Where Are Your Manners?

Over the past several years I’ve had to develop some relatively “thick skin”. After receiving several hundred rejections to job applications, “thick skin” pretty much becomes a necessity of survival and sanity. On rare occasions, when I actually get in front of a hiring manager, one of the questions often asked is, “how do you handle rejection?” I have to be careful how I answer, because I wouldn’t want someone to think I’ve given up the hunt and accepted rejection. I want them to know there’s still a lot of hunt left in this old’ dog. So I usually make a light-hearted quip regarding the need to deal with the disappointment and then move on to the next opportunity. Since I haven’t had too many offers, perhaps my answer isn’t as tactful as I’d like to think.

Some companies send very nice rejection letters. They’re careful to say that they have found other candidates more qualified in this specific discipline and wish me the best of luck in my future endeavors. I’m not kidding myself, I know a form letter when I get one, but it’s still nice to be acknowledged. Someone had to lick the stamp.

Other companies handle rejection differently; they simply fail to acknowledge they received your application. It’s probably part of an austerity program, if they don’t acknowledge the application, they don’t have to waste money sending a rejection. With thousands of applications for the lowest of positions, postage adds-up. I understand that, but perhaps they should consider how much an automated email response would cost.

In a sense, I’d rather get a form letter or be ignored than receive an ugly rejection letter. One of the most valuable lessons I learned while working for CBS was how to give people bad news. Even then, the Company knew tact in the dismissal/rejection process would become a frequently practiced skill, soon to be emulated by fine companies like Clear Channel, Cox, and Cumulus. (Perhaps the moral of the story is never work for a company that starts with a “C”). When I had to terminate someone, I made sure they understood why (assuming I understood – many were cram-downs); and I made sure they left with some dignity and the knowledge I wouldn’t “burn” them with a bad reference.

When air talent sent demos for consideration, even if I thought the talent was horrible, I would thank them for their information; explain there were no current openings for which I felt they would be a good fit and that I could keep their information on file for future appropriate opportunities. And then, yes, I would carefully place their material into my circular file. Just under the desk. The custodian would come every night and file it for me, alphabetically by last name, I think.

But yesterday, on a Sunday, no less, I received the ugliest rejection letter I’ve ever seen. I really shouldn’t call it a letter. It was a word. “NO”. This thoughtful reply certainly told me I wouldn’t want to work for this man under any circumstances. Truthfully, I was offended by this two letter response. I put more than 45 minutes into a customized cover letter explaining my qualifications for the job and he managed to respond in a second. That’s assuming he’s a “hunt and pecker” typist. If he’s an average typist, just reduce my description of “hunt and pecker” by the first two words. It would have been far better had this man simply not acknowledged my application.

I’m tempted to write several proper and thoughtful rejections in a generic voice, so that he could use them for future applications. But if his Mama didn’t teach him any manners, I’m sure an email from me saying, “try one of these” next time would only cause this man to kick his dog, or, perhaps one of his employees for whom I have deep empathy.

Perhaps I should give this man the benefit of doubt, and think of his response as a simple “typo”. After all, “NO” is part of “NOTE”. Maybe he simply hit “send” before he had finished typing his note. If that’s the case, would it be wrong for me to respond with:

Dear Mr. Higgins,

I’m sure you meant “NO Thank You”?

 

Start up - Shut down

“A bend in the road is not the end of the road... unless you fail to make the turn.” - author unknown

For the past two years, the road I’ve been navigating has made San Francisco’s Lombard Street look like a straight line. But instead of writing about the continuing saga of finding steady employment, I want to share some observations made over the past three months while working for an entrepreneur and his start-up venture, “PK Interactive” or pki.net.

The mission was to sell the digital platforms (that’s tech-speak for web, blog, Facebook, Twitter & podcasts) for a nationally known radio host. PKI was seeking someone with sales experience who would be comfortable picking up the phone and “cold calling” potential clients. It was clear I wasn’t the perfect candidate. Still, with personal funds at stake, the entrepreneur took a chance on me and I will be forever grateful to him.

