Money Angel

I led a kayaking trip to Tennessee over the weekend. The first night, we were enjoying the evening on the deck of our cabin when one of the participants asked if I planned to perform any miracles this year. Miracles?

“Yeah, like last year on the Tuck,” she replied and everyone laughed. She meant two years ago, but we knew what she was talking about.

On this annual trip, we usually append an option of paddling rivers in North Carolina, which is on the way home. In this case, the river was the Tuck, which is a little off the beaten path.

I was discussing shuttle arrangements with the group there. That is, how we would drop vehicles at the termination point of the trip, so we’d have a way of returning to where we put in. A spouse of one of the paddlers volunteered to simplify the process. Since she wasn’t paddling, she’d just pick us up at the end and shuttle us back up to our vehicles, so all we had to do was just dump the boats in and go. Great!

Except, about halfway down the river, her husband mentioned something that made all our heads spin around. Without getting into detail, it was revealed that her understanding (as related by her husband) wasn’t the time and place we would end the trip. Someone has better do something or all kinds of ramifications could result.

Someone would be me. I’m the trip leader and people expect a solution for anything and everything.

There was absolutely no cell phone coverage so I began to look for any sign of civilization as we continued to paddle. Finally, I saw a few ends of trailers atop a steep bank. There were some youngsters peering over the edge at us. “Are there any adults up there?” I yelled. They just continued to stare, Deliverance-like.

I climbed out of my kayak and clawed my way about halfway up the steep and slippery clay. “I said….” Ponk! One of them had chucked a clod at my head. And people ask why kayakers wear helmets.

“I said, are there any adults up there?”

“I’m thirteen,” called one of the tallest.

“Anyone older, like your parents?”

“My mom’s in Alabama.” Yeah, that helps.

It appeared I’d have to find out for myself. I continued my climb, keeping head down, in case of further bombardment. When I emerged at the top, I stood in a semicircle of five barefoot girls, ranging from about six to fourteen in age.

We studied each other for a minute when the door of the nearby rusty trailer burst open. “What the hell’s goin’ on out here?’ Oh good. Granny Clampett in a tube top and cutoffs. My day just keeps getting better.

Whys and wherefores would only confuse the issue, so I got right to the point. “I’ll give you $30 to take me to (whatever the name of the bridge was where we put in).”

“Whaaaa? How come? Why you dressed funny?” I’m the one dressed funny?

“We’re paddling down on the river and something has come up. I need to get back to my truck and I’ll give you $30 to take me there. Cash.”

Something came over her, along with a huge smile. She pointed a bony finger. “The lord done sent you to deliver me!”

“Perhaps I didn’t explain it quite right. You see…”

“I heard ya plain enough. I was prayin’ for some money to feed my grandchildren and the lord done sent an angel. Praise the lord and all his glory. Praise his angel and my salvation, praise…”

“Can I tell my friends I have a ride?”

She got her keys and we climbed into an old minivan that listed about 20 degrees to starboard. Thelma (her name) fished a crumpled pack of Luckies out of her top. She lit up, hacked heartily and bellowed for the kids to jump into the van.

The three youngest eagerly complied, now seeing me as a fascination. What, with me being sent by the lord and all.

However, the older ones resisted. “Y’all can stay but keep yer dern snouts outta the whiskey!” Thelma turned to me. “I don’t like them gittin’ sh##faced without me around.”

“Very commendable of you.”

“Lord knows I tryin’. That’s why he sent you when all this happened. Course, you already knowed that.”

“Well, he doesn’t always tell me everything, so why don’t you fill me in.”

Thelma lives with her daughter and her five daughters in Alabama. They have access to this trailer in North Carolina. Thelma’s daughter couldn’t get away from work, so she gave her a hundred bucks and told her to take the girls up to North Carolina and she’d join them the following weekend.

Thelma did that, but somehow got sidetracked to an Indian casino where the money “disappeared.” None of them has eaten for the past two days, except for Cheetos and potato chips. Go good with whiskey.

