Prince William's Job

There are rumors going around that Britain’s Prince William may soon be out of a job. No not that job, the UK is not doing away with its monarchy and young William remains second in line for the throne, after his father and grandmother, the Queen. However, William’s present job as a pilot for the Royal Air Force’s search-and-rescue helicopter service is supposedly being farmed out to an American-based private company in an effort to save the government some money. I’m not sure I like the idea.

I’m not a die hard Anglophile and I don’t really care one way or another about the British Royal Family. Prince William seems to be a very nice young man, with a pretty wife and a child on the way. As far as employment opportunities, I think it’s safe to say that the Prince will have enough on his plate to keep him busy for the rest of his life. There is also little chance of his family going hungry any time soon. What bothers me is privatizing a service such as a helicopter search-and-rescue group. You see there really are jobs that are best performed by a government, where profitability is not the chief concern.

Suppose you are fortunate enough to be boating off the coast of England when a nasty storm comes up and capsizes your little craft. A private company is tasked with rescuing your incompetent (or just unlucky) butt from the frigid water, but determines that the storm is too dangerous to fly into because the corporate office has estimated that there is a significant enough probability that they might lose a multimillion-dollar aircraft. Your sorry ass just isn’t worth the risk. But suppose you then radio the rescue pilot and inform him that your sailing companion that day is none other than Donald Trump, who has guaranteed that he will cover any potential financial loss to the company. Is the rescue then attempted on that basis? Doesn’t really seem right does it?

“Privatization” is a popular buzzword these days and the concept is seen as a viable alternative to the ever-increasing size of government. There are many areas that the government could extract itself from and save the taxpayers some money, but there are other areas where it really isn’t a good idea. Imagine that you’ve taken a temporary assignment in a foreign country with a history of political unrest. One day a protest group devolves into a riotous mob and one of the targets of their hatred du jour is any American (including you). You flee as the angry mob approaches, running down an alley where you trip and fall, tearing your jeans and scraping your knees. Turning the corner, you sprint toward the safety of the American Embassy, which is just a block away. You are tattered and bloody, but safety is just steps away.

When you arrive at the gate, who is it that you want to be standing guard? I say please let me see a U.S. Marine, well-trained, well-equipped, and steeped in a tradition of duty and service to his country; a protector to whom the concept of being a fellow American really means something. What if instead you found a private security guard that had witnessed the approach of the dangerous looking mob behind you and decided that the corporation that he works for really didn’t pay him enough to take that risk, and locked you out? I don’t know about you, but I really don’t like the idea of trusting my life to a rent-a-cop.

Let’s say you don’t boat and don’t travel. You may think my examples are a bit too far-fetched to matter to a hard-working, self-reliant type like you. Well then how about if your granny (or any sweet little old lady that you know) lives in a city where much of its public services have been privatized and farmed out to for-profit companies. Now Granny gets a bit confused these days, and she forgets to pay the invoice for her monthly fire-protection plan that she received from Fire Protection Company, Inc. Of course, the worst thing happens and Granny’s scented candle burns down and catches the curtains on fire. In moments, the house is engulfed in a fiery conflagration, and dear sweet Granny is trapped inside. She is lucid enough to call for help (hopefully the 9-1-1 service wasn’t eliminated in the budget cuts), and the fire truck arrives in moments to rescue the poor thing. But wait, they receive a call from the home office. Seems the resident of that particular house isn’t paid up. Sorry lady, no rescue today. We gotta let it burn. Oh, by the way, we gotta let you burn, too. Think this an impossible example? It’s happened here in the good old U.S.A. (well, they haven’t let a granny burn to death…yet).

Governments have grown large and increasingly expensive, which is a problem. Yet there remain many areas that are better serviced by a tax-funded public organization than a privately-funded corporation. Being a “libertarian” doesn’t mean that you love freedom more than anyone else does, it just means that you’ve got some different ideas about how to run things that haven’t gained popularity, and perhaps shouldn’t. There are those people in our society, usually with wealth and power, who would have us believe that they have better solutions to the needs of our people than our more traditional ones. Personally, I’m all for new ideas or new technologies that can save us money. But let’s make sure that we think very carefully before we adopt any of those ideas. Oh by the way, our British cousins just may want to rethink getting rid of William’s current job, too. The RAF is probably better suited to saving lives than a company with a focus on the bottom line.

A Sea King helicopter

(Prince William's current ride)

        

     

If You Build It, They Will Come...Or Will They?

My last post concerned the reuse of an old factory facility in my hometown of North Canton, Ohio, the Hoover Company, and how the developers were taking advantage of historic tax credits to make a good deal even more lucrative for them. Some of the comments I received on Facebook suggested that I was against the entire concept of the reuse project. I’m not against it at all; I favor doing creative things with old buildings. I am against our government handing out free money to millionaires while ignoring those Americans who work hard and ask little from their state.

There’s another creative reuse plan for an old factory in the news now. It’s the former Hercules Engine factory, located just south of Downtown Canton. A group of developers that includes a member of the Timken family have purchased the property and want to remake the complex into a mixed-use facility. According to their website, the “…mixed use project will include residential rental apartments, class A office space, retail and restaurant space and a new Convention and Event Center. This brand new state of the art Convention and Event Center will, among other things, serve as the new home for the three primary events of the Pro Football Hall of Fame Festival (the enshrinement dinner, the gameday luncheon and the fashion show).” You may think I’m some sort of anti-progress Luddite, but I’m not a big fan of this project. Read on and I’ll tell you why.

The project is in the news because the Canton City Council voted to provide a $3 million loan for the first phase of the project, which will turn 125,000 square feet of former factory space into 95 market rate residential apartments. There was one council member voting “no” on the loan. After looking over the plans, she asked the question that no one wanted to hear: “Who would want to live there?” Such honesty in a politician should be recognized and rewarded. Oh, by the way, the project will qualify for millions of dollars in historic tax credits from both state and federal government, just like the Hoover Company project.

Getting people with money and good jobs to move back into the urban core is the Holy Grail for many cities, and Canton has been trying to do this for decades. Suburbanization has decimated cities. Most of them look like ghost towns on the weekends when the lawyers, bankers and government workers head home to the suburbs. Back in the mid-1980’s, I had an office job in Downtown Canton as a commercial real estate appraiser. I enjoyed working downtown; we wore suits and neckties to work, had lunch at Bender’s, the Mergus Restaurant or the Mayfair Tavern, and took a walk around town after lunch when weather permitted. We were located downtown because it was close to the county office buildings that included the real estate property records (land and building information, sales information, tax maps, transfer records, etc.) that were essential to our operation. The county government itself was an important client that needed appraisals for things like sewer easements and tax complaints. A few of us would come in to work Saturday mornings, when we wouldn’t be interrupted by telephones and clients, and could crank out some reports.

