One day we were jamming when Jim, our lead guitarist, started playing Happy Together by the Turtles. It was funny at first… but then we all joined in and something clicked. While it was outside our genre, something about this song resonated with us. In fact, our version of Happy Together not only sounded great… it was fun to play. So now what? How do you transition from Black Dog and Iron Man to Happy Together? We weren’t certain, but we had an upcoming gig and decided to find out.

It was the night before our gig and we had been practicing hard all week. Since we hadn’t performed Happy Together publicly, we decided to go over it a few more times. Jim was/is a talented musician and he had figured out all the harmonies, including a great three-part harmony for the “Ba-ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba-ba” part. (If you’ve never heard this song, I apologize… but you should do so.)

Click here to view the embedded video.

Oh yes, there’s something I neglected to mention… it was for good reason that our bass guitar player rarely sang. He was notoriously off-key and pitchy (I’m being polite). Perhaps that’s what amazed Jim and me the most about us playing Happy Together… he actually sang one of the harmony parts.

Back to practice… I was singing lead and Jim was singing background harmony when we reached this part of the song…

Me and you and you and me
No matter how they toss the dice, it has to be
The only one for me is you, and you for me
So happy together

Then we all jumped in…
Ba-ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba-ba

Before we could hit the second, Ba-ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba-ba, Jim stopped playing, turned and looked directly at me. Accept for the ring in our ears, the room was silent.

“What are you doing?” Jim asked looking confused. “You’re completely off-key… maybe we aren’t ready to perform this yet!”

I was irritated, embarrassed and somewhat dumbfounded… but not totally surprised. I didn’t respond at first. I respected Jim. More importantly, I knew he was right. In an effort to compensate for the bass guitarist, I was compromising my part. I was singing off tune to try to get us in harmony. I had been doing so all week… just not to this degree. That night during practice, my extra effort crossed the line and Jim called me on it. Explaining my actions meant telling the truth… the truth we all knew, but didn’t want to talk about. When the facts are on the table, you’re able to address the situation and make progress. That’s what we did. We made some modifications to the harmonies… and Happy Together was back on track and well received by the audience.

That night at practice I learned some valuable lessons about harmony… and not only about music, but life, too. It’s easy to slip into denial or to try and fix what’s wrong by overcompensating for someone who isn’t doing his or her part. And sometimes, to a degree, it may be okay or even necessary. But in the long run, it doesn’t work. Honesty truly is still the best policy.

I’m glad Jim was honest about my performance. I think most people prefer knowing the truth. We want to honestly know how we’re performing. I know I do. It’s hard to improve and find yourself when you don’t know where you stand. Ironically, even with the best of intentions, when we bend reality in an effort to create “harmony”… we accomplish just the opposite. Twisting the truth creates confusion… and that leads to disharmony. By turning a blind eye (or deaf ear) or compromising our part (not doing what we know is right), more times than not, we’re creating disharmony. True harmony requires that we each do our part… open and honestly.

That winter was unprecedented. The number of consecutive freezing days and snowfall set an Illinois record and resulted in 62 deaths and more than 2,000 injuries. I was kept very busy.

One morning the shop received so many calls about stranded motorists, abandoned vehicles and accidents, I decided to skip class and keep working. The local radio station and newspaper warned residents to stay inside unless it was an emergency. They said if you absolutely had to travel be certain to carry a first-aid kit, flashlight (extra batteries), blankets, waterproof matches, a sack of sand, a shovel, tool kit, tow rope, booster cables, compass… the list was as extreme as the weather. Since cellular phones weren’t around back then, you had to think before venturing out.

By the end of the day I was beat. I arrived home and started taking off my boots when the phone rang. It was the county police: “This situation has gone from bad to worse… get back out there and start towing in any and every vehicle in sight.” Apparently the number of stranded vehicles was making it impossible to plow—not to mention dangerous.

I grabbed a sandwich and went back to work… and continued working for nearly 40 consecutive hours. Before long I had pulled in enough vehicles to pay for an entire semester of school. Financially, the blizzard seemed like a blessing to me.

At some point, as my boss was writing reports on all the frozen vehicles that had filled the parking lot, it hit him… “How long has McMillan been working?”

“Wrecker Boy, Wrecker Boy, do you copy?”

That was my “handle.” The older shop guys gave it to me. They found it funny. I didn’t mind. Even if I had, it wouldn’t have mattered—the police called me “Wrecker Boy,” too.

