Steve's Blog on Taxes, Finance and Life

We have cats in our house.  That’s not the same as saying “we have mice in our house”.  Some people, who don’t like cats, might think it is.  And, I understand their feeling.  After all, we do have quite a number of cats running around. 

 I’ve observed that critters have complex personalities.  Fish of course, but dogs too.  It may be less obvious, but I’ve met some very deep fish.   

 Cats, like humans, are better or worse at a whole range of activities.  Jumping, running and so on.  It’s difficult to predict when one will be better at one thing than another. 

 We have one cat named Brady.  He’s a small, yellow tabby.  Our daughter Cissy, who saved him when he was a kitten, said native intelligence is not his adaptive advantage. He’s somewhere in the middle of the pecking order probably due to the dimness of his bulb, his size and the customary cluelessness with which he leads his life.  I like him, though.  Don’t get me wrong.

 We humans are fairly certain of our place on nature’s ladder – the top rung.  We are forever in cynical disbelief, waiting for the “show me” moment to clear things up.  But, the truth is there are some things we just can’t see, hear, feel or smell.  Some of these very same things are those that our companion cats sense like a two ton elephant lounging in a bathtub. 

 I can tell you for sure, that earthquakes are one of them.  Maybe not all cats, because as I mentioned, not all house cats are constructed the same.  Although, it’s quite possible that where one says, “Gee the floor is trembling.  Hmmm.  I wonder if there’s any food in my bowl?” another might say, “OH MY GOD!  OH MY GOD! THE FLOOR IS TREMBLING!  I’M GOING TO DIE! I’M GOING TO DIE!”  I, myself, am not a good enough judge of character to predict which cat will be which.  But, here’s my story anyway:

 Usually, waking up in the morning in the middle of the week isn’t something I tuck away in my memory to dwell upon later.  I staggered over to let the cats in.  They tumbled across the threshold like cords of wood stacked-up against the door.  I beat a hasty retreat to the bathroom before they had the bright idea of joining me.  It’s a race that happens every morning.  If I’m just a little slow I have cats draped all over the bathroom peering at me with hungry, demanding eyes.  So, I shut myself in and went about my business.  When the last hair was plastered to my head I hung up the towel and opened the bathroom door.

 Poor Brady shot past me like he’d been catapulted from a sling shot.  Really, I’ve never seen a cat move so fast.  Several of the others were standing around looking puzzled. 

 “I don’t know?”, they shrugged. 

 “Huh!” I thought to myself.  What’s wrong with him? 

 I went downstairs to the kitchen.  “Hey, Kathleen.  Anything wrong with Brady?”  No?  Well…OK.

 After breakfast, I tried to find him.  It was as if he’d disappeared.  This worried me on two levels.  First, I was really worried for his safety.  What could ever have happened to him?  Second, seeing how I was the last to see him, my recollection ended about the time he zoomed by me.  It was as if a whole slice of memory had been erased.  Not good on a personal level.

 I have to admit, once I got thinking about it, I was a lot more worried about myself.  Which is selfish.  The associated guilt provoked me to look more carefully.  Eventually I found him under the bed.  After a little coaxing he emerged with no visible injury other than a pair of eyes rotating wildly in his head.

 Later that morning I read on the internet an earth quake had hit central Indiana.

 Wow.  That’s amazing!  I hadn’t felt a thing.  Nor had Kathleen.  Poor, dimwitted Brady, on the other hand, felt the jilt through every sinew of his body.  I wondered about the other cats, although, as mentioned, it’s pretty hard to tell who’s feeling what.  Certainly, in our household, only Brady felt enroute to kingdom come.

 But, I’ll bet Brady wasn’t the only one locked on the thought he was about to die.  I’ve heard that dogs and birds and deer and all other manner of wildlife and domestic creatures feel the inner rumblings of the earth.  We humans need to fall into a deep crack in the ground before believing Mother Nature is toying with us. 

 We’re just so dumb. 

 But, we think we’re so smart.

 Maybe not smarter than Brady.