Coming to work on a Saturday was an almost surreal experience. Unlike weekdays, there was hardly any traffic, restaurants were closed for lunch, and parking was plentiful. I parked in one of the city’s newest parking decks that was located a block away from my office and connected to a new hotel and adjacent office building by enclosed skywalks. If it was raining, I could walk across the street in the protection of the skywalks, through the hotel and into the office tower, then exit the building and quickly cross the street to my office building, avoiding most of the rain. But it was much easier and quicker just to go outside and take the sidewalks. One Saturday, as I walked down the steps in the parking garage (there was no need to take the elevator since I was so close to street level because the deck was almost empty) I encountered a homeless man sleeping across the bottom of one of the steps. I carefully and quietly stepped over him and continued on my way. I did stop at the parking attendant’s booth and informed the woman working there of the unusual situation. She was flabbergasted and asked me what she should do. I pointed through the parking deck toward City Hall, adjacent to the west and said, “The police station is right there. I’d call them.” Then I crossed the street to my office and got some work done.

We didn’t stay downtown much longer, but it wasn’t really because of homeless people bothering us on weekends. Some of the data we needed was made available on computer disks, and the rest could be retrieved by one worker that we sent after it as required. Later, all of the data was available online, and continuously updated. Having a suburban office was closer to home, had an attached parking lot, and was more convenient to everything we needed, so we moved. Likewise, many banking operations were moved to suburban locations. Even law firms moved out of the city because they could be closer to their clients as well as a greater variety of restaurants and services. The lawyers could drive in to their infrequent trips to the courthouse when necessary. The process of suburbanization was started by the automobile, aided by the computer, and completed by the vast amount of information available on the Internet.

So cities must come up with creative ideas to get people to come back downtown. There are cities such as New York, Boston, Chicago and others that don’t have this problem, although they do face problems. People are willing to live downtown because they usually work there, plus there is a wide range of services readily available and there are things to do at night like professional sports teams, art galleries, theaters, restaurants and night clubs. Small cities like Canton haven’t really had such a complete array of choices for decades.

I heard a story once, I don’t know if it’s accurate and have since forgotten most of the details, but it sounds right so I’ll tell it here. Back in the ‘80’s Canton managed to get a minor league baseball team to locate here. They just had to build a ballpark. The man hired to aid economic development for the city proposed that the city acquire and assemble a group of unused or barely used properties near the city’s core and raze them in order to build the facility. It would bring people downtown for night games, allowing for development of restaurants and bars to service the fans before and after the games. This would hopefully build upon itself. More nightlife would lead to more interest in living downtown leading to additional support facilities and additional attractions: an upward spiral. I think it was a great idea.

Instead, the city chose to build at the south edge of town, in a flood plain at the end of a grungy industrial street. The facility would have decent access to the nearby interstate highway as well as on-site parking, but wouldn’t be within walking distance of downtown or any pre- or post-game eating or drinking establishments. It worked well for a short time, but the novelty soon wore off, and the finances of the team suffered. The city’s economic development director realized that the city government didn’t have a clue how to help themselves and soon departed for better opportunities. Eventually, Canton lost the franchise to nearby Akron. Guess what they did. They razed a group of properties and built a ballpark close to the city core. Bars and restaurants located nearby to serve the sports fans. It seems to be working pretty well for them.

Canton has been trying to lure people back downtown for years. An energetic young developer bought and renovated several old office/retail buildings near the square and managed to find some tenants to fill them. Happy with his initial success, he took over a project to renovate the historic Hotel Onesto into market rate apartments. The building is an architectural gem and retained much of its interior beauty, plus had a newer parking deck attached. The city’s mayor, a one-time high school cheerleader turned politician, gushed about how wonderful the project would be and said that she was ready to move-in as soon as they were ready to have her. The project still languishes unfinished long after completion was scheduled and no one lives there yet.

Several new restaurants have been opened nearby, and an “arts district” was created. Most of the restaurants received good reviews and were popular, at least for a little while. Some have closed, others reopened under new owners, but for the most part, none of them have had real long-term success. Lack of convenient nearby parking has been a problem. Our weather isn’t that great most of the time, and most diners would prefer to park in an adjacent well-lit parking lot than hope to find a convenient spot on the street. As yet there are no nearby residents who could both walk to the restaurant and afford to eat there when they arrived. Urban blight and its associated problems remain a significant problem that most cities cannot overcome.

Which brings us back to the Hercules project, and the perceptive question posed by the skeptical councilwoman: just who would want to live there? Of course the developers have market studies to assure any skeptic that market demand exists for the project and folks will be lining up to rent the cool urban loft-style apartments as soon as they are available. During my career in real estate, I’ve read dozens of such reports. Most of them are not worth the paper they are printed on except to the author who gets to charge dearly for this collection of “insightful analysis”. Figures lie and liars figure. Almost any MBA student could assemble data that seems to support the desired conclusion. I’m pretty sure I could still do it myself, but since I don’t like to mislead people, I don’t think I would. The problem is that market rate apartments must effectively compete with other apartments in the market.

Young professionals, the most desirable group of tenants, seek someplace to live that is convenient to work as well as amenities such as restaurants, dry cleaners, supermarkets, nightclubs and restaurants. In fact, these things are desired by almost all potential renter groups except older empty nesters (another important demographic), who might be less concerned about an exciting nightlife but more interested in other cultural amenities. There are also far fewer employment opportunities in downtown areas these days, so most potential tenants are already working in the suburbs. This project is located far enough away from all existing amenities that most would prefer the safety of driving to the prospect of a long walk through what still is considered to be a “bad” end of town. That negates the one thing that makes downtown living more desirable than suburban living: the prospect of a safe and easy walk to your destination. The most desirable alternative for most renters are nice suburban apartments, which continue to be constructed without fanfare or any government assistance (other than our current tax laws, which are a major help to all apartment developers). The financing for the Hercules project is falling into place. They probably will build it, but will anybody care?

At one point of time in its history, the Hercules factory provided 5,800 good-paying industrial jobs right in the heart of Canton. If renovation plans proposed by the developers succeed fully, there will be 95 families (of one or two each) living on the site, plus an additional group of low-paying support jobs for the convention center, hotel, and restaurant. There are also plans for more “Class A Office Space” at the site that would provide more jobs, but the demand for downtown office space has been falling for years, and the current state of technology offers little hope for near-term improvement in this area. Thanks to computers, even the federal government now allows some people to work from home, mirroring trends in the private sector.

So is there something better that could be done with an old industrial facility like the Hercules plant? Here’s an interesting idea: the best use for an old industrial plant is for an alternative industrial use. Space could be made available for start-up companies at little or no expense in hopes that some of them will succeed and bring jobs back to the city. If they needed to grow, a contract would require the city to help them find or build larger space within the city limits. How about if we paid unemployed industrial workers three years of unemployment benefits upfront under the condition that they use the money to form manufacturing cooperatives that would occupy space and bring jobs back to the city? With new jobs comes increased income tax revenue for the city. This money must be used to address the problems of urban decay.