“I read you… over,” I responded.

“What’s your twenty?”

The radio was breaking up. I tried adjusting the squelch control but to no avail. “I’m not certain… out in the country… some place west of town,” I replied. I had strategically pulled in the vehicles closest to the shop first, then slowly worked my way further and further into the country… off the beaten path.

“It’s time you bring that damn wrecker in and get some rest.”

He was more right than he knew. I was exhausted and in desperate need of rest.

“10-4… I’m picking up one more—then I’m heading back.”

“10-1… I can’t read yo…” were the last words I heard. I tried contacting him a few more times but concluded I was out of range. It was around noon when I lowered the tow sling down, slid under the stranded car, and hooked up the chains. I was mentally and physically fatigued. It took everything I had to move the frozen hoist lever. With the front wheels off the snow, I jumped back inside the cab, peeled off my gloves, switched on the flashing amber light, and started back toward the shop. I glanced in the side mirrors to check on my load. While it appeared stable, I knew I wasn’t. I was sleep-drunk, driving under the influence of exhaustion.

Thin white halos outlined the trees, power poles and lines… like a strange inverted Sabattier print. Everything was glowing unnaturally and I was squinting, hoping to make it stop. I tried calculating how much money I had earned but found I couldn’t add. I tried figuring out how much school I’d missed but didn’t know what day it was. My mind was crystallizing like the world around me. I kept drifting off the road—until the wheels rumbled and then I’d swerve back on—then off… back on… off… on … off… on… then FLASH… I was blind!

I screamed, grabbed my eyes and hit the breaks. With my forehead pressed against the steering wheel, I rubbed my eyelids until my sight started to slowly return. “What the hell just happened… was it aliens?” I asked myself.

Like Lot’s wife, I reluctantly glanced back and saw what appeared to be a laser gun peering above the snow’s surface. Or was it a spacecraft? Upon closer inspection, I discovered it was neither… at least by design. It was a submerged car reflecting the sun. I must have glanced over at the precise moment to catch a flash and to make things worse, my weary eyelids couldn’t respond in time to protect my pupils from frying.

I watched the snow blow over the small exposed patch of car roof—covering it and uncovering it—“dot-dot-dot-dot… dot-dash-dot-dot… like Morse code. I culled through my Cub Scout memories but couldn’t recall a single signal.

I wondered how and when the car ended up out in the field…. but stopped myself from wondering whether anybody was inside it. I know that sounds bad. But I was alone and lost, and while I didn’t know it then, I was experiencing severe sleep deprivation for the first time in my life. After several attempts to radio the office, I stopped and concluded I was still out of range.

Unaware of my location, I tried painting mental pictures of the area so I could report the buried car once I returned. But trying to paint mental pictures in my mental state proved to be impossible. I put the wrecker in gear and started down the road, hoping to figure out where I was.

Before long, the voices in my head returned, “Nobody’s trapped in that car… it would take days to bury a car like that… you’re just exhausted and not thinking right.” Collectively, the voices were convincing until one brave voice spoke up, “Maybe you’re all right… but what if someone is buried in that car?” That question stopped the wrecker and turned me around.

The car appeared to be even further from the road than I had remembered. I waited for the voices of reason to return and persuade me to head back to the shop, but they remained silent. So I bundled up and reentered the deep freeze. Trying to get the shovel down from behind the toolbox was not only a struggle; it was also a warning: “Don’t do it… you are in no condition to rescue anyone.”

Then I looked over the tundra at that buried car and put it out of my mind. I made my way across the field and didn’t look back at the wrecker. I didn’t want to know how far or little I had traveled; I just wanted to arrive. I leaned into the wind fighting for each step… slipping and falling along the way. When I arrived, I fell to my knees and leaned on the shovel to catch my breath. The cold air burned my lungs as I climbed up onto the entombed car and started pounding on the roof and yelling, “Is anyone in there? Can you hear me?” I thought I heard something, but between the howling wind and my mental state I couldn’t be sure.

Don’t worry, you’ll be okay, I’ll get you out!” I yelled as I shoveled enough snow away to see through the driver’s window. I dropped to my knees, leaned down, and peered inside. The front seat was empty, but I couldn’t see into the back. So I climbed toward the rear, cleared away more snow and glanced inside… it was empty, too. Thank God, I thought, as the shovel slid down from the roof onto the ground.

