Consulting the Oracle

Consulting the Oracle

Croesus

In 560 BCE the mighty King Croesus of Lydia issued a request for proposals (RFP) to the major oracles of ancient Greece. “Why should I choose you as my oracle of choice?” he asked.

“I know the number of the sand and the measure of the sea,” began the Pythia, sybil, sorceress, lead consultant for Delphi.

“I understand the speech of the dumb and hear the volcanoes. . . .” She went on as sybils do, but Croesus interrupted.

“OK, OK, you had me at ‘the number of the sand,’ Delphi is the winner. You’re my new Oracle Pythia-baby, Here’s my question, I’m thinking of attacking Persia. I think this Cyrus guy’s a real cream puff and they have all those pomegranates, and the rugs – you should see the rugs!”

As a hedge, Croesus also asked the Oracle at Thebes, but both Thebes and Delphi gave the same answer. “If you attack Persia, a mighty empire will be destroyed.”

He asked some other questions about which city states would make the best allies and lined up Team Greece, but before he left, he asked,

“Just checking here, gotta think about the kids and grandkids. How long will my dynasty last?”

“You and your issue will rule Lydia until a mule is king.”

“Well, that ain’t never gonna happen,” said Croesus.

Cyrus it turned out was only half Persian and half Mede, on his mother’s side. The Mede joined the fight, despite the fact that the Persians called Cyrus a “mule” because he wasn’t purebred Persian. The great empire that was destroyed was Croesus’ own.

Leaders in change are always looking for oracles, consulting firms, university professors, other firms that have gone through a similar change. It is understandable; in change, there are a lot of unknowns.

An important leadership lesson from Croesus at Delphi is:

When asking for advice make your question specific and even if you think you know the answer ask, ”Tell me what you mean by that.”

The Oracle and her Prophesies

Historians are divided about the origins of the Oracle at Delphi. Some place it as early as 1400 BCE, when it was a Temple of Phoebe, a Titan associated with the moon and grandmother of Apollo and Artemis. By the eight century BCE, Delphi had become a Temple of Apollo and the Pythia, the high priestess received her gifts directly from Apollo.

There is some disagreement about the Oracle’s process. Did she go into a trance from inhaling fumes from under the cave? Did she just mediate and come clear speaking dactylic hexameter? We don’t know, but we do know that leaders in Ancient Greece sought her out to ask advice.

She may or may not have given Lycurgus the constitution of Sparta, helped Solon create the laws that laid the foundation of the world’s first democracy and given Pythagoras his moral precepts.

The Pythia allegedly called Socrates “the wisest of men.” This may have gone to Socrates head who started saying he took “no instruction from the gods, but only from my own intuition.” This, according to Professor Paul Cartledge of Cambridge, in staunchly religious Athens led to his charges of “Impiety and corruption of youth ” Can’t be smack-talking against the gods especially right after a plague and a big loss to the Spartans.

According to Dr. Cartledge, Socrates could have still avoided death if he hadn’t mocked the charges saying he should be rewarded or fined small change. So Socrates might not have been so wise, but in the end did his civic duty, followed the verdict of a majority of 501 jurors and drank hemlock. Personally, I would have “blown that pop stand.”

The Pythia’s words did tend to puff leaders up. The priestess of the Oracle of Delphi was the most powerful woman in male dominated ancient Greece, and she wasn’t above “blowing a little smoke” to get you to listen.

Lycurgus was “a god,” Euripides was the “wisest of artists.”

She apparently didn’t like Macedonians. She told Phillip he couldn’t conquer the world because he couldn’t ride her unbroken stallion. She first refused Alexander an audience, but the impetuous twenty-something dude stomped into her cave and pulled her out by her hair.

“OK, OK you are immortal.”

Alexander felt he then had her blessing to conquer the world and he did pretty well, until he didn’t. We still call him the Great, but he wasn’t immortal in the physical sense. He died at thirty-two in Babylon of malaria, or typhoid or alcoholic liver failure or poisoning or the neurological disorder Guillain-Barré Syndrome. In the end he was reported to have said, “All is vanity,” and asked that his empty hands be shown at his funeral to demonstrate “You can’t take it with you.”