More people would be willing to live in the city if there were more employment opportunities and they weren’t worried about crime. There would be less crime if there were more jobs. The workforce would be improved if there were improvements in education, and there would also be less crime committed by better-educated young people facing more opportunities. The problem is that all of these solutions require money, and that money comes from our taxes. Right now, we are using tax dollars to pay millionaire real estate developers to renovate facilities that either don’t require additional economic incentive (the Hoover Company project) or to provide benefits for projects with dubious outcomes (the Hercules project). I think that these tax dollars should be used in other ways to solve the underlying core problems that are at the heart of our cities’ problems, and provide for economic growth that will benefit everyone. Right now, we are using the tax dollars for the benefit of the real estate developers in hopes of some of it trickling down to the rest of us. So far, that hasn’t worked out very well at all.

View of former Hercules Engine factory, Canton, Ohio

 
 

Significant Architecture...or Making a Good Deal Better?

Yet another news item from my local paper caught my attention yesterday, and this one is literally right up the street. The former world headquarters of the Hoover Company, located right on the square in North Canton, Ohio, has petitioned to be listed on the National Register of Historic Places. The former factory has been shut down for several years, and all of the manufacturing that once took place there now happens in places like Mexico and China. Only the buildings remains, and they were purchased by a group of investors who wish to transform the complex into a multiple use facility. Now you may think that I would be all for this sort of creative reuse thing, and generally speaking I usually do favor such projects. But this time, I’ve got some problems with it.

If you don’t know, The Hoover Company once made leather harnesses at its factory in the center of the little village of New Berlin, just up the road from Canton. In the early years of the 20th century, as the automobile began to replace the horse, “Boss” Hoover bought the patent for a suction sweeper device that had been invented and produced by a local custodial worker. New Berlin changed its name to North Canton during World War I, and Hoover abandoned the harness industry in favor of vacuum cleaners, and built a highly successful business around it. For years the business flourished and the Hoover family became benefactors to the surrounding city. Eventually the business was sold to outside interests, and finally, like many American manufacturers, the jobs were sent overseas where wages are lower and environmental concerns more lax.

Now when I think of buildings listed on the National Register, I think of places steeped in history, like Independence Hall in Philadelphia, or architectural gems like the Chrysler Building in New York City, both of which are buildings worthy of preservation. The Hoover Company buildings are a group of structures of various styles, none of which are particularly attractive or even interesting. The part of the buildings that face the town square are very basic mill type factory construction, and were abandoned for production purposes by the Hoover Company long before they stopped making vacuums at the plant because the space was old and obsolete. The developer has shown sketches that show the front façade being transformed into an almost unrecognizable group of shops, restaurants and apartments. The rear of the building, once very good quality manufacturing space, has already been converted to office and classroom space. The former world headquarters office building sits mostly unused, because it cannot easily be converted to office space that would be desired by the market. So much for saving the buildings for the sake of historic preservation.

In truth, the buildings don’t even really belong in the center of the city. Ask any urban planner and they would tell you that factories should be located well away from residential areas and retail centers. But the city grew around the factory, and they both benefited, so there they sit. If the site were a vacant piece of land, it would be desirable for many uses, but not a factory. In fact, if the site were vacant land, it would be worth far more than what the current owners paid for it in 2008 (with all of the buildings on it). You may think that I’m crazy for saying such a thing. It does seem to defy rationality, but trust me; in this case I know what I’m talking about. I’ll get back to that issue in a minute.

The mayor sent a letter of support along with the application. He justified his support of the site’s historical status by citing the iconic smokestack and how the building is North Canton’s most recognizable landmark. Of course, it’s the biggest building in the city, and does sit right in the middle, making it rather difficult to overlook. He also included little tidbits of information like the fact that in England vacuuming the carpet is referred to “hoovering” the carpet, which lends further support to the company’s historical significance. Here in North Canton, former home of the Hoover Company, we refer to vacuuming the carpet as “vacuuming the carpet.” Guess we’re not as clever as those Brits.

So why are these real estate developers really so keen on getting this complex on the National Register? Have you guessed yet? Let’s see, what is the one thing that motivates real estate developers above all else? If you said “creating a lasting legacy through construction of architecturally significant structures” then you’re a bit more idealistic than is safe in today’s society. The answer is simple: money. Being on the register doesn’t prevent them from changing the looks of the building, but it does allow them to qualify for a tax credit equal to 20% of the rehabilitation costs. There’s also a state tax credit available. Now rehabilitation costs are already an allowable tax deduction. They are a normal cost of doing business. But tax credits are applied to all income tax owed. They come right off of the bottom line and are way better than simple tax deductions.

So what we are doing here is allowing millionaire real estate developers to pay less taxes, right after we increased taxes on wealthier Americans. This was done because we needed more revenue to cover our nation’s growing expenses. It was a smart thing to do, and we have witnessed improving economic conditions since the new tax rates took effect. Giving this group of people lower taxes also decreases their cost of doing business and gives them an unfair advantage in the market for commercial space. Other millionaire real estate developers that don’t have this advantage have to charge more for people to rent space from them. Doesn’t really seem fair to me.

Let’s get back to the question of the underlying land. Right up Main Street from the Hoover Company, there used to be a delightful little root beer stand. It was painted bright orange and had cute carhops that delivered delicious food and sweet root beer floats to diners in their cars. It was a much more pleasing slice of Americana than the ugly factory down the street. But several years ago, when drug stores were transforming the way that they do business, one of them decided that the corner where the root beer stand sat would make a great location for their drug store. They bought the site, tore down the root beer stand, and then built a drug store that looked just like a hundred other similar ones. The site was worth more as vacant land than it was as a root beer stand. In a side note, a little while later the drug store chain realized that they had over-expanded their operations, and filed for bankruptcy. The drug store was abandoned, then was sublet for use as a dollar store, which pays much lower rent.

So if the land is worth more without the factory buildings, why don’t they just tear them down and start over, like they did with the root beer stand? For one thing, it is very expensive to tear down old factories. They’re full of things like asbestos, which must be disposed of properly (and expensively). Also, when you tear down a factory building, environmental tests must be performed on the site, and any problems must be remedied before anything can be built on the site. So any problems caused by things that had seeped into the ground (tanning solutions, PCBs, oil, grease, solvents, etc.) over the many decades that the site had been used for industrial purposes would have to dug out, properly disposed of, and replaced. That’s really expensive. So instead we “creatively reuse” the site, and keep its secrets buried in place. We creatively reward the entrepreneurs that undertake the task by allowing them to buy the property for very little money, then give them tax money in forms of grants, low interest loans, and other incentives, and finish it all off with huge tax credits. Is this any way to do business, or run a government for that matter?