The boss was a big thinker, so I thought big, too. Rather than concentrate on small accounts, I went after the big guns like Procter and Gamble, Overstock.com, and Zappos Shoes. In broadcast language, I became a national sales manager, and targeted every conceivable category that would want to reach the audience our client attracted. As our client reached older adults, I reached out to healthcare companies, travel and cruise companies, financial institutions, pharmaceuticals, supplements, and cosmetics. That’s when the real learning process started.

I quickly discovered that major clients don’t just have one advertising contact, they have several. There’s an agency for Out of Home (OOH), broadcast, print, creative, and digital. Often, one agency has no idea of what the other agency is doing and though I could sell both broadcast and digital, it often meant trying to coordinate with two agencies. Many media buyers simply ignored me, some took the time to direct me to the appropriate decision maker and some were kind enough to explain how the game works to this self-admitted rookie. I listened, I asked questions, researched demographic and geographical targeting, developed strategies for my outreach program and I started selling. But I knew that I wasn’t generating nearly enough income to keep the company rolling (let alone pay my bills). I knew we were being sustained by the boss’s personal funds and the hope of landing a few more major clients.

It didn’t happen. And after six months, PKI closed up shop. But there is no anger in my words, only gratitude. I was allowed to grow outside of my comfort zone. I was allowed to learn some new technologies. And I had the privilege of working alongside some of the most talent and professional young adults I have ever encountered. I was energized when I was around them. The culture of PKI was like many radio stations. Laughter in the hallways, noontime lunch treks, after hour’s drinks and lots of texting, Facebook chats and camaraderie. There were no hallway gripe sessions, no idle gossip, and if someone said “this is confidential” it stayed that way. These talented graphic artists, copy writers, IT geeks and code developers were half my age, but never considered me the “old man”. Well, if they did, they never said it out loud. We friended each other at work, on Facebook, Foursquare and even Google+. By the way, they are all looking for work, too.

The only real difference between me and the rest of the crew was I wore Dockers to work every day and they wore jeans. Their work ethic was as professional as I have ever encountered. They were timely, focused, willing to stay late when needed and passionate about their craft and our clients. I never heard a temper tantrum and I never heard someone snap at another; I simply saw professionalism.

The other difference was in the way we handled the news of our impending departure. As a baby boomer, stability is always on my mind and I was immediately concerned about keeping a roof over my head. The PKI crew? They just appreciated the great ride they had over the past six months. I’m not suggesting I always thought in terms of a career and these young men and women are seeking only jobs. They just have a different view of what constitutes a career and I think because of that, they enjoy life more than me and my fellow boomers.

PKI was staffed with as diverse of a group of individuals as you’d ever meet:

• Robert, the boss. Visionary. Always twenty moves ahead.

• Roy. CFO. I lost count how many times he brought bagels or tacos to work.

• Chuckles, always looking for an excuse to party.  If he couldn't find one he'd start one.

• Dr. Love, his running gag was to ignore his New York upbringing and claim Guatemalan Citizenship. He also knows more Yiddish than I ever will. Poor guy, I’d point to a spot on his shirt, he’d look down, and I’d tweak his nose. Got him about 4 times.

• The Venezuelan, with the largest collection of uploaded music I’ve ever seen.

• Nacho the office Mom – juggling career and kids.

• K-So with a kind word for everyone.

• Jesse – we never did come up with a nickname for her. She brought me a souvenir from her trip to Spain that I will always treasure. She knew me for all of a week and still thought to bring me something.

• Kristen, the cheerleader with the “can-do” attitude and the first to arrive.

• Everett – a code writer who appreciated Star Trek for the classic lessons of life.  I'm not sure anyone understood his philosophical commentary.

• Aamir, with the patience of a Saint. He needed it, because he dealt with the client every day.