The blue sky and gentle breeze greeted Ester as she emerged from her egg in a nest on an island in a lake almost as far north in Minnesota as you can go.  Her mother and father peered down at her with blinking eyes, nustling away the broken bits of shell that clung to her.  Soon she was surrounded by many brothers and sisters, all with mouths agape waiting to be fed.  She and her siblings grew quickly and grew strong.  Both mother and father hovered over each, quick to feed and patient with each chick’s unending demands.  

Ester learned quickly.  Her mother and father protected the brood with a sturdy, unbending determination.  But, beyond the circle of her family the tragedy of desperate souls played out; brethren in pitched battles to save themselves and their young ones often failing calamitously.  Ester was the first of her siblings to fly.  Her extraordinary eyesight discovered all matter of food below.  Although she remained with her family, she ventured farther and farther as her confidence and self-determination grew.  She was a bird of decisiveness and understanding of her world.  At a young age she strived to lead rather than follow.  

Sam’s mother died shortly after his emerging.  She was small and desperate to feed her brood.  His father, a restless bird prone to fighting, was a poor provider.  Each hatchling clearly understood that survival was waged as much in the nest as outside of it.  Only Sam and his sister survived. 

Sam’s father was a very large bird and Sam clearly took after him.  It was not soon after Sam’s first flight that his father disappeared forever.  Sam spent his first season battling the adults for food and jockeying for the attention of females.  His size, intelligence and aggressiveness made him a bird to be reckoned with.  It was not long in his second season, having survived his first by shear will, that Sam won the right to pick the eligible female. 

The ice was out, just barely.  Sam stood on the shore, tall and straight, guarding spring’s abundance.  Many females had passed, nervous and without confidence.  Suddenly a female landed, calling out.  She stared at Sam with an unwavering glance.  The warming of the land had filled out her winter hunger.  She was a bird of uncommon beauty and strength.  There was a palpable charge that passed between them.  Sam approached.  Ester remained, unmoving.  Sam was puzzled at the feeling that jolted each sinew; an excitement he had never known.  Ester was riveted by the vision of Sam.  In her eyes he embodied the greatest of her species.  There was an indefinable quality that made her yearn for him as he did for her.  They stared at one other for timeless moments.  Sam offered her the bounty he guarded.  She accepted and from that time they would be forever linked.  In their every waking moment each would fill a corner of their consciousness with the other, their lives so intertwined as to merge two into one.  She was constant and tender, easing his anger and comforting him. He was courageous and loyal and shamelessly devoted.  She would sacrifice herself for her offspring and he would sacrifice himself for her.  They were willing companions forever, joyous in each other and in the beauty of the world and their creation.   It was a remarkable, mystical transformation, a second emergence.  They sang to one another deep into that first night until their voices filled the sky and the stars disappeared. 

And so it was for many years.  On this remote, fertile lake and under their stern eyes the young ones thrived.  The children and grandchildren gathered each spring and fall so that they were a mighty flock, their passing a shadow over the earth. 

 It had been a particularly brutal winter and food had been scarce for everyone.  It was time to return north.  Ester observed how the seasons had left their scars on Sam.  He was still a mighty bird but had grown slower and more deliberate, not so quick to fight and more tolerant of the young ones who challenged him.  But still, he gathered his brood for the long trip home, his call echoing among the marshes and wet lands.  There upon, there was a great rising of birds, a lifting off, a casting aside and a venturing forth. 

 As the multitude twisted north, Sam looked for Ester but did not see her.  He allowed himself to slip behind his grandson, a large bird, intelligent and ambitious.  Sam called to Ester but she was not among the gathering.  Returning to his winter roost he found her, waiting for him, expectant, love in her song.  He was puzzled.  He circled her many times, flying low, calling to her.  With great effort she lifted from the earth, following him as he traced the route they had taken many times.  She fell behind and he would slow until she reached him.  They rested frequently, each time for longer and longer.  Sam patiently waited for Ester.  He provided for both of them on their long journey home.  They finally arrived.  Their grandson had claimed the island that had been their nesting place for many seasons.  While Ester rested, Sam scoured the lake for a suitable location.  He came upon an abandoned nest, poorly constructed, but well hidden.  He led Ester there whereupon he began the ancient ritual of building.