At this point you’re probably guessing that I’m some kind of Marxist pinko, out to destroy big business and the American way. I’m not. The fact is we need real estate developers because we all need someplace to live and shop. Houses and apartments are better places than caves, and it’s much easier to gather food at the supermarket than get your buddies together and hunt down a buffalo. I’ve known the local partner in the Hoover deal most of my life. He’s not a bad man. I’ve had dinner with him and I stopped to talk with him only a few weeks ago. He thinks of developing real estate as something fun to do, and it’s important to him that he’s still having fun. I’ve also spoken with the California partner in the deal and he seemed very personable as well. Someone has to take the risk, and these guys are willing to do it. Risk must also be rewarded. But we don’t need to overcompensate. A nice piece of pie is just fine; we don’t need to cover it with ice cream, add a dollop of whipped cream, and then plop a big juicy cherry on top.

So did anything historically significant really happen at the Hoover Company site that warrants its inclusion on the National Register of Historic Places? The vacuum cleaner wasn’t invented there. It was just another factory. True, they did produce desirable, good-quality products, some of which continue to function as they were designed to more than fifty years after they were made. That would be newsworthy these days, but the history of our country is full of companies that did the same thing. But this really doesn’t have anything to do with history, unless you mean the history of greedy people taking advantage of a system that they designed so they could have a bigger piece of the pie than anyone else gets, all while claiming to be protectors of our great heritage. And that’s not really newsworthy because greed happens all of the time and we are being lied to every day. There are far better things that we could be doing with our tax dollars than using them to put a cherry on the top of an already lucrative real estate deal.      

   The former Hoover Company plant, located on the square in North Canton, Ohio

Good Economic News and Reading the Fine Print

Good news! A report in the paper a few days ago said that all of the wealth that was lost when the financial markets collapsed during the Great Recession a few years back has now been recovered. This occurred thanks to a large increase in the stock market, and to a lesser extent by a more modest increase in housing prices. Before you go hog wild and start investing in the market, or even engaging in a bit more consumer spending, please read the fine print. Most of the gain has come from rising stock prices. The wealthiest 10% of American households own approximately 80% of all stock. The rich are again getting richer. Yes, the wealth has “returned,” unfortunately, it went to fewer people than it came from. Increased wealth from the slight rise in housing prices (far more Americans have their primary wealth tied up in their homes) was much less, but still positive.

Here’s what will happen (if I had some extra money, I’d wager it all on this). The increase in stock market values will lure some of the marginal investors, the little guys, back into the stock market in order to share in the gains. It would be foolish to miss out on this rising tide of wealth after all. When enough of them have invested, the more savvy investors will start selling short, in essence betting that the market will go down. Then it will go down. They’re called “market corrections” but they really just divert money into the “correct” pockets (hint: it’s not your pocket). Those who have sold short will again see their wealth increase, while the little guys will again lose wealth. But the wealth didn’t really disappear; it just relocated to the bank accounts of those people who are wealthy enough to know how to game the system.

I first stated learning about our nation’s stock market at an early age, when I was taught that it was a mechanism that allows a large group of small investors to own shares of large corporations. We choose to invest in companies that have a bright future, so that our wealth can increase as the company profits from its good business practices and decisions. It sounded like a fine idea to me. I owned stock in a local manufacturer long before I was licensed to drive a car. Its stock price (mostly) rose steadily, and they sent me a little dividend check every three months.

It’s odd how as we get older, we begin to get a fuller picture of how things really work. When I was in graduate school, I was actively engaged in the full-time study of financial markets in pursuit of an advanced degree. In order to keep current on financial affairs I subscribed to The Wall Street Journal and looked it over daily for new nuggets of information that would further my education. One day I was reading the story of a man who had attempted to “corner the market” in potato futures. His plot was discovered and he was banned for life from trading in the commodities market. When asked for his reaction, it was reported that he shrugged it off, responding, “It doesn’t matter. We’re all just gamblers. I’ll find somewhere else to gamble.” He wasn’t an investor in his nation’s future but instead just played his hunches for profit, even if it required breaking the law.

That was an eye opening moment for me, but it didn’t quite open them wide enough. After I graduated, I wanted to get a job in the financial industry, so I applied at one of the largest and most prestigious brokerage houses. I was interviewed and tested. Turns out that while I was technically well versed in the subject, I wasn’t considered to be a top-notch salesman, which is the primary requirement of the job. I’m way too honest with people to be an effective salesman. A friend of a friend that I knew from college did get a job with the same firm. He had graduated with mediocre grades studying marketing, which is considered the lowest academic group on the business school totem pole. I was in the top ten-percent of my class studying finance (a more challenging discipline). I heard that he did very well in his career because he could sell.

I had an earlier experience in college that also proved eye opening. The first history class I took included the happenings in the Roman Empire under the first emperors. The information on debauchery and excessive over-indulgence was far more than I had ever been taught by our sanitized textbooks and old movies. I love history, especially when you can explore it in more depth and get to the root of issues. I was at my local library the other day and saw a book entitled Smuggler Nation that was written by a history professor at Brown University, so I took a chance and picked it up. It has been an eye opening experience as well.

I’ll probably be writing more about this book later, but for now I can say that illegal smuggling is heavily intertwined with our nation’s history. The Boston Tea Party is considered a primary seed of our nation’s quest for independence. But it had more to do with the population’s preference for lower cost tea smuggled into the country through the Dutch than for a desire for self-determination. The American Revolution was financed from profits made by smugglers. John Hancock is known for his prominent first signature on the Declaration of Independence, but the Hancock family fortune was derived in a large part from the profits made by smuggling. Another signer of the Declaration was Robert Morris, known to history as the “Financier of the Revolution.” Care to guess where his fortune originated? If you guessed “smuggling” then you’re catching on. In later years, Morris was financially wiped out by unwise land speculation and spent some time in debtor’s prison. Sometimes you’re lucky, other times, not so much.

During the War of 1812 (which has its primary roots in illegal trade) it might have been possible for the U.S. to conquer all of Canada because the defending British troops there were cut off from supplies and on the brink of starvation. They were saved by profit-mined Yankee farmers (who were also smugglers) when they drove herds of cattle north across the Canadian border and received three times the price that they could have gotten locally. It always pays to read the fine print, especially history’s fine print.

In other news, the number of Americans seeking unemployment aid fell again, driving the four-week average down to its lowest level in five years. We now have a rising stock market and increasing job growth. This follows closely on the heels of a tax increase on our nation’s highest wage earners. This is exactly opposite of the prediction made during the most recent election by those who pushed for a tax cut for wealthy “job creators.” Wouldn’t it be nice if voters could possibly retain this information for at least four years?

