Tag: love

Wait – they do what now? Enhanced Job Titles

I’m always curious about the way professions and job titles evolve.  People making short video clips, for example, are now “content creators”.   Because, it seems, anything can become “content”, even what I’m writing here for you to read.  I could actually put this on film, or record it, in which case I’d no longer a blogger.  I’ve become a podcaster, a vlogger, or even better, an influencer.  

Meanwhile, I watch (and if I am honest, mostly enjoy) those Dr. Rick commercials.  You know the ones, of “young homeowners becoming their parents”.  I, of course, am long since into the parent category.  I talk to people in the grocery store, I’ve even been known to correct a bagger when they’re putting eggs or chips in the bottom.   One of the most recent ones, though, is an introduction to internet communication.  It features a young man who is a “reaction influencer”, and you may have seen it.  At one point, he’s putting on hats in the video, if video is even still the right term.  One of the observers asks, “So you sell hats?”  No, the influencer explains.  He’s just putting them on to judge a reaction.  Apparently, it’s a thing.  I googled it, and here’s what I found.  

“Influencer reaction videos, a mainstay of platforms like YouTube and TikTok, feature creators watching and responding to viral clips, music, news, or pop culture moments. In 2025, this content has evolved beyond mere facial expressions; influencers now weave in expertise, personal anecdotes, and humor. Audiences seek not just the original clip, but a trusted voice interpreting and contextualizing it for them.”  This comes from writer Eli Turner, from a website called #Influencers Time.  Wow.  Apparently, as the author of this column indicates, being a “reaction influencer” is a big money-maker.  Or, as we now say, is a “monetizer”, the $$$ equivalent of “content”.  That money flows in from subscriptions and advertising.  Who knew?  And more importantly, what am I doing wrong, sitting at my computer writing this?  I see people doing stupid stuff every day.  I could be filming it, commenting on it, and posting it to millions of devoted followers for beaucoup cash.  Not that I don’t appreciate all of my faithful readers – I do, indeed.  But if I’m honest, you’re not contributing much to my retirement account.

I was in a furniture store a few years back to buy a new recliner for Her Ladyship.  A fine young man assisted in the process, and after the purchase was complete, he handed me his card.  On it, I was informed that he isn’t a “salesperson”.  He is a “customer satisfaction representative”.  Ah.  Sales is no longer what happens when we enter a store, purchase something, and walk out.  I’d guess that if we’re unhappy with our purchase down the road and need to take it back, the person at the euphemistically called “customer service” desk, who explains the store policies and why return isn’t an option, is a “customer non-satisfaction representative.”  Quite like the person in “tech support” that tells us he or she has no idea why our technology is not performing as it should.  

As a fan of the show, “Jeopardy”, the opening announces the contestants, what they do, and where they’re from.  So, we get a name, followed by “an innovation communicator from Des Moines, Iowa.”  Later in the show, Ken is getting to know them, but rather than asking “what the heck is an ‘innovation communicator’?”, he instead turns to something like, “You had a funny experience with your cat recently.  Tell us about it.”  No, no, Ken.  We don’t care about the cat. Go back to the job.  

There was a time when jobs were, well, self-explanatory.  A “butler” buttled.  A “carter” was a prehistoric trucker.  They transported goods by cart, usually horse-drawn.  Surnames, like Baker, were often taken from the family profession. If you’ve ever wondered about the name “Fletcher”, it derived from “fletching”, the feathers attached to the end of an arrow to ensure an accurate flight path.  The fletcher was the person that made and calibrated it.  Very useful in the Middle Ages, before firearms. Now, of course, in today’s world of archery, they would be called Projectile Stabilization Technologists.  

When a football team hires an “offensive coordinator”, we pretty much know what they do, and it has nothing to do with being brash and annoying.  In broadcasting, the “color commentator” is the person that provides bits and pieces of insight so we don’t get tired of hearing the main commentator babble on and on, particularly when not much is happening on the field.

My final position before I retired was as a school district “Fine Arts Director.”  What is that, you may well ask, and further, is it all that important?  Yes, it’s vital.  I oversaw programs in the arts – visual art, music, theatre, and media.  I oversaw the curricula in each, the course offerings. I supervised and evaluated teachers, developed budgets, and so on.  And yes, I was also a music teacher.  There are, as in any school district, educational layers of instruction, and titles that describe them.  Titles evolved over the years, often to make them more appealing.  Janitors became “custodians”.  Teacher aides became “program assistants” or “para-professionals”.   Business administrators, often at the level of assistant superintendent, oversaw all of the district’s finances, which can be very complicated, and entails holding certifications and licensures. All of those titles were fine, because we all knew what they did.  We didn’t have to wonder.  

