Brown Shoes, Again

It’s occurred to me that Ben is becoming more comfortable in his role as mayor. In one of my earliest posts I remarked that Ben had the habit of wearing brown shoes with grey and blue suits – a major sartorial misstep. The day after that post the brown shoes disappeared and he stopped by my desk to demonstratively point to his nicely shined black shoes.

I smiled, taking satisfaction in the reform that I had inspired.

Now, however, the campaign is over and he’s safely in possession of the mayor’s office for at least the next four years. Because of that transition our address may have changed, but still I’m parked ten feet from his office door.  Ben walks by my desk with approximately the same frequency and I’m able to report that his brown shoes have reappeared.

Ben reminds me of the eager suitor who, through long and patient effort, managed to get his beloved to say yes, she would be his bride. On the way to that sweet moment of assent he conformed himself in a thousand ways, both large and small, to be that version of a man he believed could win her approval.

Then, after the marriage, there was a “norming” process. Gradually some small but treasured idiosyncrasies re-emerged. She found out the old red shirt, with its unattractive western detailing, wasn’t thrown away after all. His need to drive the car reasserted itself. His disapproval of broccoli regained its past emphasis.

Oddly, in a good marriage, with every jettisoning of the reserve disguising those details, there comes a greater commitment to the essential truths at the foundation of that marriage. He gradually learns new reasons to love and honor his wife; reasons that don’t include red shirts, driving habits or broccoli.

So when I see Ben’s brown shoes walk past my desk I manage to say nothing. I know they’re a sign Ben is comfortable in his relationship with our county, and with each passing day he’s finding new reasons to appreciate and value the fact that he is mayor.

Orange You Proud?

Today Club McAdams was back in campaign form.

The Ben Bus was gassed up, a call for volunteers went out, and we took our place in the annual St. Patrick's Day parade. The only things we were missing were the distribution of brochures and the constant repetition of our once hallowed chant, "Vote For Ben!, Vote For Ben!, Vote for Ben!"

Well, it appears most folks did exactly that.

What else has changed? Ben and Julie's children are noticeably older. Kate is now more a girl, less a child, and significantly more lovely. Isaac arrived without a stroller, and the baby we knew last Spring has disappeared.

The population of McAdamsville has evolved. During last year's campaign we were partly staff and mostly volunteers. Now my colleagues in county government comprise the largest faction of our population.

And The Ben Bus finally came into its own. The great orange rectangle of hope which, last year, quickly became synonymous with "The Perfect Campaign," is, ironically, the greatest single proof that our campaign was, in fact, not perfect.

If you put out a casting call for the ultimate attention getter in any parade, that call would be exquisitely answered by our large flamboyantly colored bus. Yet in last year's campaign, how many, of the scores of parades we entered, featured the Ben Bus?

Not one!

We acquired this fabulous symbol of lighthearted inclusiveness at the very end of the parade season. So today was its first chance to fulfill the role for which it was destined. And I'm proud to report that our bus acquitted itself with warmth and charm.

Orange you proud?

The Man Who Deserves It

There is a fellow named David who delivers the mail at the government center. He's tall, friendly, well liked and handicapped.

When David was born his umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck and his complexion was a deep and exaggerated blue. That misfortune left David with limitations, but one of them is not the ability to deliver mail.

Every day he pushes a cart around two large buildings and a total of ten floors. One fortunate employee in every suite receives both the mail, and the pleasure of David's company, twice each day.

I am one of those fortunate people.

Someone told me they remember David missing work once, but that person, like David, has worked here for a very long time. David is as much a part of the government center as our well attended cafeteria, or our cave-like absence of natural light. His simple ebullience is the compensating glow of an internal sun.

I've introduced myself to a few county employees who look mystified when I tell them I'm on Ben McAdams' staff. "McAdams, is he new?" they'll ask.

"Ben McAdams," I'll say, "the new county mayor."

Yet so far I've not met anyone who doesn't know David. In fact, the two syllables of his quite common name are enough to identify him to anyone. It's as if he is "the David," and those who share his name are simply "a David."

I have an affinity for acquiring the friendship of important and popular people. No doubt that unerring sensibility explains many of the blessings I now enjoy. So perhaps it's no surprise I found myself immediately attracted to David.

And, whatever quality makes my company attractive to such people, also had its effect on David.

From the first day on my new job we began forging a friendship. He'd pause at my desk, make small talk, and give me a pound or two from his ever-present ton of good cheer.

Then a while back he started to tell me about a surprise he wanted to share. "It's a really excellent newspaper article," he said, "I know you'll like it."

