and while challenging, easy. While I didn’t save my work nor remember the specifics of my assignments, I won favor with the professor for both my written work and for my radio news delivery. He thought I put words together well and that my “radio voice” sounded good (one exercise was to write and record a radio ad for one of the station’s sponsors. Mine for the Grand Valley Blood Program was actually used by the customer). He suggested that I apply to the school and if I did, he’d put in a good word for a paid position/scholarship on the college’s newspaper.

In short, I got in to that school (now Cornerstone University in Grand Rapids, Michigan) and with my own savings, financial aid, a student loan and the job as Production Editor for the Campus Herald, got started in college.

And surprise, surprise, my parents had saved some money for my education. Enough for a year’s tuition and room and board. That was a total surprise after all of those years of being told I’d have to work for it myself. It was one year’s worth, not the whole program, but a shocking gift when the time came.

I went to that college for a year and a half, the last half working part time as data analyst for Foremost Insurance Company. But when that job ended, I didn’t have an income and didn’t have money for college, so I moved back home, starting to think about going to the far cheaper state school (the much larger Western Michigan University in Kalamazoo, Michigan, where my mom had gone).

After several months I landed a job at the Kalamazoo Gazette newspaper. I started part time but after a few months went full time and was then eligible for their generous tuition reimbursement plan. I was then able to finish my degree (Bachelor of Science in political science with a minor in English/professional writing). There were a few years where my expenses exceeded the maximum that the paper said they’d pay, but they always paid my bills in full. About the only thing I had to pay for myself was parking.

How fortunate I was! Because I was working full time and going to school part time it ended up taking me a full eight years to earn my bachelor’s degree. I’ve often thought about how great it would have been to live on campus and just go to school full time, be involved in activities and do the degree on the “normal” schedule. I struggled in high school and couldn’t wait for the drama and stress to be over. But I really enjoyed college. I was fortunate throughout my entire college career to have only one, maybe two, professors I would say were bad. All of the rest were good to excellent and I enjoyed the experience.

To this day my mom argues that taking the slow route is better because you combine a formal education with practical work skills. The alternative is to graduate with a degree and no experience and then try to find a job. I can argue it both ways.

But the reality is, I did it slowly, ploddingly, I thought I’d never get done. But I did. Regardless of what that piece of paper has or has not done for my employability or earning potential or status, it is meaningful to me. It was hard work, it was worthwhile and if nothing else, it’s just for me.

Today, my formal education well behind me, I share my mom’s early views on education. But I think the decades to come will change the way everyone looks at education. I went to liberal arts colleges and I gained from the experience. But it’s not for everyone. I think with the focus on technology in the workplace, the need is going to be for focused training on very specific things.

For example, taking a history class can teach you a lot of things. Things you may be hard-pressed to quantify, but you learn, you gain background, the ability to add context to life’s situations. As my mom says “College teaches you how to learn and how to be a citizen in society.” I think she’s totally correct.

Those aren’t bad things, of course. But even someone who gets a scientific, mathematics or computer degree must learn the job for which they’ve trained, once they’re hired. I think it is the rare situation when someone graduates with any college degree, gets a job and blows out of the gates. Even physicians, with all of their years of training, must intern to learn the nuts-and-bolts day-to-day skills they need to practice.

The future I think will shift more weight to specific-topic courses, over short time periods, with great focus and intensity. Think of today’s computer certifications. They come from Microsoft, Adobe, Cisco, etc. An investment of a few thousand dollars, a few days or weeks, hard study and practice and an exam yields a worker who can in fact go into a job and be fully productive on the first day. Doing things. Bringing value. Earning an income that allows them to be independent.

I don’t think colleges and universities are going away, but I think they will change. They’re expensive and they take time. And education is not a one-time proposition. It never was, but I think the work world is making the distinction starker.

I’m nearly 50, have had a college degree for nearly half of those years and yet I have a good career that has, on paper, nothing to do with what I went to college for!

The skills that I have that are important for my job came from a variety of sources:

• On the job training. I learned how to do tasks and jobs by being trained by my peers or supervisors.
• Training provided by vendors. In several jobs we would get new equipment or new software or new methods and the company spearheading those changes trained me.
• Focused classroom training. I went to training for Novel Netware 3.x and 4.x. I went to Unix/Solaris training. I went to Microsoft training for Visual Basic development. I went to an event called Script Camp for newspaper programmers to learn about automating text and image processing. Several years ago in Norfolk, Virginia I went to Tidewater Community College and took a class on SQL programming. In a few weeks I’ll be taking a short course at Salt Lake Community college in order to get ScrumMaster Certification.