I rolled onto my back, spread out like a snow angel on top of the roof and closed my eyes. I could feel my heart pounding as I tried to catch my breath. In time I sat up and looked back toward the wrecker. Its amber beacon flashed like a distant light tower. And I was a wayward sailor… and no one but me knew I was lost at sea. Whatever energy I had before my journey was now gone.

I slid down the car and started staggering back when I heard a sound. It came from inside the car! Then I realized I hadn’t thought to check the floors… or under the seats. “Hello… hello… I hear you… are you okay?” I yelled frantically turning back to look inside—but it was still empty. The sounds were from inside my head… or at best, from the wind howling around me. I looked toward the flashing amber light again and started to cry. As I made my way toward the beacon, the tears froze to my eyelashes and cheeks.

I finally reached the wrecker and thanked God for having helped me to make it back. My body throbbed as I breathed in the warm air from the wrecker cab. I threw my gloves and cap on the passenger’s seat and watched the snow crystals turn back into water.

Then I glanced back across the field and realized I had forgotten the snow shovel. In a distraught state, I started crying again, then laughing… I had just risked my life to rescue someone who didn’t need rescuing… and wasn’t about to go through it all again for a snow shovel. I wiped my eyes, put the wrecker in gear and started back down the road—again.

Days later, I drove back to the scene. The car was gone. The wind and snow had already erased most of the evidence of it ever having been there. I purchased a new snow shovel for the wrecker and never told anyone this story until now.

Looking back on it, I might have done things differently—but probably not much. The colloquial phrase “Good Samaritan,” means someone who helps a stranger. It’s derived from a parable Jesus tells in response to the question of who one’s “neighbor” is… I believe that’s everyone… even those you don’t know but are willing to risk your life to save. The ethic of reciprocity (The Golden Rule) doesn’t discriminate.

As promised, I was left alone and given total access to “be creative.” Staying focused and on task was difficult. The amount of material was vast and my mind wandered like a school kid in class. I was so hyper-focused on the subject matter, the assignment seemed meaningless.

At first I felt a little uncomfortable… like I shouldn’t be reading his personal notes, handling his guitars, or messing with his stuff… like his boots or blue jumpsuit from San Quentin! But then I realized Johnny kept all these things for a reason. Collectively, they represented him… his memories, thoughts and special moments on earth. Some were fragments… personal pieces of a complicated puzzle, clues from an unconventional life. Many of his notes, sketches and lyrics were scribbled out on random sheets of paper, crossed out, rewritten, edited, and often left unfinished. It was these pieces that I connected with most. The fragments… ideas he had worked on but never finished. The idea seeds… the work in progress… the unsolved mysteries that we all carry with us throughout our lives… hoping to someday find them a home.

It’s easy to focus on the tangible successes and failures in someone’s life… I guess that’s why it’s commonly done. But to me, those fragments tell a much better story… a real story about a person’s passionate struggle to understand and connect the dots. And in Johnny’s case, his random fragments revealed these things and more. Regardless of what history says, this much I know… aside from his legendary status, Johnny Cash was a sincere person who experienced many trials and tribulations. He worked hard and pushed himself to be his best. He dug down deep inside himself and was a truth seeker. He loved his wife, June, his fans and his god.

After my second day of shooting, the curator (who was also a good friend of Johnny’s), asked me to join him and his girlfriend for dinner. As you might guess, the conversation was centered largely on Johnny. I asked many questions and he shared many wonderful, personal and intimate stories about the man in black… they all confirmed my intuition. Then I shared my impressions about Johnny and showed some of the photographs I had taken. After complimenting my work, he smiled and said, “You connect with Johnny… he would have really liked you.” What more could be said? I’m sorry we never met in this lifetime… but in some mystical way, I feel we have.

One night over a glass of wine (or two), I asked, “Mario, before or during a race, do you ever think about the possibility of being seriously injured… or even dying?”

It was later explained to me that asking a professional race car driver such a question was inappropriate at best. Perhaps so, but Mario didn’t seem to mind. “I try not to think about it, Michael,” he responded.

I took another sip. “I understand, but isn’t it hard not to think about it at times?”

Then he looked at me and said in a most humble and sincere way, “I don’t fear death; I respect it… and I focus on winning.”