We used to have “activists”.  Ok, those are people working for a specific cause.  But, were they paying jobs and careers?  Could you live on that?  In the 19th century, we had “anarchists”, people seeking to overthrow governments.  Archduke Franz Ferdinand and President William McKinley were assassinated by two of them.  But were those professions?  Was that something you put on your resume?  Did a Human Resources director, on reviewing your application, ask, “I see you’re an anarchist. What have you done lately to shake things up?”  No, I guess it’s just a political philosophy that has, or will pass into the dark corners of history, like moderate Republicans. 

At some period in the recent past, the term “life coach” appeared.  There was probably a need. I never had one, so I’m speculating here that it was a service provided for a person that needed a little back-up or lacked direction in life, as opposed to the person requiring a whole psychological SWAT team. Someone whose peace of mind has a few bumps and potholes, or who is going through a difficult transition phase.  A career change, or perhaps inheriting some caregiving situation.  I’m not exactly sure what experiences or professional training one need to be a life coach, although I do know that a friend’s mother was considering it fairly late in her life.  Her life was, shall we say, a bit dependent and chaotic, and empathy wasn’t really her strong suit. My first thought when she announced that she was pursuing that career was, “oh, dear God.”  

In the current job market, new title buzz words are running rampant.  They include “strategist”, “optimizer”, “facilitator”, and “coordinator”.  My wife and daughter are ardent followers of the television show, “Project Runway”.  They’ve been watching since the dawn of time, or when Tim Gunn mentored the designers.  One of the current judges bills themselves as an “image architect”.  First, my sincerest apologies to Frank Lloyd Wright, Christopher Wren, Frank Gehry, Frederick Law Olmsted, and so many other famous designers of buildings, parks, gardens, and other notable design achievements of actual things. They must be swirling overhead at the new use of “architect”.  Anyway, this person apparently develops “images” for people.  Kind of like a publicist on steroids.  It’s described as ‘way more than fashion and make-up”.   It’s a total look, and if his own image is anything to go by, it goes well beyond the visually superficial to personality as well.  Particularly to the condescending and confrontational.  If it’s a “look” and an attitude that some find appealing, they should perhaps “look” again.  

As social media and the internet transform the job landscape, it’s inevitable that job titles and descriptions will continue to expand into the realm of intensely perplexing and bewildering.  And if you could see my face right now, it’s a mixture of frowny face and “deer in the headlights”.  I may not yet be an influencer, but I have the “reaction” part down.

No, I’m Not Running

My faithful readers will know by now that I have decided not to throw my hat in the ring for any state or national elective office.   It’s not that I’m not quite as sharp as I used to be, truth be told, my memory and recall are slowing down a bit.  I know this because we watch “Jeopardy” every night, and often, I’ll think to myself, “I knew that.”  But I wouldn’t be able to buzz in fast enough.  And, once again in full disclosure, I’m lacking the stamina of Mitch McConnell or Chuck Grassley.  So, this year, I’m passing.  If some untoward write-in campaign forces me to emerge from retirement, well then, perhaps I’ll bow to the people.  

Continue reading “No, I’m Not Running”

A Fork in the Road

I was reminded recently, in a graduation speech, of Yogi Berra’s famous advice.  “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”   It’s one of those, “oh, wait” pronouncements.  You stop to think about it, and the funnier it gets.  But yes, life is all about forks in the road, about making decisions, and about making significant choices.  

Continue reading “A Fork in the Road”

Mother’s Day – Honoring, Loss, and Memories

This is a holiday for honoring mothers around the world.  It will be a day of celebration, a day filled with happy memories for those of us whose mothers have passed on but filled, for some, a day with just a hint of loneliness.  Our daughter is in Atlanta, and as she’s coming home in couple of weeks for her godson’s graduation from high school, so making the trip now didn’t make sense.  But we’ll be communicating by phone throughout the day.  Some families aren’t quite that lucky.  It is also a painful one in our family.  My wife’s sister passed in January, so this is our nephew’s first without . . . .  It will be a day of coping.  Celebrating with his wife and children but also a feeling a mix of emotions. 