The few miles seemed interminable. I got out of the van, walked around to the driver side and held out three tens with my thanks. Thelma’s eyes snapped open with delight as she grabbed for them. A little too wide.

I didn’t let go of the bills. “It’s for food, not the casino.”

“Oh yes, I know. I learnt my lesson.”

I had some doubts and hung onto the bills until she made eye contact. “Good, because if you haven’t and spend this on anything but your grandchildren, the next angel won’t be nice like me.”

That seemed to register, so I added a twenty. Being an angel of the lord can have significant overhead.

Neo-Doo Wop

End of a long day and I settle into the recliner to wind down with one of the esoteric channels that are worth the cost of electricity. And there it is, the Doo Wop Preservation League.

Ah, my kind of sound, with all it evokes. But wait, it’s not about that. Even better, it’s about a place that engendered all that was good and fun about the era. Wildwood, New Jersey. Or, “The Wood,” as we referred to it in my callow youth.

For a summary, listen to Bobby Rydell’s “Wildwood Days.” Bob Ridarelli, as he was known around the neighborhood where he played with a number of street corner groups. He would know about The Wood.

I previously blogged about The Wood and it’s nice to know that it holds a special place for many. Special enough for them to bring it back from the brink. I was there three years ago and the old magic was beginning to lose out to weekend condos.

But, the art deco/50s architecture is back with renovated and new motels. Not that we ever stayed in them. We were more the ten teenagers in a $10 boardinghouse room types. But, who stayed in the room?

Days were for the beach and nights were for parties. “Under the Boardwalk” (The Drifters) was a celebration of the weekend down the shore, far from the bonds of adult supervision. The spirit was somewhat recaptured by “Eddie and the Cruisers” and the rendition of “Wild Summer Nights.”

I don’t know if the movement (http://www.doowopusa.org/) will register enough with more recent generations to sustain the effort. But, I’ll be making the pilgramage to this beachside mecca and a contribution to their economy.

This time, in a motel.

I went to a party and...

I went to a fight and a hockey game broke out. Fans don’t go to see the race (cars); they go to see the crashes.

The implications are, of course, that the underlying reasons for events aren’t always apparent. I thought of this the other night when I was at a gathering of paddlers and someone asked me about a trip that I organized for this weekend.

He observed that many of my trips break new ground (water?), but the Hiwassee River seems to pop up on the schedule every year. Why is that?

Why is that, indeed. I do like to try new places and expand the bank of experiences. But, the paddling group starts howling for the Hiwassee months ahead of time. It’s not like I have a choice but to schedule it every year.

The river and setting are pleasant enough. A variety of whitewater features set in the Tennessee mountains. But, it’s not the most spectacular whitewater in the world, especially for the more experienced.

No, it’s not the river. It’s the cabin.

The first time I kayaked the Hiwassee, I went along with a group out of Kentucky. They camped on the grounds of a rafting outfitter. We squeezed over a dozen people onto a plot the size of a postage stamp, wedged among a horde of raft renters that ran heavily to male college students bent upon supporting the brewing and audio industries. Ah, wilderness.

The river was enjoyable enough for me to plan a trip of our own the following year, but I had learned a lesson. I rented a cabin on a remote mountaintop, high above the teeming masses.

I selected it from a variety of web sites, relying on the photographs and descriptions. In this case, it exceeded expectations.

It was five miles away from the hub of activity and up a gravel drive that was over a half mile long, taking us high and deep into the dense forest. A huge deck overlooked the valley to the west (great sunsets!). The deck included a hot tub. It can’t get much better than that.

And, it worked. It works every year. After a great day of paddling, we come back and shower off. Then, the tables are loaded with all kinds of food and potables. We sit out on the deck or in the tub, as one is so inclined, and party well into the dark, mountaintop night. Some don’t even bother to go inside and bed down. They just stay in their lounge chairs or throw down sleeping bags and enjoy the sounds of the woods. It’s an experience.

Trips are as much about the participants as the locations and activity. There’s something about this one that seems to self-select the fun people. There’s always great chemistry and a ton of merriment. I can tell it’s special by the high hit count on my photo site. People just keep going back over and over to relive and savor the experience.