His answer triggered an “aha” moment. We all have obstacles in our lives and jobs… death and injury just happened to be a couple that Mario faced on a regular basis. You don’t jump into a swimming pool and focus on drowning… even though you know it’s possible. Mario focuses on winning… succeeding… period.

Then I asked him when he knew it was time to retire. After reflecting for a moment he responded, “That’s a much harder question. You never really know the perfect time, but it has less to do with your age and ability than many people believe… it has more to do with your purpose and passion.”

His answer resonated throughout my brain. It was Mario’s last racing season… and his words transcended my question. When purpose and passion are replaced with too much thinking and planning, we are no longer competing. Winners are driven by purpose and passion. You can’t pre-plan and over-think each turn and move you make… you need to follow your intuition and let purpose and passion drive you.

What’s driving you? If you’re faltering, check your purpose and passion and make some corrections. When these elements are in place, obstacles disappear and your goals are always within reach.

When I was around six years old, my sister and I used to perform The Little Drummer Boy together. Connie is seven years older than me and played piano. I sang and operated the sustain pedal. Since The Little Drummer Boy was the only song we performed, December was our busiest month. Connie had a larger musical repertoire, but most of her songs didn’t require vocals… or so I was told. Had I only known “Alley Cat” had lyrics, we could have doubled our set list.

Our primary audience consisted of my mom, dad, brother and dog—in various combinations. (Note: Were it not for my love of animals, Punky, the meanest dog I’ve ever known… may he rest in peace… would not be included in this story, nor considered an audience member.) Since the piano was adjacent to the kitchen, my mom heard us perform the most.

The piano was a Wurlitzer spinet. My grandfather, “Pa,” worked at the Wurlitzer factory in DeKalb, Illinois, where the piano was built. If he hadn’t, we would have never owned a piano. Pa was my mom’s dad. He was born in Germany and took pride in this fact… he took great pride in his work as well. Between his work ethic and commitment to quality, he was proof that the phrase “Work your fingers to the bone” was more than an idiom. I was told the pianos he hand-finished were flawless because “Pa believed in doing his best.”

As The Little Drummer Boy played in the background, I was transported back in time… I was six years old again sitting on the piano bench. I loved sitting by my big sister, pretending to read music and singing. I must confess, during those early performances, I did more than just sing the lyrics… in my mind I actually become that little boy in the song. There’s something else I must acknowledge… my singing back then wasn’t much in demand… even in December. Each performance required that I first convince the audience to attend and then convince Connie to accompany me.

Strangely, I never felt bad that no one ever asked me to sing. I didn’t need them to. It was my gift to them. When we do our best, we don’t need approval… we already have it. No one asked The Little Drummer Boy to play either. I used to believe that that’s why Jesus smiled at him. When we give the best of ourselves to those we love, we are giving our finest gift.

Come they told me, pa rum pum pum pum
A newborn king to see, pa rum pum pum pum
Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum
To lay before the king, pa rum pum pum pum
So to honor him, pa rum pum pum pum
When we come.

Little baby, pa rum pum pum pum
I am a poor boy too, pa rum pum pum pum
I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum
That’s fit to give the king, pa rum pum pum pum
Shall I play for you, pa rum pum pum pum
On my drum?

Mary nodded, pa rum pum pum pum
The ox and lamb kept time, pa rum pum pum pum
I played my drum for him, pa rum pum pum pum
I played my best for him, pa rum pum pum pum
Then he smiled at me, pa rum pum pum pum
Me and my drum.

The song ended and so did my last-minute shopping. Hearing it confirmed what I have always known… real gifts come from the heart… they can’t be bought. While the ox and lamb kept time, neither could stop it as time waits for no one. Don’t sit by waiting for the right time to share your finest gifts… the time to share them is always right. Pa rum pum pum pum.

There’s one very vivid memory I have never shared before… but under the circumstances, I’d like to share it now. Besides, the statute of limitations for second grade violations surely has lapsed by now… right? I’ll let you be the judge.

“SEE ME!” was written in red ink at the top of my paper. After making my way to Mrs. Storm’s desk, she said, “Michael, a period is a small dot… why do you insist on making yours so large?” I glanced down at my paper. The nearly dime-sized dots sprinkled about suddenly seemed to be the only visible things on the page.