However, I don’t really see that much improvement in our local economy, especially among lower wage earners. This group of people also had a “tax increase” which was actually a result of a temporary cut in social security taxes that was allowed to expire at he beginning of the year. The result was that the group of people who could least afford to pay more taxes saw their take-home pay decline. Retailers that depend on this group of consumers, such as Wal-Mart and Family Dollar Stores, forecast that their sales would suffer. Despite this prediction, Wal-Mart stock has increased since the beginning of the year, while Family Dollar’s stock has actually fallen slightly.

Another recent story in the financial news details the return of American manufacturing jobs. Companies including General Electric, Hewlett-Packard, and Apple are relocating some of their overseas manufacturing back to the U.S. because of huge savings in transportation and logistics costs, combined with high productivity of American workers. But exploring the fine print tells us that the items being manufactured cater to the high end of the market. Of course, that’s where all of the money is. Our products designed to sell to our nation’s poorer workers are still manufactured overseas by even poorer workers.

Do yourself a favor and don’t stop learning. Dig deeper into the roots of stories. Explore historical contexts and above all, read the fine print.

Robert Morris, known as the "Financier of the Revolution,"

wealthy smuggler and unwise land speculator

 




 
         

Multitasking, Smart Phones...and Dumber People

My car magazine arrived in my mailbox yesterday. It was late (usually it shows up at the end of the month) and I was beginning to worry that it wouldn’t come at all. Magazines and newspapers seem to be on the verge of extinction, another victim of our instantaneous world of high technology. A glossy car magazine can’t embed a video of a new automobile racing around the track or carving up curves on a scenic mountain road like their online versions do now. We seem to demand that level of technology these days. We don’t need to read a book if we can see the movie. We can watch news on TV and get any relevant information in a matter of seconds instead of having to read about what someone else observed and get a more complete back story. We don’t need imagination to play games because today’s video game systems render action in real time, full color, high definition, and 3-D action. Watching a car go fast down the road has to be superior to just reading about it, right?

I don’t think it is right at all. If an article is well written, I actually get to experience more of the feeling that driving the car imparts than I would just watching it drive by in a video. An insightful journalist has skills that a mere reporter of an event lacks. It is an important distinction that we are all too willing to toss aside as we rush to implement new features available on our smart phones and electronic tablets. It is also subtracting an important element from the equation: our ability to think and reason, and to exercise our imagination. There is also a simpler reason that I like a nice lightweight glossy magazine over a laptop computer, smart phone, or an electronic tablet: it’s much easier to take with you into the bathroom to read while attending to other business. I think of it as the original version of multitasking, and perhaps the only one worth attempting.

There were several things I noticed as I glanced through this month’s magazine. First of all, it seemed pretty slim. Advertising revenues are what make magazines profitable, and this one has far fewer ads for cars than it used to. In fact, I found something amazing as I leafed through this issue: there were no ads from American (Ford, GM, or Chrysler) car companies. This is a magazine with headquarters near Detroit, Michigan. In fairness, there was an ad from Honda, which despite being a Japanese-owned company, manufactures most of the cars that they sell in the U.S. here in Ohio. I also found out that two popular small cars sold by Ford and Chrysler's Fiat brand are actually assembled in Mexico. So much for “Buy American.”

The second thing in my magazine that interested me was an article about the new LED headlamps that will be used on the next generation S-Class Mercedes-Benz. These headlamps are a technological tour de force, incorporating daytime driving lights, turn indicators, fog lights, high and low beam lights, and cornering illumination in one unit, all while using much less energy than other types of lighting through the exclusive use of light emitting diodes. They also include movable masks, that are computer controlled to avoid blinding the drivers of oncoming vehicles, as well as vehicles being overtaken on the road. The article concluded by saying that vehicles bound for the U.S. market will not have the full range of features because our regulations will not permit them.

For many years, from the 1940’s through the 1980’s, cars on American roads were required by law to use seven inch round sealed beam headlamps. In other parts of the world, lighting was much more varied, and better. In Europe a Mercedes roadster like the one my brother drove was equipped with a stylish unit that incorporated all lighting needs in a single unit on each side of the car. In America, these cars had separated round sealed beam headlights for high and low beams, as well as separate fog lights. I had a Mercedes sedan from 1975 through 1983, and it used four round headlamps that were inserted into rectangular spaces on the front of the car. It also had two rectangular fog lights that hung under the front bumper, and were constantly being damaged by parking lot blocks and other road hazards. In Europe, the rectangular spaces on the front of a similar model car held all lighting, including high and low beams, and fog lights. It was a much more stylish, as well as a much safer solution. In Europe, studies said that their new lighting technology was safer, while studies in this country said that sealed beam headlights were safer, although the truth is probably between these extremes. Likely it depends on who funded the studies in the first place. In any event, U.S. laws have since been amended to permit greater flexibility in lighting design, but we still lag behind the learning curve by not permitting the newest designs, such as Mercedes’ new masked LED lights.

There are many people that decry our country’s extensive and sometimes inane system of over-regulation, claiming that if we could eliminate most of them, our economy would flourish. The free market would be used to determine what is best for everybody. The problem is that the free market wouldn’t stop someone from dumping poison into the air or water because it’s much less expensive than following EPA regulations. The free market allows far too much unscrupulous behavior before it theoretically adjusts to prevent unwanted behavior.

Where does the answer lie? It would be helpful to streamline our regulatory system and eliminate rules that don’t provide benefits, especially in terms of health and safety. But it isn’t really over-regulation by our government that results in economic inefficiency. It is time to use our imagination and our powers of reasoning. Start by enriching yourself by reading some books, then let’s use our empowered brains to elect representatives that will truly represent our interests, not the interests of their sponsoring corporations and special interest groups. In terms that free-market proponents will understand, we need to eliminate the economic incentive that causes our law makers to vote for those things that enrich the small portion of our wealthiest citizens while ignoring benefits for the entire population. Our politicians tell us that they must be masters of multi-tasking, and consider what is best for everyone, but these days it seems that all of their efforts go to protect whatever lobbying group is providing them with the most resources. We need some serious changes to laws regarding campaign financing and lobbying.

Recent behavioral studies have reported several interesting findings. Multitasking really means that you are doing two things at once and both of them poorly. Our smart phones are hindering us from making relevant observations about what is really happening in the world around us. In other words, smart phones are making us dumber. Exercising your brain is the best thing you can do for your health. Let’s all start trying to really think again. We can all imagine a better world than we live in now.

New Mercedes-Benz headlamp

Question: If a person from 1950 were to suddenly appear before you today, what would be the most difficult aspect of modern life to explain?

Answer: I carry in my pocket a device which allows me to instantaneously communicate anywhere in the world, and also offers access to the totality of mankind's knowledge. I use it to view pictures of cute kittens and puppies, and to get into arguments with strangers.