Leaders got some good answers from the Oracle at Delphi and some misleading ones accompanied by flattery, not unlike oracles we consult today. In the case of Delphi some advice is carved in stone, the Maxims of Delphi.

The Maxims

There are three main maxims carved into Doric columns at the temple entrance.

The first is “Know thyself.”

I often say that change leaders have two primary accountabilities.

  • Be clear about direction – the “why” we are changing, the vision of the world after the change, the path to get there, all those places to display your optimism and passion.
  • Attract followers – people have to come with you. You can attract them by the excitement and passion of your vision, or your belief and support of them or both.

The Delphi maxim “Know thyself” tells us to know what aspect of these accountabilities we’re good at and to attract others you fill in our flat-sides. “Know thyself” also says –“Don’t let this stuff go to your head. Caesar Augustus had a slave ride behind him in his parade-chariot whispering Alexander’s dying words, “All is vanity.”

The second maxim of Delphi is “Nothing to excess.”

Too much vision and passion can make a leader out of touch. Too much focus on attracting followers can make a leader a doormat, or otherwise perceived as catering to the unwilling at the expense of the people who have already signed up.

The third main maxim at Delphi has a translation problem.

Some translate it as “A pledge brings trouble”- be careful not to make easy promises that you might not be able to keep i.e. don’t say “Nothing will change,” or “No one will lose their job.” Some translate it as “Surety brings pain,” – be careful of guarantying others debts, “All shareholders, or depositors, will be made whole.” Still others translate it as “Certainty brings danger,” – never stop questioning what you think you now and how you know it.

I don’t read ancient Greek, but I think all three are good advice.

The 147

There are also 147 other maxims that have come down to us from a fifth century CE anthology assembled by Macedonian Joannes Stobaeus . These are often attributed to the Oracle at Delphi, but are really from many collected writers.

They make interesting reading. Some say they are blueprint for a happy life. 

They range from the hopefully obvious, #31 shun evil, #51 shun murder, to the ones that should stay in ancient Greece, #95 rule your wife.

Leading change is about direction, vision, insight so I like #9 “know your opportunity.”

Leading change is also about attracting followers so I like #11 Think like a mortal.

And the last four I see as a blueprint for progressing through change and maybe through life.

#144: As a youth – self-disciplined  I wasn’t a self-disciplined youth, but In the beginning of a change discipline to a process is critical.

#145: As of middle-age – just – visible fair process in change.

#146: As an old man – sensible – accepting our mistakes and correcting them.

#147: On reaching the end – without sorrow – in change as in life we want to look back without regret.

The ancient Greeks focused on growing the leaders for their city state. Spartans trained disciplined warriors; the Athenians trained thinkers and statesmen. All the Hellenic leaders asked oracles for advice. The smartest may have questioned more or just followed the maxims.

The Kerent and the Wisemen

The Kerent and the Wisemen

A problem . . .

It was the time before the coming of scribes, when history’s wisdom was held in memory and sung in rhyme. Then wisemen travelled the land trading their wisdom for food, lodging and coin.

It was a time of tribes and small landholdings with crops and livestock and goods produced for trade. Each clanhold was ruled by a chieftain called king or caliph, khan or kerent.

In one such kingdom, the Kerent was distraught. The harvest was weak and the lambs sickly. The pots made of clay from the river had sustained the tribe with trade, but now were deemed inferior to the shiny pots produced by the tribe to the north.

“Those shiny pots are junk,” barked the head potter. “The metal that makes them glint in the sun leaves holes around it in the firing and they leak.”

Nonetheless the main trade path bent north leaving the tribe with fewer traders and less red and yellow coin.

The Kerent’s son, a holdguard, said, “We should invade the northern kingdom and absorb their mines. The metal they produce might make better plows. They have few guards so we would shed little blood.”

The Kerent’s daughter, a storymother, said, “War will not grow our crops nor sell our pots. Rather, we must show the traders our pot’s superiority. Next year the harvest and the lambing may improve.”