That’s many types of learning. But all because I needed to learn and understand “x.” And “x” wasn’t a part of my previous education. In some cases the training didn’t even exist when I was at the university. The world changed and to adapt, I had to find a way to learn.

I think this idea of lifelong learning is important for young people to understand. I value all types and modes of learning and education. And even though I think targeted training is the future, I also firmly believe that a more traditional on-campus experience does teach a person to be independent, manage their own time and course load and work, and learn to function within a system (society).

I think we all need to understand that the graduation ceremony, any graduation or completion step during life, is not the end. It’s a closed chapter. Later there will be new things that need to be learned. We’ll use what we learned in earlier chapters to write future chapters.

Our interests will change. Jobs will change. There will be new information. We go from learning for a job to learning how to navigate retirement and old age. And whether you go sit in a class and listen to a lecture or read a study or some research, the learning never ends.

Yes, Dr. Zettelmaier, I think I’ve learned lots and gotten some smarts. But not enough. It will never be enough. I’ll always be thirsty.

Hmm, a cheeseburger with fries for $1.47…not bad.

The picture here is of a sticky-back label in one of my books. Several decades ago I bought boxes of those custom-made stickers from the Lillian Vernon catalog. I had gotten old enough to earn a little money by mowing lawns and was able to make the occasional book purchase and those stickers provided proof that I was building my own library.

I don’t know where my love of books and reading originated. Neither of my parents were readers. But as far back as I can remember, I’ve had an interest in books. I’ve liked the way they look, smell and feel. I’ve wanted to read them and write them. They’ve always been a part of my life.

After my last move, to Utah, I came across the last box of From the Library of stickers. They were brown and curled up and no longer sticky. In fact, they’ve fallen out of most my remaining books. I took pause over keeping them as a memento. My final decision was to send them to the trash. But I still have some books that are marked with my name, reminders of a time when I wondered what my grownup life would be like.

I grew up in rural Michigan, between two towns: very tiny Gobles and not much larger, Paw Paw. Gobles had a library that wasn’t much more than a closet. Most of the collection was of children’s books. Paw Paw had a more serious library. My small country school had an okay library, but its content was for school work, not for pleasure reading. At least that was my take at the time.

The Gobles Library. In my day, only the area to the left of the door was the library.

My mom and I decided that if we were to use a library it would be the one in Paw Paw, though using it would be a minor inconvenience. The Paw Paw library was in a beautiful century-old structure of stone and wood. Each trip to the library combined my love of books and wood into more than just a search for words.

The Carnegie Library in Paw Paw.

My first few visits to the library were frustrating. My mom took me and wasn’t all that interested in the mission so she went shopping at the Ben Franklin discount store next door. But mom not being much of a shopper, I knew I didn’t have a lot of time to find a book.

I felt the time crunch to find something, but also enjoyed the process. I listened in on the dialog taking place at the librarian’s desk, central to the building. People would come in and ask for help answering all kinds of questions. I was fascinated and energized.

One of the first books that I checked out of the library was All Creatures Great and Small which was extremely popular at the time. Everyone seemed to be reading it. I absolutely devoured that book while swallowed by my blue beanbag chair.

As I got older I imagined a grownup life where I had a house with a library. I envisioned a traditional library with paneled walls, cozy leather chairs and a fire. So far I haven’t gotten that library and maybe I never will. Today I’d still like to have that room, but it’s more important to have interesting and compelling words to read.

Today we have many easy options for reading material. Sadly we’ve lost Borders and Waldenbooks not to mention many local shops. But when I was a kid, the first proper bookstore I experienced was a Waldenbooks at the new Maple Hill Mall in Kalamazoo.

My Waldenbooks wasn’t very big but it was an oasis to me. The mall was practically a destination for us, we likely went once a week. More convenient than the library, I looked forward to getting my browsing fix on a regular basis at Waldenbooks.

It was at the Waldenbooks store where I started to buy books. It felt good to build a collection and have the books to look at. They were badges of accomplishment: I had purchased and read them and I was proud.

At the same time even a paperback was a big percentage of my earnings, so each purchase had to pay off with a good story. If I got a book that wasn’t enjoyable I would be so sad. This rarely happened, but it was my constant fear while shopping.