Brothers and Tribes

Yesterday morning, I read a little article in the sports section of our newspaper about a high school wrestler named Sam that was undefeated in his senior year and is now preparing for the state wrestling tournament. The story caught my eye because I used to work with his brother, and later his mother, and had heard about how talented this young man was in sports since he was a little kid, excelling in football and wrestling. His dad coached football and wrestling at the high school, and will retire at the end of the year when his youngest child heads off to college. In the story, Sam indicated that while it helped to have a father as a coach, he thought that he really owed his superior ability in wrestling to his three older brothers. He learned early on how to defend himself when the bigger guys picked on him.

I read a shocking statistic in the paper last week. A research study indicated that when siblings between the ages of 3 and 7 are together they fight at a rate of 3.5 times per hour, with each fight lasting about ten minutes. I grew up with two older brothers, and we were each separated by two years and five months from the next, so that when I was three, my oldest brother Rick was seven. One thought immediately comes to mind: Sorry Mom! This is followed closely by a second thought: my daughter’s three young boys are even closer in age to one another than we were. Sorry dear, but you’ve got a tough road ahead of you.

I suppose that these little nuggets of information shouldn’t surprise me. Growing up as the youngest of three boys, one of the things that I remember well is all of the fighting, and all of the times that, as the youngest, I was getting beat up. I don’t resent it. It was just part of being a kid. I got over it a long time ago, and hold no resentment. The truth of the matter is that it made me stronger. My oldest brother died when I was thirteen and he was eighteen, so we really never had an opportunity for an adult relationship. However, near the end, we sort of got along, at least most of the time. I also realize that it came about when I was old enough and big enough to successfully defend myself.

After my oldest brother died my brother Gary and I pretty much stopped quarreling altogether. It wasn’t that we were closer. In fact, we grew apart from one another. He had his interests and I had mine. We both worked for my dad’s companies, but Gary mostly worked at a different store than I did. We hung out in the same circles sometimes, but for years it seemed that I was closer to some of his friends than I was to him.

Oddly enough it was separation that brought us together. He went away to college for a semester in Florida. When the family came down for a visit, Gary was eager to show me around and share his favorite haunts. When I went to school in Columbus, he came to visit, and always welcomed me to his place on my frequent trips home to restock my pantry. Gary started a family, and I began my disjointed trek towards a career. We still worked together for a short time, and shared our love for boating and water skiing at our parents’ place at Lake Mohawk.

Things changed as things typically do, without rhyme or reason and in directions wholly unanticipated. Trying times found my brother unprepared, and I did something that I really didn’t want to do: I offered my home as his refuge. It was only going to be for a few months at most, just until he got back on his feet. It’s the kind of thing that brothers do for one another. I’m pretty sure I read that in the bible or somewhere like that.

Life moved on, again taking convoluted paths that no one anticipated. I bought my dad’s place at the lake and my brother came along. We had good times aplenty, and I got to share in Gary’s all too brief parenting episodes with his son and daughter. Some of those holiday experiences remain among my most cherished memories. However, after more than a decade of shared experiences, it was again time for changes. I got married and moved back to my first house with my new family.

Details of what followed are best left unexamined, but eventually I found myself in need of help. It was then that I realized that one doesn't need to share DNA to be a true brother. My close friends came to my aid, and it’s not unfair to say that they literally saved my life. It’s what brothers do for each other once they’re done with the fighting. In the most ironic twist of events, I eventually found myself as a guest in my brother’s home.

There are a few instances in my childhood involving my brothers that came as a complete shock to me, considering the near constant state of bickering that pervaded our relationships. When I was very young, we went to a farm north of town, where a friend of my grandfather’s kept his daughters’ horses. We were warned that one horse in particular was known to viciously bite strangers, yet curiosity got the better of us and we ventured into the corral. The evil equine shied away at first, but after my brothers had left the enclosure, he turned his attention to me and charged. I was paralyzed with fear as he closed on me, then something amazing happened. My brother Rick, who usually regarded me with casual indifference when I wasn’t busy being his personal punching bag, reached over the fence, picked me up under the arms, and lifted me to safety. By the way, I was always overweight as a child, ranging from a bit husky to way too fat, so this feat of strength is even more miraculous.

Gary amazed me as well when we went to YMCA camp as kids. I was in the group of younger kids in a separate area of the camp and had somehow acquired a somewhat older and larger tormentor who likely viewed me as easy pickings for his psychotic leanings. We were in line for lunch or dinner, and this bully was messing with me, eventually punching me in the back of the neck as he stood behind me in line. To his surprise, but even more to my surprise, he received a punch of his own from behind. I looked around and saw my brother Gary as he informed the bully that I was permanently off limits, or he would find out what is was like to be picked on by someone bigger. Yes, brothers fight among themselves all of the time, but become something completely different when a threat comes from outside the circle of brotherhood. I’m sure sociologists can explain the phenomenon, but it was a new and warmly welcomed experience for me at the time.

We are all members of tribes, no matter how civilized we think we have become. The closest knit group is usually the family, which typically endures no matter how frequently we fight among ourselves. We expand this circle to our friends and from there to our community of diverse and yet still like-minded fellow citizens. We still find common ground as we form states and countries, however, recent times have shown that as a nation this commonality is strained and fragmented.

It is when these groups develop ideologies that the troubles really begin. My plan for economic growth is superior to your plan; therefore my group is willing to allow the complete collapse of our nation’s economy in order to stay true to our ideals. Or worse, my god is superior to your god; therefore my group will do everything in its power to wipe your group’s existence from the face of the earth. The necessity of compromise, which is so clear in relationships between brothers, disappears when we shroud ourselves in our ideological cloaks.

What we must remember in order to survive is that we are all brothers and sisters on this planet, and as such we have to learn how to deal with our differences. We need to remember how to compromise. Like the young wrestler, my brothers made me stronger. I think of them often, and miss them every day. But I am blessed to have found other brothers, not biologically connected, but with a connection based love, caring and respect. Poets, priests and philosophers have told us that all men are our brothers. It’s time to remember those simple words, and take them to heart.      

Wrestler Sam (right) and his "brother" wrestler

as they head to the state tournament

My brothers and me from long ago

Blizzards, Tests and a Laughing God

In December, as the holidays approach, we sing songs celebrating snow and the glories of walking in the winter wonderland. But have you ever noticed that there are no songs about snow in February? The East Coast is now digging out from a massive blizzard that started as one low-pressure system from the northwest collided with an offshore storm coming up from the south, then merged into a giant snow machine that whirled and dumped snow from Canada to New Jersey. They give them names now, this one was called “Nemo,” but they used to be anonymous, at least until after the fact. That didn’t make them any easier to deal with. In this age of 24-hour news and weather services, a storm’s potential is often over-hyped, because the networks want people to tune in. More viewers mean more advertising revenue, and it’s usually all about money these days. Here in northeastern Ohio, we were spared from Nemo’s wrath, but in Connecticut one town got over three feet of snow and Boston came close to its record with just under two feet of the white stuff. That’s just the way nature tosses the dice. Sometimes you’re lucky, other times, not so much.