“Um, I really don’t know,” I responded. My answer wasn’t truthful. I knew exactly why I made my periods so big. I also knew I couldn’t tell her. In kindergarten I learned our imaginations were good things. In fact, kids like me with overactive imaginations were actually celebrated. But this celebration stopped—abruptly—in first grade. By the time I reached second grade, my glory days of sharing unusual ideas and observations with others had ended. But Mrs. Storm was a nice person and the fact I couldn’t tell her the truth made me feel terrible.

My punctuation problem (large periods) started one cold and rainy fall afternoon. Instead of going right home after school, I hung around the playground with some older kids until it started to get dark… until only Jim and I were left. Jim didn’t attend our school and I didn’t know him too well… only that he was considered a hoodlum of sorts by many parents, including mine.

“Hey, McMillan, do ya wanna go down in the window well?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“What’s wrong… you afraid?”
“No,” I replied.
“I bet you’ve never even done it before.”
“Yes I have!”

My answers were total lies… I was afraid and I had never gone down a window well before. I had seen older kids do it during summer vacation… but I had been too small to join them.

“Then do it… unless you’re too scared.”
The peer pressure was too much for me. So I went to the window well, climbed through the guardrail and hung from the bottom rung.
“What are you waiting for, McMillan?”
“Nothing,” I said as I let go and landed at the bottom.

Not only had I violated a serious school rule, but from my new perspective the window well seemed much deeper than I had imagined.
“See, I told you I’ve done it before,” I said, looking up and trying my best to sound cool.
“Yeah… but you haven’t gotten out yet.”
Jim had an excellent point. As is often the case, it’s easy to get into trouble… getting out of it is the challenge. Try as I might, I couldn’t reach the top of the ledge to pull myself up.
“Hey, Jim, can you give me a hand?”
“No way… you said you did it before!”
“I know… I just need a little help.”

I kept jumping up trying to reach the ledge as Jim laughed and taunted me. I was feeling angry, humiliated and near exhaustion when Jim said, “See ya later, McMillan… someone’s coming!” To my astonishment, he took off running just as I heard a car pull up and then a door slam. Fearing it was a teacher or the principal, I curled up in the corner and remained silent until the car pulled away.

For a while, I thought Jim may return to help me… but he didn’t. It was getting darker and I started to cry. I sat against the wall to gather my thoughts… and that’s when I first became aware of all the papers that had somehow made their way to the bottom of the window well. The concrete floor was covered with all kinds of debris… stories, tests, spelling worksheets, and art projects… it was like a library of sorts. Many were stuck together. In some cases, construction paper dye had run from one project to another. The really wet pages were translucent… you could see writing from both sides at the same time. I picked a few papers up and studied them closely. And that’s when I noticed the missing periods! I concluded the papers that had been exposed to the elements the longest were completely void of periods… while those less exposed were well on their way to losing them.

By this time, I was rested up enough to refocus my energy, and after a few more tries, I managed to jump up and grab the concrete ledge so I could pull myself out.

“Where have you been?” my mom yelled as I entered the kitchen.
“Um… at school… playing.”
“With who… and where at?”
I knew it wasn’t in my best interest to answer either of these questions truthfully.
“Um… we were all playing on the playground with the monkey bars.”
“No, you weren’t… I just drove down to the school and there wasn’t anybody on the playground.”

Whew… what a close call… it was my mom’s car that had pulled in and left! I suddenly felt relieved that Jim had run away… it could have been a bad scene. After receiving my punishment I vowed to always come straight home after school… and to never dilly-dally again.

That night as I lay in bed, I made three more vows: 1) I would never discuss my window well experience; 2) In the event any of my papers ever fell into the window well, I would make certain the periods wouldn’t fade… hence the oversized periods; and 3) The next time I saw Jim, I would let him know that he was the baby for running away.

After a few more “SEE ME’s” from Mrs. Storm, I went back to making normal-sized periods, but I never shared this story with her. I was afraid to tell her the truth back then, but things change over time. We grow up and often the things we once feared become the things we most cherish.

So in honor of Mrs. Storm, I’m finally sharing this story. If you have a memory to share with someone, don’t wait until it’s too late. The special people in our lives won’t be around forever. Neither will we—PERIOD.

Eighth grade wasn’t the first time I had been kicked out of class… nor would it be my last. While many of my trips to the principal’s office were well deserved, this one (in my opinion) wasn’t. That said, I’m glad it happened. Like many things in life, it was a blessing in disguise.