The Kerent’s family and his advisers had many opinions, each argued with passion. He retired to his closet more distraught.

There was a small knock. “Father?” He smiled at the meek voice of his youngest daughter. “I don’t know if it will help but Gita said there are three wisemen staying at the inn.”

“Three wisemen travelling together? What magic is this, Min?”

“No Father, not travelling together. They came by different roads. They are causing a disturbance in the inn, each arguing the excellence of his work.”

“Well, never mind. Go. Summon them hither.”

Min ran to the inn, while the Kerent gathered his advisors in the roundhouse hall.

A request . . .

As Min neared the tavern she heard a raucous noise. She entered to find the three wisemen in dispute, while the clanfolk mocked them loudly.

“And the clan grew rapidly for all time after that. My wisdom saved the day!” said one wiseman.

“See there – that wiseman. He knows a thousand ways to love a woman, but cannot get a date,” said one clansman.

“And the tribe absorbed all the neighboring landholdings producing much coin and very few were killed,” said another wiseman.

“See that one over there,” said another clansman “You ask him the time and he borrows your sundial. When he leaves, you find the sundial gone with your coin.”

Min approached the wisemen. “Pardon, sirs. My father the Kerent would speak with you.”

“Which one of us, girl?”

“Why, all of you, sirs.”

“But we are not together. . .” started one.

“Our wisdom is quite different . . .” interrupted another.

“Come let us go,” said the oldest. “The client, this kerent, asked for us all. Let us not disappoint.”

The two younger ones retired to their closets to put on their finest robes. The old man asked Min, “So what is happening that the Kerent wishes to see us?”

A short time later when the young wisemen returned, they heard the old man saying to Min, “And people are leaving the clanhold?” As Min nodded, the old man turned and complimented each of the younger men on their finery.

In the hall . . .

When the wisemen arrived they found the hall full, but the Kerent was not yet in attendance. Some sweet meats and fruit had been laid out and the two younger wiseman made for the table.

Min tugged the older man’s sleeve and introduced him to her brother Gov, the guard, and sister Gita, the storymother. Then she followed as he seemed to wander aimlessly about the room talking with people at random, exchanging pleasantries and asking some pointed questions.

The younger wisemen ate their fill at the sweetmeat table and stood apart in the hall. Each mumbled to himself, perhaps practicing a speech.

When the Kerent arrived, seats were provided for the three wisemen. The two younger wisemen sat, loudly thanking the Kerent. The older wiseman thanked the person who brought the stool and nodded thanks to the Kerent before taking his seat. Min, who had been standing next to the old man, slipped onto the bench next to her father.

The Kerent rose and told the story of the difficulties. “Crops failed…. The lamb birthing was hard…. The lactation of the ewes uneven…. The northern clan’s glinty pots stole the tribe’s trade…. What do you recommend, wisemen three?

Proposal . . .

The first young wiseman rose straightening his indigo robes.

“First, to be clear, we are not together. We have only just met at the inn. I am Micah of the house of Marihn, our wisdom goes back five generations.”

 He spoke of his pedigree, the illustrious clans he served and the success of his cases. His approach was based upon his past successes. “We will meld our wisdom with the specifics of your circumstances and produce ‘The Plan,’ which, as you listen to its song and rigorously follow it, will produce the results you desire.”

The young wiseman was a powerful speaker. Looking around the room many heads were nodding including the Kerent’s daughter Gita. When he finished some applauded.

The Kerent asked “How much for such a plan?”

“One hundred yellow coins and seventy red ones.” Someone gasped.

Another . . .

The Kerent turned to the next wiseman whose dazzling robe had a yellow metal thread woven through it.

“What say you young yellow robes? What caused our problem and what should we do?”

“I shall answer Great Kerent. I am Tychin. My wisdom is often called the future of all wisdom.”

Tychin told of his metal-tipped plows and unique seeds, his sheep bladder gloves to assist in lamb birth, his messaging systems of horns and code to communicate with shepherds in the hills, and his metal thread, like that in his robes that could be used to decorate the clan’s “functional, but drab pottery.”