 There was a fury in his actions.  In past years Ester had been their driving force.  Now, it was just he alone who must do the work of two.  Each time he would return to the nest she would rise to the edge and call out his name.  Each time, she grew weaker.  Finally, with the nest complete and Ester safely resting there, Sam stood over her, calling out to her, willing his life force enter her depleted body.  As night fell, Ester began to sing softly to Sam, like a lullaby, her sweet breath bathing him once more.  Soon both their voices mingled in harmony until, late in the night, Sam fell asleep, the song of his beloved caressing him.

 Sam dreamed of life’s beauty.  Sam dreamed of Ester.  He dreamed of long summer nights and moonlit skies, but tinged with a sadness that weighed more and more heavily until it awakened him in the early dawn.  As he had for every day these many years his first thought was of Ester.  She was beside him as she had been seemingly his entire life.  But, her spirit had fled.  She was no more.  Sam rested his head upon her back for a long while.  The sun gained angle in the sky and then descended, but Sam took no notice.  As the moon arced above, his love songs to her haunted the night sky. 

Sam sang his plaintiff song to Ester until the day he died.  The pain of Ester’s passing seemed to diminish over time.  But for every moment of beauty Sam witnessed, he did so alone.  And, although it was at those times he most felt the absence of Ester, he welcomed them as they brought remembrances of great happiness. 

Sam, like Ester, had the great fortune of dying painlessly in his sleep, his life’s work, his children, calling loudly to one another, one early spring night. 

Of course, this is a love story, not tragic but filled with all the exquisite wonders existence has to offer.   Life and love are great treasures, bounded by birth and death, their value sometimes best understood by the pain at their passing.  Sam and Ester lived lives of undying love and sacrifice.  We can look at Sam’s pain at the loss of Ester and ask this most important question, to which Sam would answer, if he could talk: 

“I would gladly exchange my life for one more moment, to breathe her sweet breath, to see her gaze upon me and to hear her song when I call out.” 

So, dear friends, may I wish your lives together be long and filled with the same love as Sam and Ester.  Though your days are numbered, may they be lived in blissful harmony in a world of happiness, peace and beauty.  And may you and yours multiply and flourish, casting indelible shadows on the earth each day of your passing.

If anyone hasn’t noticed, it’s winter out there even though the calendar says it isn’t.  It’s December 14^th and my truck thermometer said 4 degrees this morning.  Sitting in my warm office with the wind howling outside I admire how my incredible body has adjusted to this abominable weather.  It is superior breeding, a natural toughness; an outstanding physical attribute setting me apart from mere mortals.

Naturally, these delusions last only so long.  Within maybe 5 seconds of leaving the office I curse myself for not living in Florida.  No, even further south!  “Even Central America isn’t far enough, you idiot!”, I think to myself.  The thought of swaying palm trees almost makes me cry. 

My absolute, favorite TV commercial only plays around the Holidays.  It’s a picture of a thatched hut nestled on a sand beach surrounded by palm trees.  A familiar holiday tune kicks in when suddenly Christmas lights illuminate the darkness.  I can almost feel the warm, humid air caress my face.  This happens to be a beer commercial, by the way.  I remind myself how good it would taste on that beach.  And don’t I wish I had a cold one right now?  I seem to recall it’s a Budweiser spot.  I give them kudos for taking me to a faraway place.  But, frankly, their beer is pretty foul.  Still, you never know.  Someday, if I find myself on that secluded, tropical beach, maybe I’ll have a Bud.  This requires I have the forethought to bring one along (which is highly unlikely).

Anyway, I’m trying to keep reality from setting in.  It’s still a week before winter officially starts.  Another ten days or so after that and the tax season begins.  For practical purposes, all I see ahead of me is work, darkness and cold interspersed with red wine and therapeutic quantities of Jack Daniels.  Who signed me up for this?