So, Monday morning, I guess we’ll be saying that we went to a party and a kayaking trip broke out. Sweet.

Foul Balls

The Brooklyn Cyclones minor league baseball team just targeted pregnant women with a promo that included a Lamaze class, the women walking the bases sans shoes (barefoot and pregnant?), and a cravings station (pickles, ice cream and pizza). Also, any of them who would name their child Brooklyn or Cy would receive season tickets for life.

May not be the worst idea in that marketing genre. In contention for that would be Disco Demolition Night at Comisky Field. White Sox fans were encouraged to bring disco records for a destruction “ceremony.”

The promotion went too well and 50,000 showed up, many of whom were turned away. The disappointed revelers tried to climb the walls and otherwise created havoc. As beer flowed, fans discovered that records can be used as Frisbees.

The explosion was more powerful than planned and blew a hole in the field that would bother players for the rest of the season. It also ignited a riot with fans rushing onto the field and destroying and burning equipment. The Tigers refused to take the field and the Sox had to forfeit.

Okay, maybe that couldn’t be easily foreseen. But, what about Cash Drop Night at a West Michigan Whitecaps game? Dropping a thousand dollars in bills from a helicopter for fans to scramble after apparently didn’t raise any qualms when they conjured up that concept. Children were trampled and bloodied in the melee.

And, do you have to be Kreskin to figure out what would ensue at 10-cent Beer Night at a Cleveland Indians game? Flashing, mooning and throwing every loose object onto the field. The Indians forfeited to the Rangers.

Can’t wait for Glock Night or Bring-Your-Pit-Bull to the Doubleheader.

This magic moment

Perfect night to kayak, I thought as we shoved off the riverbank. I had no idea how true that would turn out to be.

Dropped through the first chute and the boat was carving back and forth as sharp as a blade. One of those runs where the kayak is part of you, the connection being seamless.

We were playing in a short series of rock shelves, throwing our boats around, laughing and just messing around. The air was filled with the sounds of splashes, chatter and laughter. And then, it went silent.

I turned around and saw everyone staring at a tree on the bank, right next to the river. I followed their eyes and there were two majestic bald eagles, casually regarding us.

We encounter many kinds of birds on the water, but they usually scatter as soon as we come anywhere near them. It was almost as if we could reach out and touch the eagles, but they were unfazed.

You could make out every detail; the substantial body, great hooked beak and those fierce eyes – ah, those eyes. We have seen eagles before, but usually at a distance. In a high aerie or soaring above the trees. This was different.

It was an after-work event and we’re usually somewhat conscious of how much time we spend in each place on the river, knowing that the sun is dropping. But, no one moved. We just bobbed there and exchanged stares with the eagles for ever.

Finally, we paddled on. It took a while for the chatter to pick up because everyone was lost in contemplation of the experience.

There are few really magic moments in life. Being an adventurous group, we put ourselves in positions to experience more, but they are still fairly rare.

I’d bet everyone was thinking about it when they opened their eyes this morning. I know I was.

Yellow Flag

I received one of those mailing tubes yesterday. I didn’t recall ordering a poster or anything like that. Inside was a yellow flag with a photograph and check wrapped around its dowel. No letter or note. None required.

Around the beginning of the year, Tom stuck his head into my office. “Can I see you a minute?” Tom has a small company that does work around our office complex.

I braced myself, thinking we were in for a major repair. “How much is it going to cost me?”

“What? Oh no, nothing like that. More like what it’ll cost me. I heard you did some business consulting on the side and was wondering how much you charge.”

“Depends on a number of factors; type of assignment, scope, level of involvement. (How much my next vacation will cost). But, usually about three hundred an hour.”

“Jeez. So it could cost someone thousands to use you?”

“If they let me do my job, it doesn’t cost them anything. I make money for people. If I’m not generating a lot more profit for them than they’re investing in me, it wouldn’t make much sense.”

“Yeah, but it probably doesn’t make sense anyway for a company our size.”