Continue reading “Mother’s Day – Honoring, Loss, and Memories”

Are We Becoming Self-Centered?

Everywhere we turn these days, it seems to me that we’re hearing about taking care of ourselves first, making time for ourselves, or doing something on “my schedule”.  Historians may well look back on this period, calling it the “era of the selfie”.  We can date the period of extreme self-centeredness with the advent of taking self-portraits instantly, when the slogan “America First” won presidential elections and took hold as a governing principle.  Where our own interests become our consuming personal philosophy. 

Continue reading “Are We Becoming Self-Centered?”

Writing a “Tell-All”

There it is again – a cover on a popular magazine proclaiming, that yet another celebrity is “finally free to reveal” her life story.  Her struggles, setbacks, inabilities to cope with fame and wealth.  And my guess is that lots and lots of people like to read about those adversities.  Those same people watch reality television shows too, the really, really trashy ones that, for example highlight brains only working on a couple of cylinders paired with anger issues.  The ones where people’s homes are so full of crap they can’t move.  Or the best, where people fall in love with ax murderers and get married in the chapel of a maximum-security prison.  The ones that, when you see the cast in a preview, you tell yourself they really should be titled, “Dear God, Please Don’t Reproduce” or “Too Stupid to Live”.   But again, I’ve digressed.

Continue reading “Writing a “Tell-All””

Memorial Day Memories, Once Again

Much of today’s piece is from something I wrote last year, but seems appropriate to use it once again. Originally called “Decoration Day”, Memorial Day began in the years following the Civil War to commemorate the vast loss of life, of the soldiers that died on both sides of the conflict. Later, all military that died in battle.  Thus began the tradition of putting flowers and flags on graves in the spring, and it spread from military dead to family members and friends. It was unofficial until 1971, when Memorial Day became officially a national holiday.  

When we were younger, it was a tradition that my father, my brother, and I would travel down to Southeastern Massachusetts, where my great uncles Herbert and Warren lived.  Mother would have packed a picnic lunch, and we’d “make the rounds” of the cemeteries. Uncle Herb would have flats of flowers that he’d grown in his greenhouse ready. None of this Memorial Day for him – he always called it “Decoration Day”. Uncle Warren never came with us, as he never went out of the house.  Except to go to work at the horse farm next door, to which he walked across a large field.  He even shoveled himself a path through the snow in the winter, so he didn’t need to go near the road.  I think he considered cars as “handmaids of the Devil”. He’d worked at the farm for years, and confided one day that he absolutely hated horses!  Anyway, that was our first stop.  Flowers in hand, off we’d go to visit the graves of family.  We’d first stop at the graves of my great grandparents, and Herb would show us his plot and his brother Warren’s, “where they would be”, as he’d tell us proudly.  I always thought it just a bit creepy, but it gave him a sense of pleasure and peace, so that was fine.  We’d nod and make appreciative noises, as only a ten or eleven-year-old can.

Next, we’d proceed to my grandfather’s grave.  His was by itself, in a large cemetery in Jamaica Plain, for whatever reason.  Charles Walters was sort of a mystery to all of us. He arrived from somewhere down south, and married my grandmother, who was quite a bit older than he.  He died, sadly at age 31, when my father was 3.  So, basically a question mark.  The only thing we have from him is his violin, so we know there’s a musical connection there, but otherwise, not much to go on.  The Princess and I did some research on him on Ancestry one year.  We didn’t turn up a lot, so Elizabeth concluded that he was probably a fugitive from something.  Perhaps it’ll be a “true crime” documentary at some point. The final stop was at the grave of my grandmother, who was buried where her third and final husband would later be.  He was still alive when we were young, well into his 90’s.  We’d stop at his house in Canton, Massachusetts, to say hello.  His house was on the street where my father lived growing up, and farther down, we’d stop to visit a lovely lady Uncle Herb’s age, May.  She’d grown up with Herb, and we always suspected that he’d held a candle for her in their youth.  (For you younger readers, that means he liked her.)