Actually, quite by accident I found a book even better than the Bud commercial.  It’s about fishing.  Anyone surprised? 

The author, Tim Holschlag, is certainly the finest smallmouth bass fisherman in America (maybe the world?).  I’m particularly interested in his description of fish behavior.  Some guys think about money.  I think about fish.  From Tim’s detailed descriptions, sounds like fish take up much of his waking hours too.  He describes how bass react to various conditions and stimulus.  Heat, light, water flow, fishing pressure, you name it, he’s thought about it.  In this book he talks about river fishing.  Well, I’ll be darned!  That’s what I do too! 

Anyway, each of his lessons transport me to a time I experienced the very same.  In my mind I remember thinking, “Where the heck are those fish!”.  Then, as if on cue, the words in Tim’s book proceed to tell me where, in fact, they are.  “Well…” I think to myself, sniveling, “that’s kind of what I figured too.”  Yeah, sure Steve.

Between Tim and those he’s guided I’ll bet he’s laid hands on thousands of smallmouth.  Me, probably a few hundred, which I suppose is a lot, but not in comparison. 

Once I accept my shorter stature (Tim, by the way, is far north of 6 feet tall) I get down to figuring how I’m going to change my ways.  The great thing about this book is it’s given me lots of ideas how to approach the river next spring.  As importantly, it’s an open doorway to a fantasy world I slip into like a warm bath.  Every day is 80 degrees and partly sunny.  The fish are willing and my technique is flawless. 

Gee!  This is way better than reality. 

Dear Reader,

Kindly, don’t bother me for awhile.

Yours Truly.

I want to be as honest as I can about this.  I was always interested in martial arts.  As a young kid, I borrowed a book from the library about judo.  I sifted through a few pages, even flopped on the ground a few times trying to follow the pictures.  This initial foray didn’t last long.  Somewhat bruised from the hard floor I gave up and didn’t pursue it again for thirty years.  Here’s another of the honest parts: I wanted to learn martial arts to acquire the skills to beat the tar out of someone.  This exposes a kind of ying and yang in my personality because I am at heart a collaborative, peaceful, empathetic person.  But, somewhere inside, the house cat wanted to be a, well … bigger cat, at least.

 Anyway, fast forward several decades.  I’m working out in the old weight room of the Lake Forest Recreation Center.  Because I have a tendency to chat rather than work-out, I get to know my fellow sufferers.  One such wore white pants and a T-shirt.  It wasn’t long before I had introduced myself to the Chief Instructor of the recreation department’s karate program, Frank Chrzanowski.  I’m not sure what I expected a karate instructor to look like.  Frank was (and is) a friendly, exceedingly polite and thoughtful individual.  I suppose I envisioned a more steely eyed, threatening demeanor.  One thing did strike me, and I know now it wasn’t my imagination.  There’s a switch, of sorts, always ready to be flipped.  It’s not visible to the eye, but it’s there.  I knew I had met someone who could defend himself and I wanted to learn what he knew.

It’s been twenty some-odd years since.  In reflecting on those early days I realize I was a difficult student – nothing new here to which my first grade teacher couldn’t attest.  The teaching of Shotokan Karate requires the conveyance of a curriculum.  The Dojo is the classroom.  Students possess varying degrees of aptitudes, both physical and mental.  I just happened to be long on the first and short on the second.  I am of the opinion that girls learn best with positive reinforcement and encouragement, while boys are best suited to the swift end of a two by four (figuratively, of course).  And, applied to me, it’s how I got past the early years.  But, let me be clear, the right learning environment needs a deep well of patience on the part of the instructor and, from him, a genuine fondness and respect for his students. 

The Dojo is a no-nonsense place; your ego is left at the door.   When you enter, you are in the domain of the Sensei – the teacher.  When class begins you are expected to give complete attention and 100% effort.  Less than that will be called out.  And, there is no escaping the critical eye of the Sensei.  He sees all.