When my college years came I gained a different appreciation for my love of reading. I worked full time and went to school part time so I was busy. For the eight years it took to earn my degree, all of my reading effort was academic. Occasionally I’d try to read something for me but my mind would constantly interrupt to tell me I should be reading my Soviet political systems text. I lusted for the day when college would be behind me and I could read whatever, whenever.

After several moves I’ve thinned out my library of physical books. Considerably. I simply didn’t have the space and lost the energy to pack them. And since I am not a re-reader there is no logical reason to hold onto them.

It’s been more than a year now since I’ve read a non-digital book. It was a hard transition to digital, but one that I felt I needed to make. I still love the physical book and enjoy a long browse at Barnes & Noble. But the reality of what comprises a library has changed.

The Goodreads website has played a role in making the transition work. My childhood vision of having an impressive physical library may never be reality, but I can see the books that I’ve read by looking at my Goodreads shelves. And I can also research future reads and learn about reading options from my Goodreads associates (http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/1559344-aaron-kuehn?shelf=read).

Today the my interest in reading is not having a shelf to point to or a history of titles to remember, it’s excitement around what the next read may be. Will the next book be another one that sucks me in so deeply I don’t want to go to sleep? Will a new thought or idea or perspective be seeded because of a phrase or concept never-before considered? Will I be transported to a place that is rare and special and can only be experienced in my imagination?

The potential, the escape, the adventure, healing and recoup that comes from reading, those are the important things now.

From the library of Aaron Kuehn is a thing of the future, not of the past.

I arrived in camp at around two in the afternoon.

I suppose calling it a camp might give you the wrong idea. Fifty years ago it may have been a camp. In fact it probably was a really nice one. But on that day it was remnants and shadows. Ideas of a camp long gone. Ghosts. Even though I was miles into the forest and had not seen another person for weeks, I could hear the conversations and stories of people. People doing camp work; cooking; telling lies around the fire.

At that moment it was an oasis. I had been lugging my come-along, overloaded with gear, for several weeks. The physical labor was a challenge, but the mental demands were even more onerous.

An old man had confided to me at a small-town gas station that this old cabin lie forgotten out here. But was he telling the truth? Or were his facts confused? And even if he had it all straight, who knew if it was still standing?

So while I was tired and sore and hungry from my journey, the sight of that rough structure restored me.

One might think my first impulse would have been to explore the cabin and camp remnants. Rather I sat myself down on a large tree that had been felled and dragged alongside the cabin decades before. I sat and surveyed my destination. The mountains and the trees and the sounds: in they soaked. The sun went between bright and soft, interrupted by puffy clouds. I closed my eyes and dreamt of being nowhere else.

The logical part of my mind told me that even though it was early in the day, I needed to get to work. There was no door on the cabin but the rest of it appeared sound. Perhaps it had been occasionally used by hikers and hunters and received some level of maintenance and repair over the years. I wanted to be able to rest under cover that night.

My next thought was of food. Water was flowing steadily in the nearby stream. I thought there may be fish to be caught and that would be easier and faster than having to hunt for meat. But my first action was to examine the cabin.

Even with the brightness of the day the cabin’s interior was dark. There was the opening that would be the doorway and next to that a large window opening. The window had no glass but a pair of hinged shutters that opened outward. Once I managed to get them open I found that the cabin was quite sound. It was dirty and filled with leaves and debris. But the wood stove, apart from being rusty, was in good order. And the galvanized chimney looked in very good condition, confirmation of my earlier thought that people had been periodically using the place. Cooking and heat would not be a problem.

The only other furnishing was an over-engineered and rugged sleeping platform. Fashioned from four large stumps of wood with hefty rough-hewn boards placed between them, covered with pine straw it would make for a plenty cozy place to drift off at night.

I decided that getting the cabin cleaned out was going to be my next activity. I figured that even if I did get a door fashioned by night, it would be makeshift at best. Shelter over my head, a fire, and a soft bed at that point were the luxuries I sought.

The cabin was situated on the edge of a large clearing or meadow, adjacent to the stream. The stream may be classified as a river, I’ve never been clear on the difference. It was probably a couple of feet deep, if not four, with sandy edges and plenty of rocks to provide cover for fish.

Behind the cabin just a few feet the forest resumed and closed in densely into the unknown. I had to only walk a few feet, with axe in hand, to cut a few fresh pine branches from which to make a sweeping tool. Calling it a broom would be an overstatement, but dense with green needles, it would do.