It started when we were asked to pick a student from the class ahead of us that we admired. Someone we considered to be a positive role model that we could emulate… a mentor of sorts.

I didn’t know at the time, but the word “Mentor” comes from Greek mythology. When Odysseus left for the Trojan War, he put his friend Mentor in charge of his palace and his son, Telemachus. These days “mentor” typically refers to a trusted counselor or teacher… an experienced person who provides guidance.

Back to the assignment… my classmates had little trouble picking a mentor. Most chose the likely suspects… popular kids, cheerleaders, athletes, members of student council, and so on.

Before long, everyone but me had made their decision. Unable to think of a single person I wanted to emulate, I raised my hand. “What happens if you can’t think of a mentor?” My simple question created quite a stir.

“Mr. McMillan, I’m certain if you try… and think… you can come up with one,” my teacher responded.

The following day, as my classmates worked on the project, my teacher approached my desk and asked, “Who’s your mentor?”

“I don’t have one yet.”

“Do you think this is a joke?”

“No.”

“Then pick a mentor right now and get to work.”

“Isn’t everyone a mentor?” I asked.

“Don’t push your luck… if you don’t do the assignment, you’ll receive an F!”

On day three, as my peers outlined how they were going to emulate their mentors, I was still thinking about who mine might be.

“Mr. McMillan… who’s your mentor? And don’t tell me you’re still thinking.”

“Pat Holden,” I announced.

With this answer, the class broke into hysterical laughter and my teacher walked over, pulled me from my desk, and marched me to the principal’s office. On the way there, I tried to explain my choice but couldn’t get a word in edgewise. You see, Pat wasn’t a popular kid. In fact, he was a special needs student and many people made fun of him. I wasn’t one of those people.

After my teacher explained the situation to the principal, he made it clear that I was not welcome back in his classroom. After he left, the principal asked me about my choice.

“I picked Pat because he is always nice to people—everyone—even to those that make fun of him. In spite of his challenges, he always does his best and never gives up.”

Since the principal remained silent, I continued, “And it’s not because I didn’t try or think… I did both and that’s when I realized that everyone is a mentor. I’ve learned as much from people I don’t want to emulate as those I do… I see every person as a mentor. But I also knew I needed to pick one person for the assignment. So rather than picking an obvious person, I picked Pat… and I don’t regret it. If more people were like him in this school… no, this world would be a better place. Pat is a great mentor… he sets examples for everyone to emulate.”

My principal didn’t know what to say. I’m certain he had planned to punish me until he realized my sincerity and heard my side of the story. To his credit, he listened and reflected on my words… and because he did, he had a dilemma. The semester was nearly over and he couldn’t send me back to class. Nor did he want me sitting in his office every day. He left for several minutes and then returned with his solution, “Michael, you’re going to finish the semester in the library… with Miss Martin.”

Miss Martin was an elderly woman who never married. In her younger days, she had taught elementary classes but as she neared retirement, she became our school librarian. As a kid, I thought she looked mean in her cat-eye glasses and slight mustache. In addition, she was very quiet and made little eye contact… put all these things together and it seemed somewhat scary. To the best of my recollection, nobody really knew what to make of her. She wasn’t popular. Nor was she controversial… she was just an elderly librarian waiting to retire. In fact, outside of a library-related question, I don’t recall seeing anyone ever talk to her.

On my first day with Miss Martin, I sat in the back of the library near the window and sketched in a notebook that someone had left behind. Other than saying hello to each other, we didn’t speak a word.

The second day, I slept.

The third day, I was staring out the window when I suddenly realized Miss Martin was standing next to me. As I broke from my spell, she said in a quiet voice, “Excuse me, Michael… how are you today?”

“Fine, thank you.”

She smiled a sincere smile and made direct eye contact. Then she continued in an almost shy manner, “Since you have another hour here and you’re surrounded by all these books, would you like to read something?”

“Um… I guess,” I answered, not knowing what else to say.

“Well, what topics interest you?”

“I’m not really sure… actually I’m interested in a lot of things.”

And so it began. Before long she was showing me around the library, sharing some of her favorite sections, books… and personal stories. The sting of being kicked out of class had disappeared… it had been replaced by something better. Far from a punishment, I actually looked forward to going to the library and spending time with Miss Martin.