Earlier this week we observed the 35th anniversary of another storm. Ohio wasn’t so lucky that time, and that storm also had a name, but it didn’t receive it until after it was over. It is known as the Great Blizzard of 1978, and if you lived through it, you probably remember it. I was in my senior year at Ohio State, and Columbus wasn’t as badly mauled as much of state, but I remember it well.

The storm formed without significant advance notice when a low-pressure system laden with moisture from the Gulf of Mexico joined with an arctic system coming out of the northwest. In Columbus, the storm started as rain and strong wind. I was hibernating in my apartment northwest of campus where I enjoyed a lifestyle that wasn’t the typical student squalor. I drove a newer Mercedes sedan to classes each morning and paid to park in a parking garage close to the business school. Dad owned a supermarket and a chain of convenience stores in the Canton area, and my pantry was well stocked, since I frequently raced home on weekends to restock. I had signed up to take the GMAT (Graduate Management Admissions Test) on Saturday, but I wasn’t studying, since it was just another test of general knowledge, and I’d had a ton of such tests by then. Being an Ohio native I was well acquainted with the foibles of the local weather, so I turned on my stereo and relaxed as the wind howled outside.

On the morning of January 26th a barometric reading of 28.28 inches of mercury was recorded in Cleveland as the storm passed over the city, setting a record low for non-tropical storms in the United States. In Columbus, the storm grew worse, and the temperature began to drop. I wasn’t aware that the parking lot of my apartment complex had flooded, and now the biting northern air was freezing the water in place. Late that night, I heard a commotion in the hallway, and opened my door to find a friend from my hometown and fellow student named Greg, and his friends. His teeth were chattering uncontrollably and he was soaking wet from the waist down. As I fetched him towels and a blanket, he explained that when he stepped out of the car, he broke through a thin layer of ice that covered a warmer pocket of water hidden beneath. It was deep enough that he had to be hauled out by his companions. Greg later followed in his father’s footsteps and became a banker. As such, I’m sure “friends” have bailed him out again since then, but this was a more literal baptism into the world that he would soon enter, where loans are "underwater" and "bailouts" way too frequent. Upon hearing his story, we began to think that perhaps this storm was more than a little different from our usual experience. We got Greg dried off as best we could, and after a quick beer they decided that they had best get home. Outside, the snow fell harder.

I fell asleep to the sounds of howling wind outside, but by morning things had calmed down considerably. Friday morning, the radio told everyone to stay at home as they summarized the massive damage throughout the state and beyond. Everyone was urged to stay off of the roads, which were considered impassable unless your car had tire chains. The DJ chuckled when he was going to announce closings for the day, then informed his listeners that basically everything was closed or canceled through the weekend. Then he mentioned the one exception: the GMAT exam would still be held as scheduled Saturday morning on the OSU campus. I bundled up in my warmest coat and stepped outside to check on my car. The skies were gray, but the sun was trying to break through the clouds. Everything else was white, covered in undisturbed snow. No one was outside and nothing was moving.

My car was parked in a carport just a few steps from my apartment. It was protected by a roof and a wall to the front of the car, but it was wide open to the rear and sides. Overnight, the wind driven rain had been pushed against the wall where it froze in place as the temperature dipped. I knew things were amiss when I stood next to my chocolate brown sedan, because I was looking down on it from an unaccustomed height. Snow was piled up against the hubcaps and the bottom of the tires weren’t visible. I got in the door, although I believe that it took a few minutes since water had been blown into every crevice where it then turned to ice. The car cranked for a little bit longer than normal, but eventually roared to life. I put it in gear and gently pressed the accelerator. The engine revved, but the car didn’t move. I revved some more, but nothing was happening. I got out and tried to dig down around the tires, but discovered that beneath the thin layer of windblown snow was solid ice.

I tried to free the tires by pouring a canister of table salt around the wheels, then waited for the ice to melt. An hour later, I tried again. I think I got the drive wheel to actually turn, which was an improvement, but by then I was certain that the car wasn’t going anywhere. I had to get to the test. I had already paid for it, and while I can’t remember how much it cost, I believe it was a couple of hundred dollars (it costs $250 now). So I came up with a plan. It was only four or five miles to campus. If there is one thing you learn how to do at Ohio State it is how to walk to get where you want to go. So I packed a little bag that had a shoulder strap, bundled up as best I could, and headed toward campus.

My plan was to walk to the Holiday Inn on Lane Avenue at the north edge of campus, spend the night, and then go to the test site early the next morning. I didn’t want to risk waiting until Saturday morning since I had no idea how long it would take to get there, or how tired I would be when I arrived. I struggled through my parking lot, and out to the main road, then walked around the corner, heading east toward campus. It was amazing to discover that the normally busy roads were completely deserted. There was no traffic at all. As I trudged along the roadway on Ackerman Road (the sidewalk was nowhere to be found), I heard the sound of a car approaching. I turned and saw a white Ford Bronco with light blue trim that had chains on its tires. It was heading toward me.

In 1978, four-wheel drive vehicles were relatively rare. The Bronco was an early model that was essentially a pickup truck with a cap on the back. I did something that I hadn’t done since I turned sixteen and got my driver’s license: I stuck out my thumb and started hitchhiking. The Bronco slowed to halt beside me and I opened the door and climbed in.

Now I’ve had some experience with hitching in the past. I had done it on several occasions, and had also picked up quite a few hitchhikers, including a young lady hitchhiking by herself on the highway as I was heading up to see a girlfriend at Bowling Green University. Those were simpler times, at least less dangerous, or we were just oblivious to any threats. Anyway, the first thing the guy behind the wheel said to me was, “I don’t usually pick up hitchhikers.”

I chuckled as I told him that I didn’t usually hitchhike, then explained that my Mercedes was frozen in place at my apartment, pointing back toward the complex. At this point you may be calling me an arrogant little prick (it’s been said before) for mentioning my Mercedes. But I could tell this guy was not comfortable picking up a hitchhiker, and wanted to put him at ease, so I had let him know that I drove an expensive car on typical days. He asked me where I was going, and I explained my situation with the test, and told him I was headed for the Holiday Inn on Lane. “Well, I can get you to Hudson,” he told me, referring to a street well north of my destination. I assured him that I could easily walk from there. One mile in the snow was much better than five miles.

He drove slowly, but we didn’t slip or slide. Passing the shopping center on the corner, I noted an almost empty parking lot, although steam was rising from an exhaust vent in the McDonalds. His planned route would have taken him straight ahead, but he instead turned south on Olentangy River Road, which made it easier to get where I was going. It was probably a smart move, since the roads in that direction were in a little better shape. “I’ll just drop you off at the Holiday Inn,” he told me. “No sense in walking through this stuff if you don’t have to.” I thanked him. My plan was an arduous trek of several hours through deep snow. It became a ten-minute ride in a heated truck, with almost door-to-door service.