• Shay, the quiet one with a gleam of mischief in his eyes and a Hawaiian shirt on Fridays. He is an inspiring husband and father who drove to Austin every time his son played  t-ball.

I learned from each and every one of these people. I was the “grasshopper” and they were the “master,” although I wonder if some would understand the Kung-Fu analogy (unless it was in the Panda version).  As for their level of professionalism, even though our boss informed us of the company’s demise on Thursday, we all came back on Friday. Athough off payroll, I will go in on Monday to help make sure the transition of my accounts goes smoothly. I owe that to the boss. Apparently, several others feel that way, as they will be coming into the office on Monday as well. In fact, my friend Dr. Love has already texted that he’s bringing me some of his wife’s special Sunday night lamb dinner. By the way, I dubbed Jorge with that nickname because he handled the love department – customer service. And I’m going to save a bottle or two of my home brewed beer for him, although he will have to wait for another two weeks.

These are the quality individuals I came to respect over the past several months and I will miss seeing them every day with their positive approach to life.   I think my new friends would appreciate the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson, “When it is dark enough, you can see the stars”. Brighter days are ahead, my friends. But you already know that.

Pass the Life Preserver

Image via WikipediaPoet John Donne once wrote, “No man is an island”.  I’m not so sure he was right.

At a July 4^th party with neighbors and friends, I pretty much felt like the odd man out.  My fellow partiers are fully indoctrinated Texans.  I, on the other hand, still have plenty of New England moderate liberalism flowing through my veins.

Once upon a time, we were taught to vote for the best candidate.  Today, we are drawn to the candidate who belongs to the “right” party.  Right or wrong, on target or completely adrift is no longer relevant; only the party affiliation. 

America has been at war for more than ten years, authorized by both Republican and Democratic presidents and a legislative branch that authorized the expenses.  Yet, one side of the debate has the audacity to blame the current President for the entire deficit and economic conundrum.  More amazingly, as the President tries to tactfully back out of Afghanistan (the longest war in American History), there are politicians who want to keep spending on the war while reducing social programs at the expense of the American people.  The endgame?  We’ll continue to lag in education, we’ll continue to fall behind China and India with innovation and manufacturing, and we’ll wonder how our nation has become a Third World country.

It would be comical if it wasn’t so terrifying.  Political factions, it would appear, would rather “bankrupt” the US government to avoid raising the debt limit.  I understand their desire to reduce spending.  Really, after being unemployed for 18 months, I still deal with my own mini-crisis.  But I also understand that cutting expenses wasn’t enough; at some point I had to bring in extra revenue.  Peter Sellers played a wonderful character, Chauncey Gardner, in the movie “Being There”.  The farce of the movie was an intellectually challenged gardener used metaphors that politicians translated into brilliant economic philosophy.  So, I suspect Chauncey would say, “to cut the blade of grass is not sufficient, one must water to encourage growth”.

Have you ever heard a politician say, “I don’t love my country?”  I don’t think so.  Yet, Republicans are threatening to plunge the government into bankruptcy, creating the potential for devastating long term effects on the US economy.  Some experts say such an action (or inaction) could crash Wall Street and create a depression equal to the 1929 stock market crash.   Where’s the love?  The Democrats aren’t any better.  They need to accept that budget cuts in key programs are critical to the success of restoring our out of balance debt.  Republicans need to accept that some taxes and exemptions need to end.

Part of the problem is with our leadership.  Even those of us who voted for Obama have been disappointed. He has stood on the sideline while Congress defended their side of the aisle.  Once he got involved, it would appear after much cajoling, the message got out that he would be willing to make “tough” budget cuts if Congress would eliminate some major loopholes.  A voice of reason?  Not really, since the extreme left still won’t budge on certain cuts; and the extreme right doesn’t want to eliminate their beloved loopholes and offend their big business contributors.

In the 2010 election, America sent a message to President Obama.  Republicans felt they were vindicated with their victories throughout our nation.  Yet, they are squandering their opportunity with petty bickering within their ranks.  The coffee drinkers, the tea drinkers and those who like to “sweeten” their beverages with moderate compromise.  The latter of course, attacked for their willingness to do what’s right for America.

