Monday Motivator #36 2019-20

When the Best Deal Is What You Give Away

My father taught me that negotiation is not always about maximizing what you can get.

By Firoozeh Dumas

https://www.nytimes.com/2019/11/09/opinion/sunday/parenting-ethics.html

• Nov. 9, 2019

Credit...Rebecca Mock

My father grew up with few material possessions. As a result, he appreciates things far more than anyone I know. Throughout my life, I watched him meticulously clean and repair just about everything we owned, be it a radio, a coat or a blender. His attention to detail extended particularly to cars. No matter what vehicle we owned, it was always kept in pristine condition, inside and out. In 1978, my father decided to sell our Chrysler LeBaron. I was 13 years old and a trusted adviser on all things American. It was up to me to write the ad, then call it in to the PennySaver.

We had moved to California in 1972 from Abadan, Iran. My father, a mechanical engineer, loved a thousand things in America, including the really big cars, or land yachts, a term we learned from a used-car salesman. He and I visited car dealerships in Southern California the way tourists visited ancient sites in Iran, oohing and aahing at man’s ability to create wonder. Our regular pilgrimages had a purpose. As much as my father loved whatever car he owned, he also loved dreaming about the next, bigger one.

We also had a weekly routine involving our own vehicle. This being pre-drought days, my dad parked our land yacht on the driveway. On cue, I would unravel the garden hose, fetch two pails, the large, soft, yellow sponges that did not scratch, rags for drying, window cleaner, and dishwasher detergent. We washed the car until it sparkled. I took great pride in my ability to shine the rims to perfection and clean the windows spotless. It may sound weird to kids today, but seeing how happy my father was at the sight of our gleaming car made me look forward to this weekly chore.

My father’s love for his vehicles, however, was not limited to appearances. On any evening, you would find my dad in the garage, like Jonah halfway in the whale, his torso gulped by the hood of the car. As soon as he heard me, he would emerge, always enthusiastic about the innards of our wondrous machine. “Here, Firoozeh, you try it,” he’d say, handing me the dipstick and rag. “It’s important for girls to know these things.” He was right about that, but my ability to retain car information was in inverse proportion to my ability to feign enthusiasm. “Wow!” I’d say. “So interesting!”

Pleased with himself, my father would then move on to the equally riveting topics of transmission fluid, coolant levels, belts and hoses, and I would continue my Meryl Streep-worthy act of pretending to be engrossed. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I didn’t care at all about cars.

Needless to say, I learned nothing. But I did know that our LeBaron was in immaculate condition and was fully prepared to announce this in the thin, free pages of the PennySaver.

When it came time to decide on a price, my father wanted $1,000. Luckily for him, my de facto adviser position also included dispensing financial advice, so I suggested that if he wanted $1,000, he should ask for $1,200. My father, with his tendency to agree with all my ideas, good or bad, consented.

A parade of potential buyers started coming to our condo. I made sure to always be there, standing next to my father. My perfect Valley Girl English put people at ease, mitigating my father’s thick Persian accent. This was before Iran ever made the nightly news, but I can attest that even back then, a thick Middle Eastern accent had the opposite effect of Maurice Chevalier saying the same thing.

One evening, a man showed up with his two daughters, who were around 8 years old. He checked out the car, while my father rambled on about its great condition and I repeated what I considered to be the key points, but sans accent. After looking under the hood, he decided to buy the car and told us that he would return the next day.

We waited with great anticipation.

As promised, he showed up the following evening, again with his daughters. After exchanging pleasantries, he removed a wad of cash from his pockets and counted twelve $100 bills.

My father took the bills, thanked the man but didn’t put the money in his pocket. He kept staring at the wad of cash. After a moment, he peeled off two of the bills and gave them back. “This is for your beautiful daughters. Please take them to Disneyland and buy them whatever they want.”

The man looked confused, almost annoyed, like he was being pranked. Even I, with my perfect English, was at a loss.

“Please,” my father repeated, pushing the money into the man’s palm. “You must take your daughters to Disneyland.”

The girls started to squeal. The man paused for a moment, then hugged my father vigorously.

As he drove away in his new used LeBaron, I could see the sisters bouncing around the cavernous back seat, pre-mandatory seatbelt laws. They waved furiously at us until their dad turned the corner and we could no longer see them.

That evening, my father could not have been happier. He had gotten exactly what he needed and I learned a simple lesson that I carry with me still, 41 years later. When you have what you need, use the rest to bring joy into someone else’s life. That is the best deal you can ever make.

Monday Motivator #35 2019-20

Newsletter Big Fresh Archives

May 1, 2020 Virtual Third Things

AUTHOR

Brenda Power

Cards are one means of bridging differences in age and habits, drawing children and parents, old and new friends together in fair and friendly competition.