Before I put the broom to work I made several trips to remove the large piece of trash. Leaves, pine cones, twigs and branches were strewn everywhere. I suspect most were blown in by the wind, but surely some had been transported by creatures trying to take advantage of the shelter that the cabin provided.

Next up was the sweeping. The wind was stirring and I didn’t want to kick up a lot of dust, so I swept carefully. I started in the corner farthest from the door. Before I knew it the bare wood floor was looking back from every corner and I was hot, sweaty, covered in dust and sneezing with regularity.

I don’t know what time it was when I finished cleaning, but I was tired and while I did have some pangs of hunger, they were not strong. Rather than think of food, I turned my attention to the stove. A comfortable night’s sleep was quickly becoming a higher priority than a meal.

Once I opened the large cast-iron door of the stove I realized that my cleaning efforts should have started there. The fire box was as full as it could be with ashes. Just opening the door caused a big pile of ash to tumble out, cover my face and fill the air. The ashes would need to be shoveled out before any fire could be made or before I could ensure the chimney was clear.

I unpacked my shovel from the come-along and as carefully as possible, carried one scoop of ashes after another out of the building. I suppose it took about 20 minutes to get the ashes cleared out and learn that the chimney was in fine shape. But then I probably spent another 20 minutes re-sweeping the floor for the ash dust I had stirred.

It wasn’t yet cold, but I knew from the experiences of the past several days that it would cool sharply once the sun went into hiding behind the mountains. Around the old camp there was plenty of dry wood for the picking. Fortunately I wouldn’t have to chop or fell any fresh wood for several days. So I set about getting a fire going and stacking next to the cabin door a supply of wood.

With the fire going and plumes of grey smoke spilling up into the sky, I was ready to prepare the bed. I could feel the night moving in.

Several dozen big armfuls of pine straw carried from the forest floor were enough to give me inches of padding between my sleeping bag and the boards of the bed. I tested the cushion with my hands, afraid to lie down for fear I’d fall instantly to sleep.

Before I could sleep, I wanted to clean up. I headed to the river to wash up. It had been several days since my last splash off. After my hiking and cleaning the cabin I don’t know what a sight I must have been, but I felt like I’d shed another man by the time I had finished in the river.

Yes, having submerged myself in its cool, fast-moving water, I declared it a river.

I also learned while washing away the dirt and grime that the river was well-supplied with fish. I even had the boyish belief that, if fast enough, I could simply grab my dinner with my bare hands. I tried a few times and laughed at myself. I’m sure the creatures camouflaged in the forest were amused by the upright animal thrashing about and making strange noises in the water!

The better plan was to fashion a spear from a branch and in fact that successfully secured my dinner after about a dozen attempts. I cleaned the fish and, draped over a green limb, cooked it through the open door of the stove. Simple though it was, the fat flaky meat was a delicacy.

Fed and clean I regained my earlier position on the log outside the cabin. The stars were beginning to win their battle to light the sky. The moon, though not full, was bright and a few wispy clouds gave the sky a face.

I was tired, bone tired. But it was the good tired that comes from satisfying work. As I made my way into the doorless cabin I no longer heard the imagined voices of people from long forgotten camps. Now the only voices were those of the forest.

The camp had sent away the ghosts of the past and was making room for me, tomorrow’s ghost to a future traveler.

My grandparents’ house wasn’t just walls and floors and windows. It was a container of experiences, feelings, odors and memories.

And blankets, lots and lots of blankets.

To this day there’s something very cozy about sleeping in a cold room with the weight of many blankets lying on top of me.

My grandparent’s house was an old farm house in rural Michigan. I’m told the original part of the house was put up in the late 1800s with later additions including a hand-dug “Michigan basement” (a dirt-floor basement with walls made of stones collected on the property).

Until a fire destroyed all but the exterior walls in the mid-1970s, the only heat came from a basement wood stove and its single large vent in the floor between the kitchen and dining room. This gravity heating system made for a toasty dining experience, but the bedrooms that were placed on the outer edges of the house and upstairs, were quite frosty in the cold seasons.

On the main floor there were two bedrooms referred to as the South Bedroom (grandma and grandpa’s) and the North Bedroom where I would sometimes sleep.

All of the beds had several layers of blankets and they were quite effective. I’ve always been a more hot than cold person. I suffer in the summer and relish fall and winter when my body finally feels like it has reached equilibrium.