Here’s the really sad part, who wants to take a bet that from one of our highest election turnouts in 2008, the 2012 vote will be one of the lowest?  What message will politicians take from this?  No doubt they’ll tell us the message is heard, partisans of both parties are unhappy and not to worry, we’ll do more of the same.

John Donne continued in his poem, “Because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”   Pass the life preserver and pray we’re not aboard the Titanic.

The Art of Waiting

I’m not very good at waiting for things.  Everywhere I’ve worked there was always someone who would call me “Fast Eddie”.  I had an Uncle Eddie.  That was his name.  Mine is Ed.  I’d rather someone call me Mr. Ed than Fast Eddie.  Fast Eddie’s is a chain of pool halls in Texas and Louisiana.  But that’s a horse of another color.

One of the most difficult challenges I faced as a manager was waiting for things to get done.  Supremely confident, at least on the surface, I always believed I could do things faster and better than the person I was assigning the task.  Eventually, my supervisor challenged me to delegate, explaining the importance of not being spread too thin as corporate responsibilities increased.  He was right of course, and over the years I found ways of twisting the waiting into what I would call “managerial follow-up”.  That’s a fancy way of pushing people to get their task done sooner so I didn’t have to wait.

When I call customer support and find myself in the dreaded “queue” I punch every option on the keypad hoping to speak to a real person.  I don’t want to wait and I don’t want to hear some automated voice telling me how important my call is and to please hold.  If I were that important someone would have answered the phone.  I was thrilled when doctors started calling their waiting room a patient lounge and “on demand” would be the great invention of all time if it would only work.

 

I don’t like waiting in lines although I try to make the most of it by striking up a conversation with my "next-in-line" neighbor.  For example, when was the last time you walked in and out of a tax assessor’s office or the Department of Motor Vehicles?  It doesn’t happen.  So I pass the time by talking politics, or pretending I’m a rocket scientist for NASA or a government official.  The person next to me will never know and he/she might even have some bragging rights about meeting such a high level diplomat.

For some reason, I don’t mind talking to people while waiting for an elevator; but once we’re in the 4x4 cubicle, I’m staring at the numbers that glow with each floor.  When I get tired of looking up, I’ll look down at my shoes.  I’ll pass the time counting the “dings” and compare my count to the glowing lights.  I’ve missed my stop more often than I care to admit.

Instant coffee isn’t fast enough for me.  Starbucks is torture.  A drive-through line?  Perish the thought, especially after the battle of a mumbling order taker.  Besides, it’s tough to read the menu options under that kind of pressure.  Supermarket lines are probably the worst.  I try not to shop at Kroger, because their “Express Lane” is for twenty items or less.  HEB’s “Express Lane” is ten items or less.  Now stores are throwing a wrinkle into the equation with self-checkout.  On the surface, it looks great.  With only one or two items, I can zip in and out.  Except I’ve yet to use one of those self-service kiosks without needing help from the one assistant responsible for all six machines.  That’s five other people ahead of me and that means I’m once again, waiting.

Today, I’m expecting an email with a job offer.  Make no mistake, “expecting” is a fancy word for “waiting”.  Want to take a guess how I feel about that?  Pretty damn good.  Except, of course, for the waiting.

Circle of Life ("Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose")

I must confess, when I was a kid, I didn’t look forward to family gatherings. My parents would fondly reminisce with my aunts, uncles and cousins about the good old days; and as a well disciplined child, I would either sit and politely listen or find an excuse to go play in traffic.