“Assuming you want to stay that size. Look, I know you slip us some free stuff here because we’re a nonprofit. Why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind and I’ll return the favor without running the meter? When you’re rich and famous, I’ll expect you to cut a contribution check to us.”

“Nothing real specific. Just haven’t faced an economy like this and don’t quite know what to do. Tightening the belt like everyone else, but that ain’t helping much.”

I looked out the window and saw Tom’s Monte Carlo with the Rusty Wallace number decal. “You floor it.”

“Floor what?”

“You’re racing at Daytona. What’s the easiest way to move up a place?”

“Try to go faster than the other guy?”

“Go faster when the other guys slow down. Move up during the yellow flag.”

“Can’t. Against the rules.”

“Yeah, but if you could, and only you could, it would be easy to move up. In this economy, your competition has yellow-flagged itself. You can step on the gas and pick up places.”

“And that works?”

“It’s always worked for me. Never a better time to pick up market share than when everyone else is pulling in their horns.”

So, I knew what the flag was about without benefit of a note. The check was a nice contribution to the nonprofit I run.

The photo? Tom in his new Corvette. Sweet.

RIP

The publisher of the local newspaper continues to write columns disputing the conjecture that it’s dying. Those who disagree point out the ongoing cuts in staffing and page count.

That’s the body and not the soul, which would be more of my concern. On today’s editorial page, there’s a piece alluding to “the anti-immigrant lunatic fringe.” There are a significant number of people who oppose violation of our duly legislated law (as in illegal border crossing), but I am not aware of them opposing the legal act of immigration. And since the column proffers the word “lunatic,” doesn’t skewing reality and stating it as a fact pretty much define it?

This is the page for opinion. But, when you publish what crosses the line into ouright distortion, you’re not dying as a newspaper. You’re dead.

Exchange rate

As you move through different phases of life, you accumulate varied sets of friends. Your interactions with them can take different forms.

Some of my sets favor the dinner party as a format for this. I find them very enjoyable, if not done as a steady diet. It seems like one comes up about every other week and that’s a bit much for me.

In this case, the occasion was Ann and Don’s new house, with the added bonus that the party would include Pam and Tom, who are wonderful people. I was intrigued by the project. They bought a large old house near Covington Kentucky’s riverfront and totally renovated it, moving walls, adding an elevator, etc. Hardly a brick left unturned. More than I would’ve taken on at this stage of life, so I was fascinated.

It was a very pleasurable evening and the house exceeded expectations. I was contemplating it on the way home when my companion interrupted my reverie. “I saw your eyes pop when he said the granite countertops cost $18,000. I know what you were thinking.”

“That’s some expensive rock.”

“No, you were thinking that’s eighteen kayaks.”

“Twenty-five.” How did she know?

What's a kabbadi match without a beer?

I met some people for lunch at a favorite ethnic restaurant. The owner came around, passing out brochures for an annual festival coming up. They can be interesting and I’m game to take a look.

This one is sports-oriented and there is little mention of food and music (although, there is a cultural program). Okay, I’m less interested. But, they do offer cash prizes for the games.

First prize in kabbadi is $5,100, while second takes $3,100. I haven’t been in a good kabbadi match since…what the heck is it? I look it up and it appears to be a larger scale version of when you’d slide your foot over onto your brother or sister’s side of the car seat. Or, maybe like dodgeball without the ball.

At any rate, it’s the main event because it pays more than basketball or volleyball. Which raises a point, if not an eyebrow. The men’s volleyball event pays out $1,500 and $1,100 to the two top finishers, while the women’s event coughs up only $1,100 and $700. I’d like to see the American Legion try to get away with that.

I’m still undecided and will leave it to the slug lines at the bottom of the page to make their case. “Food Booths Available.” That doesn’t bode well. “No Alcohol Allowed.” What’s a kabbadi match without a beer? “Tight Security.” To quote Bill Engvall, “Here’s your sign.”

I’ll pass on this one.

How to open a gift

I was the giftee of a new kayak. The fact that I was also the giftor is irrelevant. As long as everyone in the transaction is happy, it’s a beautiful thing.