The potter snorted, but there were many nods especially among the younger clanfolk, including the Kerent’s son Gov.

“Do you have any weapons among these tools?” Gov asked.

“”Yes, made from a new metal that mixes the red metal with a grey metal from across the sea. The alloy is very strong and holds a sharp edge!”

“And how much do these new things cost?” asked the Kerent.

Yellow robe recited a price list he never totaled, but Min, who was proud of her new skill at “sums,” whispered in her father’s ear, “If you buy it all, it will be over two hundred yellow coins.”

“And will you teach my people how to use these new tools?”

“Oh, the tools are self-explanatory, Great Kerent. But if your folk cannot learn them I will provide user training at the end. Of course, that would be extra.”

The Kerent stroked his chin. He seemed ready to leave the hall, when Min tugged at his robe and nodded toward the older wiseman still sitting quietly on his stool.

“What of you, grandfather?” he huffed. “What do you think caused our problems and what should we do about them?”

The last . . .

“I do not know, sir. I have only just arrived in your clanhold. I have seen many problems in my years walking the clay, but I have learned that while there are some similarities between them, each problem is each unique. May I ask you a question?”

The Kerent nodded.

“How was the weather this year? Was it unusually hot or cold?” The Kerent shook his head thoughtfully.

“Have you changed anything in how you worked this year?

The Kerent nodded. “The shepherds moved their summer pasture up the river.”

“And we ran out of the clay by the village and started with a new patch up river,” blurted the potter.

 “Ah. How do people feel about these problems?”

“How do they feel?! How should I know?”

“We might ask some, but are there any indications?”

“Some people complain, some are leaving the clanhold. Questions, questions, questions!” said the Kerent. “When are you going to tell us what the problem is and what we have to do?”

“As I said, sir, I don’t know what the problem is nor what caused it. . . yet. If I were able to determine that so quickly you surely would already know the answer, for you and your people are smart and I am just an old man, but. . .”

“Yes?”

“If you will feed and house me for a year, pay two yellow coins per month to be placed in a jar. . and if you assign your children, the potter, a shepherd and a metalworker to work with me. . . I believe I can help to reverse this kingdom’s misfortune.”

“For just room and board and twenty-four yellow coins?” asked the Kerent.

“Well, no. The coins are your commitment to work with me. If at any time during the first nine months you decide you no longer require my services, I will take what is in the jar and depart. After nine months you must commit to let me complete our work together.

“At year’s end we will look at your clanhold’s fortunes compared to how we account for them when we begin. If your fortunes are up, you will pay me twenty percent of what they are up or the coins in the jar, whichever is greater. If they are the same or down, pay me the amount in the jar less what they are down.”

Micah snorted, “The old man just wants a place to live for a year.” People laughed.

“No one can solve this using the same old tools?” Tychin sneered. The crowd murmured

The Kerent drew himself up to his full height and said, “I have heard your proposals. I will consult with my advisors and let you know in the morning. Your lodging, food, and drink at the inn will be paid by the clanhold.”

Gita the storymother walked over to Micah. Gov the clanguard walked over to Tychin. The old wiseman seemed to wander aimlessly around the room talking to people at random. Min quietly slipped her hand into her father’s and kept pace with him as he strode from the hall.

 

From the storyfather. . .

I end this fable before the decision because, in the “real world,” there are clients who would hire the pedigreed strategy consultant, those who would hire the innovative technology consultant and those who would hire the process consultant. These are not mutually exclusive or collectively exhaustive categories, but they do suggest preferences for solving problems.

What do you think the Kerent will decide? Would you make the same decision?

 

What’s in a Name?

What’s in a Name?

“I’m going to be a big brother”

My son and his bride are anticipating the birth of their second child. With their first, they wanted to be surprised, so they dove into the name selection ritual for two genders. “No not Louisa; I went to elementary school with a Louisa and she was definitely in the ‘mean girl’ contingent.”

This time, their son, is also “expecting”, so they conceded to learn the gender and are playing the “Name Game,” with only one gender. “Shirley, Shirley, Bo-ber-ley, Banana-fanna fo fer-ley, Fee -fi-mo- mer-ley. Shirley!” (The 1964 Shirley Ellis song probably isn’t source material for naming their impending bambino.)