 

When I became a young adult, with my own family, it got worse. My career took me away from my New England roots and every few years I would return with my family to visit those same aunts and uncles. The conversation still consisted of fond memories; but a new dimension was added. As boasting rights, they would compare aches and pains. One had arthritis, another had a touch of gout (is that like being a little pregnant?), another had bursitis and there was the assortment of bunions, corns, dentures and dietary restrictions. It was painful. At dinner, conversation was more appropriate for the children. While we may be fine watching gory scenes from CSI or Criminal Minds during dinner hours, in those days we limited our dinner conversation to the price of groceries. My cousin Molly would complain about the price of a head of lettuce, my cousin Rae would note the cost of cucumbers and other relatives I could only identify by their sloppy, wet kisses were unhappy with the service they got at the gas station. Attendants were supposed to check the oil and tire pressure while they filled your tank.

The irony is I have become what I hated.  French novelist Alphonse Karr once wrote, "Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose."  For those of us who don't speak French, the translation states "The more things change, the more they stay the same."  (In full disclosure, I found this quote on Bing.  I heard it once on an Association Live album; and later the line was used by Kurt  Russell in Escape From LA).

When I travel to a new city, the first thing I do is check out the prices in the grocery store. I actually read the grocery store inserts and compare prices between the supermarket chains. HEB, Kroger, occasionally Randall’s will earn my business. I don’t like shopping for groceries at Wal-Mart or Target. I have a problem putting my food on the same check-out line with engine oil and bicycle tires. And I find myself constantly telling my children the same stories over and over, albeit slightly embellished, about things they couldn’t possibly care about any more than I did when I heard those stories decades earlier.

I see the cycle of life. It amuses me. It concerns me. When I was just starting in broadcasting, I couldn’t get some jobs because I didn’t have enough experience. Now, I have the experience and I can’t get the job because I’m over qualified. Not long ago, I had an HR manager tell me I didn’t make the final cut, because, and I quote: “I was over-qualified; they were looking for someone younger and would take less money.” I’m not a lawyer, but I bet there were a few comments in there that someone with a law degree would find actionable. Surprisingly, I wasn’t upset at those comments. I appreciated the honesty. At least this manager had the courage to tell me the truth.

Being raised in the New England, I acknowledge I lean liberal. Particularly when compared to the conservative bent of the south. But I find it more and more difficult to remain on that side of the fence. No, I still think Rush Limbaugh is the devil and a pompous one at that; but I can listen to other conservative commentators these days without shouting back at the radio. Hugh Hewitt and Dennis Prager come to mind as broadcasters with rational arguments in defense of their beliefs. I used to say two kinds of people listen to talk radio: the idiot who wants to hear what the next smart person is going to say; and the smart person who wants to hear what the next idiot will say. I’m no longer sure into which category I fit.

Last week, I started to apply for a job with the American Civil Liberties Union of Texas. The position was for a media relations professional. The job description sounded perfect and I felt completely qualified to pursue the opportunity. Until I hit the final job requirement: “Candidate must be bilingual in Spanish-non-negotiable.” Wait. Isn’t that a violation of my Civil Liberties? Don’t I have the right to speak the native tongue of the country where I was blessed to be born and not be forced to learn a foreign language? Whatever happened to the notion of “When in Rome?” This radical thought frightens me. Have I become a bigot? Is the conservative beast hiding beneath my inherently liberal tendencies? Seriously, America welcomes (perhaps too warmly these days) people from all nations to live the American dream. Our new citizens have the same dream of fulfillment through hard work that has turned into something of a nightmare for the baby boomers that are over-qualified in their fields and lose jobs to our new guests. And please notice I wrote “citizens.” They have earned the right to benefit from America’s bounty. But I’d like to think they’d benefit from taking a citizenship test in English rather than have the questions translated into their native tongue. And why do we speak English in America? Do they speak American in England? Perhaps that was lost in the failed metric conversion.

 

So, here I am, with more time to reminisce. Becoming more like my parents than I ever thought possible. Knowing, with some comfort, that one day, my own children will repeat the same stories over and over to my grandchildren. The circle of life. One day you’re too young to know what you’re doing; the next day you’re too old to know what you’re doing.

By the way, lettuce is usually cheaper at HEB.