The Lane Avenue Holiday Inn was sort of a home away from home for me. I stayed there when I came down for Freshman Orientation in the summer of 1974. I lived there at the start of my sophomore year for two weeks in 1975 while waiting for my apartment to become available in October. Now, as the end of my senior year approached, I was home again. Getting a room was no problem. Seems they had only a handful of guests. I went to my room, unbundled myself from the heavy winter gear, stowed my meager baggage, and headed down to the bar for some refreshment and an early supper. Then it was back to my cozy little room to fall asleep watching news stories about the horrible devastation and death that had been wrought by the great blizzard.

I got up early thanks to the wake-up call that I had requested at check-in. I showered and dressed, then headed down to the dining room for a hearty pre-test breakfast. I don’t remember what I ordered, but it did include a large orange juice and coffee. Caffeine is just the thing to clear the cobwebs for a major test. The dining room was nearly deserted. I think only one or two other tables were occupied. Of course it was early on a Saturday morning, and we did just have that record shattering blizzard and all. The busboy tasked with refilling coffee cups had little to keep him occupied, so he made frequent trips to my table where I gladly accepted his generous pours. I finished breakfast, then arranged for a late checkout since the test wouldn’t be over until close to noon. I grabbed my coat and supplies and stepped outside to head to the test site located in a building where I had never been, just north of Ohio State’s famous “Oval” at the center of campus. Outside, the sun reflected brightly off of the layer of white that still covered everything.

The campus of The Ohio State University is one of the physically largest college campuses in the world (around 1,700 acres). There is pastureland on campus where cattle graze for the School of Agriculture, but that’s on the other side of the river. The size of the student body at OSU is also numbered among the top ten in the nation, with over 40,000 students at the time. Walking toward my destination, I was struck with just how few people I saw. It was early on a Saturday morning, so I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I had the strange feeling of being almost alone as I walked to the test.

We filed into the test room and each found a desk. There was little conversation, but most of it was about the blizzard and what a bitch it had been to get here. The proctor told us about the test and the rules. In most tests like this, one can get up and use the bathroom anytime you need to. Not this time. There was one break at the midpoint of the four-hour test. All papers and pencils had to be turned in before you left the room. Apparently they were afraid that the one janitor who had managed to show up for work in the middle of a multi-state blizzard would be passing out test answers in the bathroom. I never saw him if he was doing this and might have been skeptical about the usefulness of such advice in any case.

The test started, and I got down to work. Many people suffer from test anxiety, but I was an old hand at tests of this type, and didn’t worry. During the first section of the test, I began to get messages from my bladder, reminding me of the copious amount of coffee that I had consumed at breakfast. I focused my attentions on the work at hand and carried on, as my leg began to bounce in an effort to hold off relief. The second section of the test was the math section, and it was a royal bitch. By then I had to pee so bad that I couldn’t concentrate. I no longer really cared about the test or its implications for my future. You see I wasn’t planning to go to graduate school after I got my Bachelor’s Degree. The fact was that as graduation loomed in five months, I had no idea what I was going to do for the rest of my life, or at least what to try first. Perhaps it had to do with my brother’s death almost a decade earlier, in late 1969. I wasn’t much of a planner, and thought skeptically about the future. After all, we could die at any time, right? Man plans and God laughs. I knew exactly what that meant. I began to randomly mark down answers, willing the hands of the clock to move to break time.

I finished the section before anyone else and waited with my leg bouncing in time to music that didn’t play. As the proctor announced the break, I was already on my way to his desk to turn in my test materials, then raced off to find the men’s restroom. I unzipped in front of a urinal and finally experienced the nirvana of relief that I had yearned for. The room filled up (the vast majority of would-be MBAs at that time were male). The porcelain receptacles on either side of me were occupied, used, and relinquished to the next man, and still I whizzed on. I think I finished when the second guy to use the urinal next to me did, but it might have been the third one. I was fairly overcome with blissful release at this point, and didn’t really care. I returned to the test room and finished the exam, able to concentrate once again, but with the horrible feeling that I really blew the test, big time.

The test finally wrapped-up and I made sure to visit the restroom again before trudging back to the hotel to retrieve my things. Outside, things were beginning to move again. I saw more people, and cars were able to travel the main roads. I don’t actually remember how I got back to my apartment, but I think I took a taxi. It would be several more days until I got my car out of the carport.

During the Great Blizzard of 1978, fifty-one people died as a result of the storm in Ohio alone. The National Guard was called out to help with rescues. The entire Ohio Turnpike was completely shut down for the first time in history. People perished in their cars waiting for help that couldn’t get through. I had to hitchhike to a nice hotel, then take a test where I couldn’t go to the bathroom when I needed to. Man plans and God laughs. Some people are luckier than others are. All in all, I’ve been pretty lucky. After a short stint in the restaurant business, I returned to The Ohio State University where I learned to fly an airplane and enrolled in the Graduate School of Business. I didn’t have to take the GMAT again because I did pretty well the first time around, even in the part where I guessed. Sometimes you’re lucky, other times, not so much.

As a postscript, there’s one aspect of this story that I had never thought about until I started writing about it. Near the beginning of Winter Quarter in 1981, I was about to finish the MBA program at Ohio State. One of the requirements was the successful completion of a comprehensive examination, which was held on a Saturday morning. I’m not sure, but it had to be late-January or early-February, although the weather was clear, sunny and mild, unlike three years earlier. I made certain not to drink too much coffee before the test, and finished it without incident. I was confident that I passed, and having no other pressing assignments for the rest of the weekend, I was on my way home to party and relax.

I was coming out of campus on a road I rarely used, near Olentangy River Road and the State Route 315 overpass. I was proceeding straight north through the intersection with a line of cars waiting to turn left to my west, and the traffic light was green in my direction. As I entered the intersection my Mercedes was struck in the left front fender, just in front of my driver’s side door, by a white Ford Bronco with light blue trim. I later found out that because of the sun’s glare, the woman behind the wheel couldn’t tell if the light was red or green for her. She chose incorrectly and ran a red light. No one was injured in the accident (thank you Mercedes-Benz, for building such a safe car, because it was a similar accident that took my brother’s life), but it did put a whole new spin on my day. My car was in the shop for at least a month, and I drove a rented Ford Granada (advertised at the time as being “just like a Mercedes”- they weren’t) almost until graduation. I don’t think it was the same Ford Bronco that had come to my rescue before, but it was pretty similar. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Coincidence can be a bitch.
 

The author and his car, with the infamous carport visible in the background

(Pre-blizzard)

The vehicle I really needed when the snow hit