Parents spend a lot of time thinking about names. With our firstborn we used a book of 15,000 names and ended up in the Ts before we agreed on something. Some parents agree earlier than we did. Some wait until the baby is born, “He doesn’t really look like a Seymour – Murray?”

This can be dangerous. Imagine a mother after a difficult labor, just wanting to rest, but being pressured by nurses, doctors and hospital administrators. “Is it going to be John or James? John or James? John or James?” That was the story told by E.O. Jones, the barber shop owner who cut my hair in college.

“They kept on pestering my mother, ‘John or James? John or James?’ till finally she burst out ‘I don’t care, either one. And that’s what they wrote down Either One Jones. You can see why I go by E.O. Still once a month I have to tell that story.” E.O. was seventy at the time.

Naming a child is an awesome responsibility. You are defining a large part of their life, and how they will introduce themselves forever. “Tegan, like Megan, but with a T.” “Sunshine, yes my parents were hippies.” Gabriel, yeah, like the archangel.”

“I got a name, I got a name”*

Alan is easy, though there are three common spellings and many less common ones. People want to call me “Al,” which was fine with me up until age nine when my sister married an Alan who was called “Al.” My family started using my first and middle name to distinguish us “Alan Cay,” and I started calling myself Alan at school.

My middle name caused me some grief in elementary school. “Cay? That’s a girl’s name!” My sisters don’t have middle names. “They’d just lose them when they got married.” (The 1930s and 40s were not a particularly liberated time and my parents were products of the culture they lived in.)

There is some question about the origin of my middle name, Cay. My parents always told me that they just liked the way it sounded. They alluded to the big band leader Kay Kyser. They were introduced to the potential utility of middle names, by their neighbors, the Auchmoodys  who named their daughter Alice Arlen in case Alice pursued a career in the Arts and wished to drop her venerated, but not media-friendly Scots surname.

My sister, named Constance, called Connie by the family, but Constance in her arts career, started a rumor that Cay was a family name from my maternal grandmother’s family, Weir. Connie said found an Angus Cay Weir in an old maroon Weir genealogy book. She said she brought this to my mother’s attention who said “Don’t tell your father.”

Connie could have been feeding my identity crisis, which she did a lot. “Maybe you’re adopted.” I remember the book, but it was lost before we cleaned out my parents’ house. My sister Carolyn, called Lynne since the late 1950s, says that she has no memory of my naming. So the origins of Cay remain a mystery.

I assiduously hid Cay until my mid-twenties. The IRS knows me as Alan C. Culler. There was the whole “girl’s name” stigma,  and also when I’d say my full name people would ask, “What’s the ‘K’ stand for?” “No, Cay C-A-Y.” They’d spell it K-A-Y and ask if it was my mother’s name. Eventually in frustration I just said “Ken.” That shut people up, but there are still records that name me Alan Kenneth Culler.

Later I decided that I liked my middle name and put it on business cards and bank accounts. Although, when someone I’ve just met calls me Alan Cay I say, “Just Alan is fine. The only people who call me Alan Cay are my family and you might want to think twice before joining that group.”

My last name, Culler, was always a bit of a problem for me. It is pronounced like color, and so I endured endless jokes. “Do you have a Culler TV at home?” When we were naming our children people would suggest ”Techni” or “Vista” or “Koda.” My eldest daughter should be grateful not to be named “Crystal Claire” or “Scarlet” after the famous Margaret Mitchell character.

My father always maintained that Culler, was an English name, a trade name for “:one who separates out,” a carver or one who culls the herds. My name Culler created some problems on some turnaround projects where people thought I would reduce the workforce. They mistakenly assumed it was my job not my name.

It turns out that my last name might have been changed from Kohler or Köller. Apparently my family moved from Catholic Maryland to English Central Pennsylvania because they were followers of John Calvin, Huguenots. In the United States, a country of immigrants, names were often changed, “anglicized” by insensitive immigration officials. Apparently, my father’s family just moved 12 miles and changed their name, hoping to “fit in.”