Logical Consequences

Years ago, when my kids were still pre-teen, my wife and I decided to take a class in better parenting. The kids were becoming rebellious: the standard stuff like disregarding requests, not doing their chores or their homework. In those days, we didn’t have Xboxes and Play Stations to take away, and we couldn’t cut Internet time, so we didn’t have much “leverage.” The solution, the class taught, was the “law of logical consequences.” Essentially, the “law” states that you don’t make a threat when your child disobeys, you make a commitment. If you fail to pick up your toys, I will pick them up for you and give them to a child who will appreciate them. Your child will test you once, and if you stick to your end of the bargain, you can usually give the toys back and make your point. If not, some under-privileged kids will be very happy.

This “law of logical consequences” doesn’t end at childhood. As adults, we know if we commit a crime, the logical consequence will be an arrest. If we speed, we’ll likely get a ticket. So what is the logical consequence if we cut expenses and cut taxes? Now, I admit my slightly liberal bias; I was, after all, raised in the East. But are we really thinking about the consequences? Study after study shows our nation falling behind in education and yet, we’re talking about cutting the budgets of our school systems. I’m the first to admit that some of the money isn’t wisely spent. I’ll acknowledge that some of the cuts make sense; for example, cutting testing for steroid use in high school athletes. Parents have a responsibility to know what their kids are doing. Educators have enough on their plate that they don’t need additional parental responsibilities. But if we fail to give teachers the proper tools our kids will only fall behind at a faster rate. And if we fail to properly compensate our teachers, we won’t get qualified teachers in the classroom. It’s a logical consequence.

Recently, a friend was in a serious head-on collision. Thankfully, her new SUV had all the new safety equipment and she was able to walk away from the accident. The other driver, heading west on Memorial, hit a pothole, lost control of his vehicle and swerved into the eastbound lane. Those who live in West Houston know the condition of our streets. Memorial Drive, Kirkwood, Wilcrest, and Dairy-Ashford are in deplorable shape. Think of a ride on any of these streets as a ride in a paint mixer. A drive on these roads takes years off your vehicle: rims are wrecked, tires are ruined, and shocks wear faster. It’s a logical consequence. If you cut road repair services, or fail to repave roads for 20+ years, accidents and damage will inevitably follow. I suggested to my friend that she consider legal action against the city to force the road repair. Apparently, in some matters, this being one of them, you can fight City Hall, but you can’t sue it.

Here’s a touchy subject. Healthcare. A non-partisan Senate committee determined overturning the recently passed Healthcare bill would cost the government more than it would save. The Republican leadership says they don’t believe the report, even though it was jointly written by Republicans and Democrats. Democrats of course, say, “see … we told you so.” I don’t know who has the better handle on the situation. Here’s what I do know: healthcare is expensive. My COBRA benefits recently came to an end and I had to find private coverage. A basic policy, with relatively high deductibles costs as much for my wife and me as our mortgage. Before my extended COBRA benefits ended, I made sure to get refills on all our necessary medications. Knowing our coverage ended on December 11th, our refills were mailed on December 3rd. This weekend, I received a statement from the insurance company telling me I owned them $935, because the prescriptions were filled on December 13th. Seriously? I did my homework. I called the mail-order pharmacy and confirmed our prescriptions were entered into the system on December 9th. They also confirmed the insurance company authorized the prescriptions. Now, the insurance company is penalizing me, because their mail-order house sat on the prescription order for days after receiving approval to fill the order. We may not be able to fight City Hall, but I certainly can fight the insurance company. The point here isn’t so much David vs. Goliath, but again, the law of logical consequence. Two prescriptions, not particularly “exotic” medications, come in at $935. Go ahead, cut healthcare benefits. We’ll put a strain on the healthcare system of epidemic proportions when people can’t afford their medications. Did I say, “when?” Fixed income seniors with Medicare are already struggling with their medical expenses. Add to the list unemployed without medical benefits of any kind and we have the recipe for a national crisis. Last week on the local news, I saw a report where someone went to the Emergency Room at Ben Taub Hospital. After waiting for several hours, the patient decided to leave. He never saw a doctor. He did receive a $100 bill later in the month for emergency room services.