She wasn’t mean, ugly or scary at all—in fact, she was beautiful. Mostly she confirmed what I already knew… everyone is a mentor. She and Pat just happened to be great ones. I can’t say for certain, but I believe Odysseus would agree. In the end… right, wrong or indifferent… we are all mentors and mentees.

Buddha’s words seem more pertinent than ever today. Maybe time is the truest test of wisdom?

Back in high school, a friend of mine from a neighboring town was arrested for smoking pot. The following day I nervously stopped by his house, uncertain of what to expect. His mom, whom I knew well and respected greatly, answered the door. She was clearly (and understandably) shaken up by the event. At some point, my buddy, his mom and I ended up at the kitchen table talking about what happened… and more importantly, what my buddy’s future held.

I will never forget that discussion, mostly because of the way his mom reacted to the problem at hand. She seemed less concerned about him getting caught, or even smoking pot—than the fact it wasn’t his idea to smoke it. Unlike most parents who would have been screaming about the dangers of drugs, how marijuana was an illegal gateway drug, how this would hurt the family’s reputation, and so on… she mentioned none of these things. At first I thought I must be missing her point. But as the conversation continued, she made it perfectly clear—I wasn’t.

To her way of thinking, not being a leader was bad… but not thinking the situation through and caving in to peer pressure… that was unacceptable. In fact, she considered these issues a bigger crime than the one he had been caught committing. She said, “Sheep follow blindly… individuals think and then take appropriate action, regardless of what others say or believe!” She explained that not thinking independently and taking personal responsibility was a serious character flaw. And when people don’t think for themselves, it becomes dangerous—not only for them but for those around them. Her insight and wisdom that day had a great impact on me—and her son, too. She made his problem a learning experience.

Today when I see adults blindly follow rhetoric or chanting group-speak, I see more than sheep—I see danger. As an American, I defend everyone’s freedom of speech and expression—especially those with whom I vehemently disagree. As an individual, I cherish the freedom and power of independent thought. As a truth seeker, I listen to many points of view and then spend time in personal contemplation.

Whether it’s politics, religion, business, healthcare reform, corporate bailouts, drugs… or anything else… when we blindly go along with the crowd, we lose our true independence and freedom. Without taking personal responsibility and seeking the truth, we are no different than my buddy was back in high school. Actually, we’re much worse… we’re old enough to know better.

Years ago, my son Paul’s little league team made it to the playoffs. The games were played at an upscale ballpark called “The Field of Dreams.”

Game Two was a night game. We were facing a tough team with a very competitive (and outspoken) coach. As the game progressed a mom asked me, “Do you know what inning it is… and the score?” After answering her, I asked a question that had been bugging me all season, “Why aren’t these wonderful scoreboards ever used?”

Since no one had an answer, and against my wife Anne’s advice, I decided to go find out. Above the concession stand were vacant announcer’s boxes—so I started there. A teenager working the concession counter confirmed my hunch.

“Can I run the scoreboard,” I asked? “Whatever… I guess,” he said as he shrugged and opened the door to let me go up and assess the situation. After finding the control panel, I opened the shutters and looked out over Field #4 where Paul’s team was playing. Getting this scoreboard running will keep the fans informed and make a special memory for the kids, I thought.

I went to power it up and found a large bank of switches, but none were labeled “Scoreboard.” “Excuse me,” I said to the teenager as he filled a popcorn order. “Which switch turns on Scoreboard #4?”

“Beats me,” he responded. At this point my son Mark showed up. “Mom said to forget about the scoreboard and come watch the game.” I agreed, told him what I had learned and asked if he wanted to run the scoreboard. As he headed up to the announcer’s box, I used deductive reasoning and flipped the first of six switches marked #4. Instantly, it became clear that there was no need to try the next switch… Field #4 went black! Then I heard a collective gasp, followed by Mark announcing to Anne from the announcer’s box for all to see and hear, “It was Dad!”

I immediately re-switched the switch but nothing happened… more gasps. As it turns out, stadium lights take 20 minutes to warm up. I used this time to go around and apologize to the fans, players and coaches on both sides for the unplanned break in action. With the exception of Anne (a saint for still being married to me after 30 years) and the opposing coach, most people accepted my apology.

As the lights grew brighter, the opposing coach announced, “Let’s keep it going, boys.” Then he looked in my direction, “They can try, but it will take more than turning off the lights to break our momentum … we came here to win!”

Whether it’s business, a new exercise program, or a little league game, momentum is a powerful force.