So, what have I learned?  First, is how little I knew of the mind-body connection.  It is truly the case that absent self-discipline, learning cannot progress.  I have seen this over and over, particularly among the teenagers.  Repetition aids learning.  Correcting errors requires discipline.  Those who advance with the greatest ease are those who control their minds and hence their behavior.  Each repetition of kata (a memorized sequence of punches, kicks and blocks) is an opportunity to learn and to correct errors.  The process of correcting errors (some of which, by the way, are behavioral or attitudinal) teaches discipline.  As for all matters in life, some students are better at it than others.  But, hard work pays-off.  Take me, as an example.  As I look at myself from the lofty perch of almost six decades I realize how little self-control I possessed as a youngster of 40.  I was all over the place.  I needed to learn how to focus.  One of the surprises of training in karate is that I did.  And, I needed to. Discipline and focus became the fertile ground for the learning that subsequently took place but would not have, absent it.

Here’s another of the big surprises: One of the first lessons of mental discipline is respect: respect for the teacher, for the Dojo, for other students and for yourself.  Mental discipline learned in karate can be extrapolated beyond the Dojo.  It applies to school, work, relationships, you name it: wherever unleashed emotions can inhibit good decision-making.

 Allow me to expand just a bit on this.  In the context of karate, as I’ve learned it, discipline involves facing one’s fears and, as we put it, “sacrificing our body” for the greater opportunity.  So, in a fight, we’re willing to take a punch in order to deliver one more devastating.  It’s a calculation, a risk we take, but one for which we have prepared.  Ultimately, all our training is focused on application or the act of self-defense.  Underlying the practical aspects of karate is an equally important lesson.  It’s the mental sequence implicit in self-defense.  Does this sound familiar?

• Awareness of the situation
• Assessment and analysis of response options
• Decision as to the proper response
• Implementation

 Indeed it is the core of the decision-making process used in business, law, science and virtually any other undertaking.  That it is so important in our curriculum is not a coincidence. 

So, I’ve told you a little about myself and how I see the study of martial arts.  Let me tell you about the children I’ve seen over the years.  For many (but, truthfully, not all) the study of karate has been transformative.  It’s altered the life path of these kids.  For some, those with cognitive or other disabilities, karate can be an activity in which they experience success without an asterisk.  Our classroom is not intended to make world champions.  It’s to teach self-defense.  Understanding what-it-takes is available to a broad spectrum of people.   Of course, some do it better than others.  The point is that even at the bottom of the spectrum there exists the possibility, in fact the high probability, the student will acquire the mind-body connection to resist the bad intentions of others.  That the physical skills learned will ever be used is unknown and, let’s hope, unlikely.  Not so the mental ones.  They are likely to be used every day.  As a beginner, invoking the lessons of karate is a conscious affair.  Over time, it comes out naturally.  The young teenagers who have been training for years, you can see it in their eyes. 

Not all the kids make black belt.  Most don’t.  And if they don’t, they are still successful if they take from karate what they can use.  Some make it all the way, a joyful event in the Dojo.  Every higher belt is called upon to teach every lower belt.  So, as an old black belt welcoming the newest, I am as aware of the contribution I’ve made to his or her education as I am of the lessons imparted to me by those who came before.  There’s a lot of teaching that goes on inside the Dojo.

It is a great honor to spar with the Sensei.  This afternoon was one of those occasions.   In a way, this is an “advanced class”.  Sensei is always teaching.  Although it appears to be free-form, there’s a protocol to which I must adhere.  Brawling is discouraged – anyone can do that.  As unlikely as it seems, I’ve discovered a tendency in my teacher’s defense I can exploit.  But, the opening doesn’t last long.  The Sensei is as eager to learn as I am.  We spend an hour exchanging punches and kicks, first using distance-timing strategy, then close-in fighting.  Each of us is able to simulate fighting without doing damage to the other.  This is the pinnacle of martial arts, what I’ve trained for and the highlight of my week.   I am engaged in an act of self-defense using skills learned over many years. And, although I’m sure to feel every muscle in the morning, I’ll be ready to go again if Sensei calls.