                                                 Florence Osborn

https://choiceliteracy.com/article/may-1-2020-virtual-third-things/

Every afternoon around 1 or 2 p.m., a few members of my family log in on Zoom from across the country to play cards with my 83-year-old mom in Florida. Grandkids, nieces, cousins, siblings all rotate into the schedule. The participants are scattered from Maine to California, but we are all proud midwesterners at heart so our card game of choice is euchre (YOO-ker). We spend a moment at the start greeting each other. Then we each bring up the game on a phone app, sit down at a virtual table together, and while away an hour playing cards.

Sometimes there is a lot of chatter during and after the game. Sometimes there is little, as participants have to rush from a late lunch break back to work from home. But we all leave the game feeling a little more connected and comforted. The cards are an excuse to get together, but they fulfill an important role. They provide a routine and a focus. They fill the void that might appear in a conversation with a fun activity that takes some concentration and camaraderie. And they keep at bay the fear about how long it will be before we can finally get together again physically.

The education philosopher Parker Palmer might say the card game is a “third thing”—something outside ourselves that allows us to deepen our connection. As Palmer explains,

Rightly used, a third thing functions a bit like the old Rorschach inkblot test, evoking from us whatever the soul wants us to attend to. Mediated by a good metaphor, the soul is more likely than usual to have something to say.

In classrooms, read alouds might be the most powerful third thing we have for building connection and understanding. They are the literacy campfires we gather around every day, giving even the most shy child a chance to see their experience in others, and maybe find the courage one day to share their own.

It’s trickier to find what third things will work best in the new routines we’re all establishing with distance learning. But a poem, a quick video, or even a simple read aloud as a blessing to start any daily class routine online gives everyone the change to warm our hands at stories together. And they open up possibilities for everyone to see some beauty in dark times.

Brenda Power

Founder, Choice Literacy

Monday Motivator #34 2019-20

Remembering My Teacher Cathy Collins: The Best ‘Lesson Plan’ Is Love

08/18/2016 12:19 pm ET Updated Dec 06, 2017

https://www.huffpost.com/entry/remembering-my-teacher-ca_b_11573874

“The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires.” - William Arthur Ward

The last time I saw Cathy Collins was at her house.

Her husband, Jack, met me at the front door, shook my hand and guided me through the house back to his wife. She was in their family room, resting in a large hospital bed. She had white hair, wore rimmed glasses and a bright smile. Cathy had joy in her voice as she welcomed me.

Before this visit it had been more than 20 years since we had visited. After learning she was diagnosed with cancer, and not responding to treatment, I wanted to see her, visit with her and thank her.

You see, two decades earlier the situations were reversed.

I was a scared, medicated, little kid recovering from burns in a hospital bed. I had bandages over my entire body, was connected to various machines, and was being prepared to go home. She was called in to tutor this nine-year-old boy who was in pain, could not focus, had no fingers, and didn’t really like school in the first place!

She walked into my room, pulled back the curtain around my bed, stepped into my life, flashed that big smile, and changed everything.

Cathy didn’t see bandages or scars, she didn’t see disabilities or insurmountable odds. Instead this fine teacher saw a little boy, who needed more time to heal, required a lot of help, but had limitless potential beneath the surface.

After I came home from the hospital she tutored me so that I might catch up with my class. She then continued her efforts until I was physically well enough to return to school. She made learning fun, she made homework a joy, she made quizzes easy, and she made difficult days endurable. In other words, she was an awesome teacher.

So in her house that evening I sat down next to her, gave her a big hug and told her thank you. For believing in me when few others did, tutoring me when few others could, and loving me when I so desperately needed to know that everything would be alright.

I thanked her for dropping pebbles of encouragement, inspiration, knowledge, passion, and humor into my life. I thanked her for helping shape the man I became. I was now a college graduate, business owner, married to a wonderful woman, had a child, and absolutely loving life.

After I shared my gratitude, there was a long pause.

She wiped her eyes, smiled again and loudly proclaimed, “You graduated school?! There is a God and miracles happen!”

This woman exuded joy and humor when she worked with me as my teacher. This woman exuded that same joy, that same beautiful humor, until the end.

Cathy Collins also paints a clear road map for the rest of us to follow as we lead our children, our classes, our business and our lives forward. She exemplifies how a zest for life is contagious and can spark in others a yearning to grow, learn, serve and impact.

So thank you, Mrs. Collins. In the classroom that was my kitchen table as a kid, you shared, explained, demonstrated and inspired. And I remain grateful for your invaluable lessons on school and life.

Thanks, too, for showing me that regardless the subject we may teach, there is no finer foundation, no clearer lesson plan, and no more effective motivation than love.

Today is your day. Live Inspired.

As the school year ends, take a moment to celebrate the teachers who have most profoundly influenced you. I waited 20 years to tell Cathy Collins.
Don't wait to tell a teacher how much you appreciate them!