Logical consequences. You can’t get away from them. Ask President Mubarak of Egypt. Thirty years of martial law and his country is in chaos. But, he’s a tricky one, this Mubarak. He’s letting the people protest and not doing anything to stop them. His strategy? Eventually, they’ll grow tired, leave the streets, and go home. I wonder if that’s when the bill will come. It is, after all, the law of logical consequence.

Farewell to a Friend



Brigadier General William R. Charbonneau


I got the call the day after Christmas. It explained everything; and raised more questions than I could ever imagine. A friend for the past 40 years had passed away. Father Bill was home. We were blessed with a unique friendship. A Catholic Priest, a reformed Jew, a love of G-d and a desire to understand what we had in common.

 

Bill Charbonneau and I met accidently, if there is such a thing. I was an “all night” radio personality in Hartford, Connecticut. Occasionally, between songs, I would make brief comments on the politics of the time. Back in 1973, Watergate was the hot topic, and I recall the press attacking then President Nixon with a passion. I simply stated, “on-air,” that everyone, by our law, is innocent until proven guilty. And by that fundamental concept, President Nixon should be given the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise.  With open phones, listeners would call in and choose to agree or disagree. My first caller, clearly inebriated, blurted, “Nixon is as guilty as sin.” Why, I don’t know, but I responded with “you’re a f*ckin’ assh*le” and ended our brief interaction. Obviously, the call never made it on the air. The incident was forgotten.



Several weeks later, our radio station hosted an annual “Bridal Fair” at a local hotel. It was an event all the air personalities hated. We had to be fitted for tuxedos (most of us were single in those days and relatively averse to marriage) and then model the latest styles for the thousands of future brides in attendance. The brides weren’t there to see their favorite dj’s … but to see wedding gowns, florists, honeymoon planners, caterers, photographers, and jewelers.

One of the events at the Bridal Fair was an interfaith wedding panel. One of the panelists was a young priest. Someone introduced him to me as Father Bill, and I identified myself as Ed Mitchell (my air name in those days). A moment of confusion flashed across Bill’s face, then, a smile, a chuckle, and he said, “So you’re the SOB that called me a f*ckin’ assh*le?” My response still stuns me. “Well, Father, evidently I was right!” Father Bill laughed, slapped me on the shoulder, and said, “it must have been the scotch talking.” From that moment on, Father William R. Charbonneau and I were friends.

Bill loved hockey, so every now and then we would go to watch the Hartford Whalers play. He never mentioned he was the official Chaplain of the team. When he could get out of “uniform” Bill would enjoy a drink or two with his friends, and I was proud to be in that group. Father Bill also had a wicked sense of humor. He served as the Chaplain for the Waterbury, CT police department. More than happy to do Bill a favor, I once had a couple of officers show up at my door with a “warrant” and hand-cuffs. “Arrested” for some zoning disturbance for excessive volume on my stereo system, I had to answer questions for about 45 minutes before Bill couldn’t take it anymore and came in the interrogation room laughing hysterically.

On another occasion, my roommate and I hosted a Halloween Party. Bill’s costume? The Pope. Sacrilegious – absolutely. But it came in handy when the Police again arrived at my door to complain about the noise. Only this time, it wasn’t a prank. Bill’s connections helped settle the situation and I’m one of the few people in the world who can claim the “Pope” crashed at my house for a night. Over the next forty years, we kept in touch while my career took me to St. Louis, Los Angeles, Houston, Miami, and San Antonio.  Father Bill became a vicar of St. John of the Cross Church in Middlebury, Connecticut and the Principal of East Catholic High School, the school he attended as a youngster. Father Bill was a bit of a “rebel” in the structured church. In November 1974, Bill was called by his friends Ed & Lorraine Warren to a home in Bridgeport, Connecticut. The Warrens were the Founders of the New England Center for Psychic Research and the lead investigators into the now famous Amityville Horror. Recognized throughout the world as leaders in Psychic Phenomenon and Paranormal Activity, the Warrens called Father Bill to a home where a child was exhibiting supernatural abilities. In January of 1975, the National Enquirer quoted Father Bill as acknowledging poltergeist activity and psychic energy. Father Charbonneau, later told me, rather tactfully, that the Church frowned upon such admissions and he had been officially reprimanded.