“Only thing about you that I’d change, I’d change your name.”**

These days it is harder to change your name. You have to change credit cards, Social Security, emails and social media accounts – a real nightmare. One of the times when people do change names is when getting a marriage license. It is no longer universal practice for one partner to take the other’s name. Some do; some keep their own names. Some couples create a new name for both.

When Billie and I got married more than twenty years ago she wanted to take my name, but keep her children’s last name as a middle name. A New York City marriage license clerk told her she had to hyphenate.

Billie hates her hyphen. “I have to spell every time I register for anything. Not that we’re going to have children, but what happens if someone with a hyphenated last name marries someone else with a hyphenated last name. Do they have four names and three hyphens? Whose hyphen is on top?”

Billie investigated removing her hyphen, but was told go to the “Court of the Self-Represented.”. “They didn’t even know where in City Hall the ‘Court of the Self-Represented’ was,” she fumed. “It’s right next to the “Ministry of Silly Walks,”  I quipped, (with apologies to Monty Python), but that didn’t help and she is still hyphen-afflicted.

“And I carry it with me like my daddy did”*

Names define our identity. Many surnames come directly from parentage, Johnson (John’s son), Neilson, or Johannsson. The Irish and Scots used Mc or Mac, McDonald, MacGregor, or O,  O’Reilly, O’Neil, to similarly delineate lineage. The Germans used Von, to determine person or place of origin  such as Von Braun or Von Munchausen.  Islamic and Hebrew cultures use Bin, Bin Salman Al-Saud, or Ben, Ben Gurion.

Some surnames are place names, Lake, Hill. London or Higginbottom. Surnames are often the name of the father. Some Latin cultures, like Mexico, include the mother’s family name as a middle name and leaving it off is disrespectful, the equivalent of telling “Yo mama” jokes during introductions.

Some African cultures place the clan name first. Some Asian cultures put the family name first as well. Most Americans, including me,  are clueless about international name traditions as when I called Vietnamese PhD, Tran Nguyen Dang, Dr. Dang instead of Dr. Tran.

“I woke up in a Soho doorway, a policeman knew my name”***

First names, given names, “Christian” names (for Christians) are individual; they are what new parents struggle with. Some name in honor of a friend or family member.

In Jewish tradition, you name a newborn for a recently diseased family member.

The early American Scot-Irish followed a rigid naming pattern:

  • 1st son named for the father’s father
  • 1st daughter named for the mother’s mother
  • 2nd son named for the mother’s father
  • 2nd daughter for father’s mother
  • 3rd son named for the father
  • 3rd daughter named for the mother

This may make it easier for genealogists if there are clear middle names, and rigorous recordkeeping or not-so-much if not. Naming for previous ancestors leads to calling people “Junior” or “Trip.” It may also create a dislike for one’s name; my wife named for her father, is called Billie by everyone except the IRS.

Some try to use old family names, “Jeruthra” was my mother’s suggestion for my firstborn. Some come combine names, like Pamthia or Hughger. Some pick a name with the first initial of the honoree. Some utterly reject naming after anyone. “This kid’s gonna stand on his own, dammit.”

So naming a child is not easy, even if you do have nine months in which to do it.

“I’m gonna watch you shine, gonna watch you grow”****

Then for first children, you have to decide what you will be called.

Mom, Mum, Mummy, Mommy, Mama, Ma, Daddy, Dad, Dada, Da, Pa, Papa, Pop, Pap, Pappy. The list is not quite endless. The list for grandparents often depends on what parents are called, so Mommy’s mother might be Granmommie or Dad’s father might be Granddad. Or they might use names unused by parents . Dad’s father might be Pap. Then there are the family or culturally specific names, Nana, Bubbe, Abuela, Abuelo, Mee-maw, Babushka,

I am Pop to my kids, Grampa to my grandchildren. I chose those. If you let the parents choose you get some weird stuff, Gramma Care Bear and Gramma Share Bear.