In high school, our band would make the rounds for various observances. I went to a regional school in Southwestern New Hampshire, so we had multiple sending towns for whom we participated.  The band would play in the Southern towns first – Fitzwilliam and Troy, and then end up in Swanzey, the largest of the regional system.  The parade in Troy was memorable because the parade would loop through the long town square and meander down to the river that ran below it.  There, we’d have a ceremony where a veteran or a Gold Star Mother would toss an elaborate silver wreath into the water in memory of those lost at sea.  The wreath would float gently past and under the bridge while we played something suitable – probably the Navy Hymn, until it disappeared from view.  It was very moving until one year, as we were returning to the square, we noticed that there was a man on the other side of the bridge in waders, with a fishing pole ready to snatch the wreath out of the water so it could be reused the next year.  Apparently, the wreath was as old as most of the WWII veterans in attendance. A touching combination of ceremony and Yankee frugality.  

In the small village, where I grew up, there was a Civil War memorial.  A period cannon, along with the requisite stack of cannonballs sat on a raised area right next to the triangle in front of the Congregational Church.  To be completely honest, I don’t ever remember anything happening on Memorial Day of any significance.  Later in the summer, Old Home Day was the larger event, with young folks in costumes, bicycles and baby carriages, usually the town’s fire engine and snow plow would make an appearance.  Then a big pot luck supper.  We’d moved there when I was in the fourth grade from a suburb of Boston, and my mother wasn’t altogether trusting of the local cuisine.  But we partook, and all of us lived to talk about it.

The next town over, Nelson, is where my father’s roots ran deeply.  The old family homestead is there, where members of my grandmother’s family, the Hardys, have lived since the late 1700’s, and many branches are buried in the local cemetery.  In fact, my father is buried in this cemetery, so we go over each year and put some flowers there, along with a flag.  Nelson has a bit more happening.  A parade with the town band was lining up to march to the cemetery one year as we were passing through, and we had to take a back road to escape. The town band, quite a festive group for a small town, also plays for July 4th, when they are mounted on a couple of boats tied together and proceed around Granite Lake, finishing up just before the fireworks.  

My wife, Her Ladyship’s family has some protocols for the family graves in the nearby city of Keene.  My late father-in-law was usually in command of the plantings.  His preferences were for red geraniums, with marigolds in front.  In later years, we took over, but maintaining the planting diagrams exactly.  Herself and her father planted the flowers one year in my absence – I had a parade or some such.  My wife is not what you’d call an “outdoorsy” person, and in fairness, she was dressed up in school principal attire.  In laying out the plantings, her father told her she “dug like a dog”.  I don’t think he meant it as a compliment.  A few years back, some friends took it upon themselves to put in a small enclosed garden in front of the gravestone, with some pretty flowering things and a couple of perennials.  Just a year or two after that, the rulers of the cemetery decreed that all of those plantings got in the way of their crew’s mowing. Judging by the number of times they appeared to actually mow, it didn’t seem like a problem to me, particularly as the summer wore on.  A small herd of goats could have done a neater job.   But a rule is a rule, so out went the plants. In recent years, we just put small containers with flags in front of the headstones so the fine team of maintenance people can remove them as needed. This year, I found some nice-looking containers, but they were yellow and purple, a departure from, and probably a violation of my father-in-law’s Code of Color.  I’ll probably be visited by his spirit, asking me what happened to the red geraniums.

One of my favorite Memorial Day stories came from a colleague, who was a band director up in the North Country.  He related to us at dinner one year at a conference, that his high school band was situated at the front of the parade.  They stepped off and marched crisply through town.  As the band came up to the Fire Station, the Fire Department thought it would be a nice touch to blow the whistle alarm in salute.  The director, not knowing that, and assuming the doors would fly open and fire trucks would roll out and crush the band, he directed the drum major down a side street and onto an alternative route, literally into less traveled parts of town.  The rest of the parade followed the band on its detour, which extended the parade route a bit and into areas he confided he’d never seen before. Unfortunately, it also took the parade participants away from the waving crowds and the reviewing stand, which was set up just down the street from the fire station.   A story about which legends are made.

Memorial Day provides us all with an opportunity to honor and reflect on those that died in service to their country.  Their heroism and sacrifice.  Or, as Abraham Lincoln phrased it, their “last full measure of devotion.”  Thank you all.

When to Stop Worrying?

When, as a parent, do you stop worrying about your children?  If you chose “never”, that’s the correct answer.  The only exceptions would be advanced dementia or death.  Other than that, you never stop worrying.  Even when they’re settled, it doesn’t stop.  Are they ok?  Are they happy? A great line from “Law and Order”, from the character Lt. Anita Van Buren, states “A parent is only as happy as their unhappiest child.”  Yup, that sums it up.

Continue reading “When to Stop Worrying?”