Bill and I would often talk about why he joined the Priesthood. He admitted the part of the “job” he liked the least, was parish work. He didn’t feel comfortable working out marital problems, or getting caught in squabbles with church elders. What he loved, was working with the kids. He would say, “I’m not married, I don’t know any other relationship than the one I have with G-d and I question that from time to time, and I’m sure as heck not qualified to be giving advice to couples having problems. But I do know kids. I was one. I am one. And I know I can relate to them.” The Archdiocese put Bill into a school system and both Father Charbonneau and the schools thrived.

But that wasn’t enough for Bill.  In 1979, he was commissioned as a Chaplain for the Connecticut Air National Guard.  Soon, he was promoted to wing Chaplain.  In 1986, the Archdiocese “loaned” Father Bill to the Air National Guard and he moved to Washington, DC.    Bill was not one to wear his faith on his sleeve, his strength was within.  And he was not one to judge you for having doubts about your own faith.  He was the consummate listener; and by listening, he helped you find your own answers.  As part of his responsibilities he would fly to meet with aviators in Antarctica and Germany; and in his later years, meet with veterans of Desert Storm and the Iraqi War.  Rewarded for his good work, Pope John Paul II named Bill as “Monsignor” in 2002, while the Military recognized his efforts with the Meritorious Service Award, The Air Force Commendat5ion Medal, The Air Force Achievement Medal, the Joint Meritorious Unit Award, the Air Force Outstanding Unit Award, the Air Force Organizational Force Achievement Medal, the Air Force Organizational Excellence Award, the National Defense Service Medal, and the Humanitarian Service Medal.  This was the guy I called a “f*ckin’ assh*le”.  This was my drinking buddy.  This was the “Pope” who crashed at my house.  This was someone I proudly called friend.

 

Father Bill with my dog Stash



Over the years, Father Bill and I connected every year around Christmas. He’d ask about my kids and career, and he would play down his adventures and accomplishments when I would ask. When spoke last Christmas he was looking forward to retiring. Bill would return to Connecticut to continue his commitment to the Archdiocese. He had sold his townhouse in Alexandria and purchased a new home in Connecticut. Typical of Bill, he was embarrassed by the address on “Lavender Lane,” so he chose to rent a P.O. Box to receive mail. I was surprised to learn he wouldn’t be released from the Guard until he fully recovered from a lung infection he developed on one of his overseas missions. And he had to complete his counseling program. He was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Bill explained that Chaplains and Psychiatrists/Psychologists hear so many horrific stories from our returning troops that the nightmares are often transferred to the counselors. It had never occurred to me. The caregivers needed care, too.

I was going to call him in April when he would be settled into his new home; but chose to send an email allowing him to respond when he had time. And I reached out to him on Facebook. He must have been busy, he didn’t reply. The call Sunday explained why.

On May 1st, 2010; Colonel William R. Charbonneau was promoted to Brigadier General in the Connecticut Air National Guard. On May 5th, Father Bill Charbonneau, my friend, died of a heart attack at the age of 61. He served his Faith and his Country with honor. Bill taught me about service, integrity, and commitment.  Most of all, Bill Charbonneau taught me what it meant to be a friend. I would tell Bill to "rest in peace," but I know better.  I have no doubt Father William R. Charbonneau is still serving his Lord and I believe Bill has received the ultimate promotion from his true Commanding Officer.