It gets weirder if you let the kids choose, Binkie, Bip, Dooda, Loopa. I will never forget the absurdity of my forty-year-old friend calling his ninety-five-year-old grandfather. . . “Gangy.”

Two of my all-time favorite names are Grand-Mari, the name for my son-in-law’s mother Mari and Papa-grandé the name my friend Mico’s great granddaughter calls him.

Family nicknames are something else. They are often comments on the person. Names like “Moose”  and “Mouse” comment on size. I was called “Boy” for two years because, after two daughters, my parents couldn’t get over their surprise. After that I was called “Cookie Boy” because I never turned one down, still don’t. My mother called me “snickelfritzer,” which I miss now that she’s gone, but don’t need anyone else to pick up.

I often wonder; how did a nickname get its start? When I meet someone called “Skip,” was he or she a truant, someone who never walked anywhere, or a really smart kid who was promoted above grade level. Is “Trip” the third of his name, a clumsy oaf, or a prodigious partaker of psilocybin?

So names are important, even if naming is difficult. Names are an identifier, the start of an identity. Soon my son and daughter-in-law will pick a name for the new grandbaby, maybe with some input from big brother, and we can all say “Welcome to the world, ___________!” or snickelfritzer, snookums, or babycakes. Welcome!

 

 

* “I’ve Got a Name,” 1973 song by Jim Croce, Norman Gimbel, and Charles Fox

** “Change Your Name” 2018 Brett Young song

*** “Who are you?” 1964 song  by The Who written by Peter Townsend

**** “Father and Daughter” by Paul Simon 2002

One Amazing Woman

One Amazing Woman

Wow! I never knew that!

I just returned from a celebration of the life of Jeannine Elizabeth Talley. I always knew that Jeannine was an amazing woman and I had a rough idea of her life, but, as happens when so many different people reflect on a life, I learned things about her I never knew. I imagine that acquaintances who knew only one facet of Jeannine’s life might have been gobsmacked.

To give the reader an Idea what I mean, here is an abbreviated outline of Jeannine’s life:

  • Born Lakeland, Florida, October 26, 1937
  • Graduated with BA in Music Education Florida State University (1960), piano and voice
  • Taught music, travelled in Europe as a single woman, then oved to Los Angeles
  • Received a Masters in Mythology and Folklore (1967) and a PhD in Germanic Languages (1977) from UCLA
  • Learned to sail at 35, didn’t like how women were treated by male sailing instructors, started a women’s sailing school, Seaworthy Women in LA, sailed extensively around Catalina and Baja in a 31 foot wooden ketch, Esperanza
  • Cruised around the South Pacific for seven years with sailing partner Joy Smith in the Banshee, a 34 foot cutter rigged sloop
  • Published three books Women at the Helm, Banshee’s Women Capsized in the South Coral Sea, and The Lure of the Trade Winds: Two Women Sailing the Pacific Ocean
  • Taught at UCLA and the University of Guam
  • “Retired” to Florida
  • Artist, watercolorist, fused glass jewelry maker and sculptor
  • Musician, played piano, sang, played recorder with a local Florida recorder ensemble, taught piano and recorder in retirement
  • Jeannine was politically active especially on environmental and women’s issues
  • Survived by Suzanne Martindale, friend, partner and wife whom she met at an art show and collaborated with on fused glass jewelry and other work, and cousins Lynne, Alan, and Sara and a host of extended family and friends

I’m sure there’s a lot I’ve forgotten or never knew.

Many spoke at her celebration. There were several themes: “she taught me to stand up for what I wanted;” “selfless, she always asked how you were;” “when I expressed an interest in the recorder she volunteered to teach me;” “she was always so quiet, listened really well;” “Fiery! She wasn’t afraid to share her opinions.”

We all show different sides of ourselves depending on the context and who we’re with.

Jeannine and me

Jeannine and I were first cousins. She was the only daughter of my father’s only sibling, his little sister Annetta, eight years younger.

I was born in Boston when Jeannine was ten and living in Lakeland, so we didn’t know each other when we were kids.