To optimize the pleasure derived from this, one must begin with the proper ritual. That’s where the enjoyment commences, not when you finally get it to the water.

The boat arrives ensconced in layers of protective wrapping and padding. Stuffed into the cockpit of the boat is a mesh bag containing all the pads to custom fit the kayak to your body plus the owner’s manual. Kind of like the giblets of a roasting turkey.

The first thing you do is tear apart the wrapping with gusto. You don’t slit it carefully and gently remove the boat. This is a present. Go for it!

Then, untie the bag and pitch it aside. Jump in and feel the boat. Inhale deeply of the toxic new plastic fumes. Ahhhhh. Run your hand over the glossy virgin curves for the tactile sensation (it’s the last time it’ll be this pristine).

Now you’re ready to start the fitting. There are all kinds of mysterious adjusting devices with no apparent mode of operation. Do not succumb to consulting the manual. It’ll only confuse you.

Initiate the process by twisting, unscrewing or loosening anything that appears to be moveable. Do that until parts start falling into the bilge of the boat. These things are assembled by races who have hands the size of parakeet feet, so you’re good for another hour or two of reattaching the components. But, it’ll be a learning process and you’ll bond with your new partner.

You now have a reasonably good fit. But, you’ll need the other goodies to effect a form fit. Shake the pads out of the bag. Enjoy it – more presents.

The padding is pre-cut to precisely fit the contours of you and the kayak. Just not this kayak. It’s as if the boat and the sculpted pads are pieces from different jigsaw puzzles. You can eyeball, squeeze and rotate the pads all you care to but you won’t find a home for them within the bowels of the boat. Again, eschew the manual. The manufacturers have no idea where they go, either. They just throw in a bag of random foam blocks to keep you happy.

So, get out the hacksaw and some dragon skin. Carve out some slices to close the gaps between you and the boat. There, doesn’t that feel better? Discard the manual. Now, you’re ready to rock.

Except, the phone rang. “Are you playing with your new toy yet?” I described the process to her, savoring the replay. “I don’t suppose you considered a more organized approach.”

“That’s the way it’s done.”

“That’s the way a guy does it.”

Whatever floats your boat.

No taxation without electrification

Get ready to get charged up this Monday. That’s when Duke Energy starts pulling an additional $55.3 million a year out of our pockets. The president of Duke Energy Ohio said that the increase was needed to cover the higher cost of delivering electricity. Duke enjoyed profits of $1.4 billion in 2008, in spite of expenses incurred through storm damages. More about this later.

I don’t believe the significance is as much in the numbers as the unauthorized taxation. The Ohio Consumer’s Council calculated that the utility needed no more than $39 million to cover higher cost. And yet, Duke was able to negotiate that up to the $55.3 million.

As part of this settlement, Duke will “contribute” money to reduce low-income electric bills, underwrite efforts of People Working Cooperatively and The Ohio Partners for Affordable Energy, etc. Huh? Duke isn’t contributing anything. They’re getting a nice revenue bump. The “contributions” are coming from the additional money being squeezed out of the bill-paying consumers and being reallocated to others through Duke.

That isn’t to say the causes or organizations aren’t worthy. The point is that confiscating our money and reallocating it to others, or the benefit thereof, is taxation. Put any semantic dress you want on it, but that’s what it is. Did you vote on that? Did your elected representatives vote on it?

Furthermore, deciding who gets that money and for what end is setting public policy. Did you vote on that? Did your elected representatives?

Let’s return to the storm damage expense before you get all weepy about that in Duke’s behalf. It’s estimated at around $31 million and the PUCO instructed Duke to submit a separate request for that. Want to guess who foots the bill?

Can you imagine getting a letter from your butcher or lawn service? “Dear Customer. Our maintenance costs ran higher than we expected last year and we decided you should take the hit for that instead of us. Here’s your bill to be paid over the agreed upon rate you already remitted.”