In the chilled North Bedroom, with my cold nose poking out from under a pile of blankets and quilts, I had the best dreams of my life. Most of those boyhood dreams involved some far-north adventure complete with a blizzard, a husky and a cabin.

I suppose every house has an odor, pleasant or not. I’ve heard from countless people about their memories of the way their grandparent’s houses smelled. That’s not unique. My memories are unique in that my grandparents were hoarders, before that diagnosis existed. So the fragrance I remember is of cardboard. Various kinds and thicknesses of cardboard. Old cardboard. Wet and dry cardboard. It created quite the aroma. It wasn’t necessarily bad, but it was one that I’ve haven’t since encountered.

Before the fire I was fascinated by a dimmer switch that controlled the overhead light in the dining room. It was one of those round knobs that you first pushed in and then rotated to adjust the intensity of the light. To a little boy that was like a rocket ship control! I would walk by and turn it just a little bit, trying to change the lighting without getting the adults upset. I’d usually get a stern look from my mom or worse. I got many hours of play out of that simple dimmer control.

My mom was one of the last of a class to be educated in a rural one-room schoolhouse. As the old schoolhouses closed my grandfather would get the slate chalk boards. One of those slate boards hung in the dining room and kept my cousins and I occupied while the adults discussed their troubles. Grandpa had given my parents one of the boards as well and it hung in our basement and was by and large in my own play area. I still have our slate board, but the one at grandma’s house was different because it was so in the open and in the adults’ space.

I would draw terrible pictures and enjoy inhaling the chalk dust. In fact I loved chalk dust so much I drew with much more intensity than necessary just to get a heavy coating on the board. Then I would load up the eraser and take it outside to beat it against the side of the barn and enjoy the chalk dust cloud. I’m sure that has done something evil to my health, but at the time nobody gave it a thought.

I also remember the large claw-foot dining room table. It was enormous and very ornate. For some years I was able to walk around under it. In fact during the fire the entire roof of the house collapsed on top of that table and the table did not break nor burn.

Even when I was too tall to take walks under that table I would spend considerable time studying the claw feet. I didn’t realize it at the time but the large knuckles and nails and feathers on those claw feet probably were my earliest study of woodworking.

The old house also had a root cellar. While the house had electricity all comers were instilled with a mortal fear should they use or waste it. Heaven help you if you did something to cause the “light bill” to be increased by even a penny! So even in modern days, with a refrigerator and a couple of large freezers to keep the products of their large gardens, the root cellar was an important part of their life.

I was terrified of the root cellar. It was cold and damp and dark. The potatoes had eyes growing out like the tentacles of some evil underground devil ready to wrap around the devour me. No, grandma, you can go get the potatoes yourself, I’ll stand back here and scream for help if you are attacked by a rogue spud.

Many people think of their grandmother as being the best cook in the world. I don’t have any such illusions. My grandmother was of southern heritage and as such cooked with large amounts of animal fats and had a relatively small repertoire of kitchen creations.

To be sure I had a strong appreciation for some of her work, though. Tops was her banana or pumpkin bread. I don’t know what made it so special to me but I loved it and she knew it. Even as an adult she would make me my own loaf and wrap it within an inch of its life with aluminum foil and recycled bread bags.

Oh, and the bread bags. And plastic containers. A stranger surveying the kitchen may have imagined that grandma was a frugal recycler. And while my grandparents were tight with a buck, the collection of used plastic material was piled so thick on the counters you couldn’t tell from what material the counters were made. It used to irritate me to no end when grandma would wash and dry bread bags, cottage cheese and butter tubs. Sure, have three to five copies of each to store your leftovers, but 11,485 old bread bags was perhaps to the side of excess. Any person who worked up the nerve to suggest to grandma that maybe some of the bags from the 1930s were superfluous got a “Well….” and a stern look that insinuated logic would not prevail.

I also remember the sound of the wood furnace being stoked in the basement. The house was normally very quiet but when the furnace was being tended, the noise telegraphed to nearly every corner. For some reason the sound of ashes being cleared and logs being adjusted was different during the day than at night. I would be dozing nicely in the North Bedroom when someone would be working the furnace and I would feel minor pangs of guilt for not helping out. But I was getting no benefit from the heat so why bother?

Besides, the basement was next to that root cellar, and who knew what those potatoes did in the night!