She played with both my sisters, Carolyn, now known as Lynne, and Constance, known to everyone in the family as Connie. In 1944, my father sold the print shop and moved to Boston. At Connie’s funeral  (life celebration) Jeannine told a heart-rending story of losing her playmates when my folks moved.

My first memory of Jeannine was when I was thirteen and she was twenty three. My folks took me to South Carolina to see Annetta and Sammie  (Annetta’s second husband) and Jeannine was there.

Jeannine got stuck managing the teenager. She never complained, probably volunteered for it – a very Jeannine thing to do. For my part, I was completely smitten.

She taught me about the horses on Sammie’s farm, how to approach them obliquely from the side, how to talk in an almost whisper, always starting with their name, and how to ride. After taking me on some slow trail rides the first day, we brushed the horses and fed them and put the tack away. The next day Jeannine said “just grab the bridle, we won’t need saddles today.”

I remember galloping bareback across a field, fingers gripped on the mane as much as the harness, barely hanging on, and realizing that Jeannine had no intention of stopping at the three foot stone wall ahead of us. She and her horse cleared it by a foot or more and I put my head against the horse’s neck, hung on tight, and was amazed when we landed on the other side and I did not break my neck.

She was someone to fall in love with – fierce, fearless and fun. I had such a crush on her. In later years I told her I how I had adored her. She just said, “I know.” Then I tried to play it off telling her I was mostly in love with her car – an Austin Healy roadster in a light metallic blue, a car I still covet at seventy-five.

She said “That  thing spent more time in the shop than it did on the road. It sat so low to the ground I kept tearing out the exhaust system on potholes and frost heaves.”

Jeannine and I didn’t have much contact again until ’68, the summer I was studying theatre at Long Beach State. She was at UCLA then and invited me to a party. I have no idea how I got there (probably hitchhiked) or where there was (Bel Air?) or what I did that night. I just remember that Jeannine was annoyed with me, (probably worried when I was late) and nervous when her friends included me in their drinking. I was still under twenty-one and a little over-enthusiastic about alcohol. I remember she put me in a cab to go home and paid – I was a college student; I didn’t have any money and she wasn’t going to let her “Uncle Raymond’s kid hitchhike drunk.”

Over the following years I would run into Jeannine when she visited Lynne or Connie. Our conversations were always pleasant, but not long nor particularly close. Soon she was sailing the South Pacific and writing books about her travels. We had some phone conversations. I remember reading her books and I called her after reading Capsized in the Coral Sea, which just blew me away, still does, a frightening survival story. I talked about how she almost died and she talked about the technical details of cutting the mast away from the capsized boat.

We got closer after Connie’s celebration, talking once or twice a month, talking about her art, her painting and her work in glass. I sent her a couple of pieces I had written and she was very supportive. She also encouraged my woodcarving, songwriting, and building cigar box guitars.

I remember one conversation. “You’ve had such an amazing life! You sailed around the world. You have more degrees than you can shake a stick at. You taught in Guam. You write. You paint. You play piano.”

“Alan, it’s just a life. I did what I was interested in. That’s all. You’ve done amazing things too. You studied theatre, worked in consulting. You travelled and raised a family. I have enjoyed and am enjoying my life. You should just enjoy yours. It’s not a competition.”

“That’s good,” I said, “’cause if it was, you’d be winning!” We laughed and I was relieved. I will miss that laugh that just came busting out of my soft spoken cousin.

Leadership lessons from Jeannine’s life:

  • Do what you are interested in. Not everyone has to be an adventurer, or a scholar, or an artist, but act on what interests you. There you will find friends and followers.
  • Teach, prepare others to follow in your footsteps. This may be especially important for women and minorities, but it’s important for all leaders to grow the next generation.
  • Enjoy your life. “It’s not a competition” Don’t expend any energy on what someone else is doing or has done. Perhaps you might learn something, sure, but your life, your dreams and accomplishments are what you can control. Be proud of your accomplishments, and follow your dreams.

I still stand in awe of my cousin Jeannine,  and I will miss her. My life was enriched by her leadership and her love. I’m not going to sail the South Pacific, paint, or play the recorder, but I am going to live my life to the fullest and I hope you do too.