And aren’t these the people who are always trying to sell us repair insurance on our end of the system, as in underground lines? Somehow, it went from “the expense to repair equipment on your property is your responsibility” to “oh yeah, and any of our other stuff, too.” If the repair insurance is such a great idea, why didn’t they buy it for their equipment? Why are they hitting up us for the damages?

In the mode of our day, Duke has plastered their web site with “green” concerns. Make no mistake, the paramount green goal is how to get yours.

Just for laughs, try to deduct the enforced contributions on your 1040. Good luck on that one.

Found money

I came into a small windfall, which motivated some friends to provide adages and superstitions about found money. I don’t see the difference between this cash and any other, but I’m willing to listen.

It was provided to save. There’s a divine power that has an interest in my financial planning? Sounds like a stretch to me. I think divine entities have bigger fish to fry.

Don’t accept it because it causes woes to the loser. In these circumstances, I became the rightful owner. The source, a company of no small means, won’t suffer much and they lost it by their own hand.

You’re supposed to donate it to a charity. Like savings, I budget the donations. I don’t buy that the source of funds signifies its earmarking by a higher power.

I listened, but didn’t connect the event to a spiritual manifest destiny. Then, I noticed the amount was almost exactly the price of a kayak I’ve had my eye on.

Now that is a sign from above if I ever saw one. Glad I kept an open mind.

Liquid logic

Sometimes you strike an unexpected vein of wisdom or philosophy. Such was the case with Anna Levesque’s article in a recent issue of “American Whitewater.” Not a source I usually mine for life lessons.

Anna is a kayaker and instructor, usually writing on paddling technique. However, in this case, she relates the lessons of life she’s learned from paddling. “Kayaking has been a significant teacher in helping me understand how to create a happy, fun, successful and adventurous life for myself no matter what others think or what society tries to dictate that I should do instead.”

Rule one, pay attention. “That feeling of focusing on what’s in front of you and what you need to do to make it through the rapid is very freeing. In that moment there is nothing but you, the river and your goal. When we get trashed on the river, or miss a wave or mess up a move, it’s not because the river is out to get us. We can’t blame the river for our mistakes, lack of focus or bad timing. We have to take responsibility for our actions and our thoughts that may have caused the mess up.”

A productive philosophy since we can’t learn from our mistakes if we deny them. In my line of work, I’m often asked how you know when someone is mentally ill. One sign is blaming the river, in Anna’s parlance. Some of the ill continuously run afoul of different relatives, police officers, teachers and various others, but their defect prevents them from seeing that they’re the common thread in the problems. By facing how we err, we have the opportunity to correct and grow in life, as well as take responsibility for our actions.

Rule two, look at where you want to go. “How do you choose what route to take? You can start by looking at where you want to go. If you’re feeling like you’re stuck in a rut in your life, think of it as though you’re caught in an eddy. Keep your eyes on your goal as you make that first move in peeling out.”

I do a little business consulting on the side and lead companies through strategic planning. I can usually predict how well they will succeed during the goal-setting step. At this juncture, we set specific targets. If we don’t know where we want to be, how can we plan how to get there?

Companies (and individuals) who set meaningful and specific goals to shoot for generally succeed. Keeping their eyes on the goals maintains the course toward them.

Rule three, build a supportive team. “I’m picky about who I paddle with, especially when paddling a river that challenges me. The same is true for me in my life in general. That doesn’t mean that they (friends) always tell me what I want to hear. I count on my good friends to call me out on behavior that isn’t productive. My students like to joke about my ‘tough love’ method of teaching. I don’t do it to make them suffer. I do it because I know it will make them get better.”

I’ve seen this over the years in employee behavior. Good employees surround themselves with others who push them to improve and support them in that direction. Others congregate with those who reinforce negative behavior, doing them no favors. Misery loves company.

Rule four, flip over, roll up and keep going. “Imagine giving up kayaking after your first swim. I’m sure it’s happened to someone, but for most of us we didn’t let a swim discourage us into giving up. It’s important to learn from the swim, but not to internalize it as an indication of your own self-worth.”

I don’t know for sure what my odds are after failing in my first attempts. However, I do know with certainty what chances of succeeding are if I quit. Winners never quit and quitters never win.

Rule five, live in the present. “The adrenaline rush, being outside and being active is really fun, but it wasn’t the physicality that hooked me on the sport. It was, and is, an intense feeling of happiness and fulfillment that comes with focusing on and enjoying the present moment.”

You have control over your present and future. Live your life in them.

It’s all pretty much common sense, but reminders can be beneficial. I’d guess that Anna’s students come out better paddlers and better people.

Applied editorial technique

Editors of periodicals are allotted space to use based upon the number of ad pages sold in that issue. The editorial well.

An editor can plan content based upon budget projections, but never really knows until deadline when the ad salespeople are clamoring to squeeze in some last minute stuff or are falling short of quota.

I had an editor working for me who seemed especially adept at cutting to fit during this hectic window. He told me he simply lopped off the back end of articles.

I asked if there was a quality issue doing it that way instead of wading through the entire article and sifting out less important material. “Journalists are taught to put the important things first. Hey, it works!”

Ah, July 4th weekend. Three glorious free days of summer weather to do whatever. Except I have six days worth of stuff on my to-do list: family, romance, kayaking, yard work, house work and car washing.

How to prioritize? I could try lopping off the back end of the list.

Hey, it works!

Mark leaves his mark

A reporter called me for some quotes about substance abuse, relating to the death of Michael Jackson. I run a drug & alcohol/mental illness treatment center, and this was the third journalist to contact me with such a request for background.

I answered her questions and then had one for her. “How come none of you are calling about the travails of a child with a known adulterous parent?”

“Joe Jackson was adulterous?” Somewhere, Mark Sanford breathed a sigh of relief and gave some thanks for the spate of celebrity deaths.

The coverage of Sanford has focused on him and his political future, with gaining momentum for the plight of his wife. The four children have been given the obligatory nod.

But, they’re the ones who have long lives ahead of them. They’re the ones who will bear the scars for decades and decades.

Adultery goes back to the Bible and, undoubtedly, before that. Let’s not kid ourselves, it will continue to go on. If accepted as a given, the question becomes damage control. The damage, if any, multiplies geometrically with the levels of discovery. The primary innocent victims can be the children.

There are degrees of harmful situations:

1. The infidelity is undiscovered, but children detect a diversion of attention and priority.

2. The infidelity becomes known to the spouse, and the children sense the tension.

3. The infidelity becomes known to the children.

4. The infidelity is known inside and outside the family.

5. The adulterer involves a child (as in asking the child to keep the secret or otherwise abet the betrayal).

It was once assumed that the first two had minimal impact on children. But more recent studies have shown otherwise. Children don’t miss much and they imprint easily.

In the next two cases, the scarring is obvious. A primary impact is insecurity and anxiety, leading to long-term mental issues. Children rely on the shelter of the family relationship and the betrayal shatters that sanctuary. Older children experience extreme and protracted anger.

Self-esteem is further wounded when awareness of the adulterous parent leaks beyond the family circle. The children are stigmatized by picking up the tag, son/daughter of the betrayer. They will carry those scars and embarrassment for life, even though it was not of their own doing.

The message would seem to be clear that if you must stray, at all costs, avoid hurting those you have the most responsibility to. Who wants to harm their own children? And yet, there is #5 above because of a small deviant segment that not only fails to protect their children from the knowledge of their infidelity, but actually involves them in some manner, ranging from boasting about it to asking them to cover or otherwise assist.

Child psychologists deem this the worst thing a parent can do. Dr. Frank Pittman of Emory University wrote, “It’s like incest. The child is forced to carry an awful secret and is alienated from the other parent.”

Effects vary with the genders of the parent and children. Since the mother is deemed the focus of the family structure, her infidelity can have a greater impact in warping the child’s perception of relationships.

That’s also why I doff my hat to Jenny Sanford for not putting politics first and standing up beside her husband. She put her children first and stood apart by them. If the journalists want to draw something from all of this hoopla, they should focus on her.

Many politicians are motivated to leave an impression. Mark Sanford definitely left his mark. Unfortunately, it’s on four children.