But then, the following day, he'd not have that "really excellent" newspaper article and I'd tease him, "Where's that article David? I wondered about it all night. I hardly slept."

He'd blush and tell me he was sorry, he'd forgot. I'd remind him not to forget tomorrow, and he'd agree he'd try to remember.

Then, finally, after a few weeks of going back and forth, he gave me a copy of an old yellowed article in "The Deseret News." It was about a winter version of The Special Olympics held at a local ski resort. At the top of that article was a picture of David tucked into racing posture, and coming down the hill at breakneck speed.

The gist of the article was a description of David's achievement. Despite his disability, he was an exceptional skier, by any standard, special or non-special. His performance in the slalom had won a collection of silver and gold medals.

Ten years ago David was something of a star, and for a brief period the subject of local notoriety.

I said, "Wow David, this is really something! I can't imagine winning medals like that. I've never won a medal in my life, and you've won four or five. You must be so proud. I'm jealous!"

He flashed his trademark blush and tried to assure me I must have won some medals too. "No," I said, quite candidly, "I've never won a medal in my life. They are special, David. Most people are just like me, they've never won a medal."

After that a week passed with no more mention of the article, the Special Olympics or the medals.

Then David returned to the same song I'd heard before. "I have a big surprise, George. I know you're going to like it."

And I returned to my former refrain, "Where's my surprise David, you promised. Please don't forget, bring it tomorrow."

Another week of promising and reminding passed before David finally arrived at my desk with a huge smile. "I remembered," he announced.

"What did you remember, David?"

"Here," he said, "and he reached out a hand gripping the ribbon of a silver medal."

I took it and inspected it carefully. "This is beautiful, David. I've never seen a real one up close, let alone held it in my hands."

After a proper interval of appreciation, I tried to hand it back. "No," David said, "It's for you. You should have a medal too."

"David, I can't take this."

"Yes you can, I want you to."

It couldn't have been more obvious he was intent on me keeping it. My acceptance was important to him, probably more important than the medal itself.

I tried to calculate all the options, but quickly realized my absence of alternatives. "Thank you," I said, "but I simply can't take this from you sitting here at my desk."

He looked confused for a moment, "What do you mean?"

"Shouldn't there be some kind of presentation ceremony? Like when they gave you the medal?"

"Maybe," he replied.

With that I gave my cell phone to a colleague and asked him to photograph the presentation of my first silver medal.

While I whistled the national anthem, David solemnly placed the ribbon around my neck. So, for the last few days, I've been walking around the office with a bright silver disk hanging from my neck.

Eventually, I'm sure David will take me aside and patiently explain that real champions don't wear their medals everywhere. I can imagine him saying, "There are better ways to show everyone that you're a good person."

And I can see myself agreeing with him before returning that medal to the man who deserves it.

The Marrying Mayor

Yesterday a fellow approached my desk. He identified himself as a member of the Treasurer's staff, and he explained that he had a colleague named Jennilyn who wanted to be married - tomorrow. Evidently, she and her intended had planned their marriage for June, but her fiance was working at Hill Field and the sequester resulted in his furlough.

Therefore, her future husband’s health benefits were in doubt.

This resulted in Jennilyn and Robert deciding to preemptively tie the knot. Originally they were simply going to get a license from the County Clerk, recite the necessary formula, and let it go at that. But, over the process of the day, Jennilyn’s co-workers decided to dress up the event a touch and give it some sense of ceremony.

This brought to me a request to have the mayor perform the ceremony in the lobby of a very busy Treasurer’s office. In the midst of our discussion Ben approached my desk, so I quickly turned this request over to him, and he just as quickly agreed to do it.

Therefore, it became my responsibility to write up some vows and prepare Ben for his first performance as "The Marrying Mayor.”

That evening Ben announced this development to his family as they gathered around the dining table. “I’ll be marrying someone,” he enthused.

Shocked, James, Ben’s oldest son, swallowed hard and reminded his father that he was already married to someone. And, in fact, that someone was his own dear mother.

Ben quickly provided clarity on his use of the verb “to marry.”

“Don’t worry, James, your mom is my one and only.”

So, this morning, I placed the sacred rite of marriage in Ben’s eager hands as we walked together toward the Treasurer’s office. “One of the things I love about this job,” Ben said, “is the huge variety of things I do… visiting a fire station one day, learning to use a sat phone the next, and today a marriage.”

When we entered the Treasurer's lobby we beheld a vision of utter discontinuity. Lined up at the counters was the typical variety of citizens paying property taxes, or attempting an explanation of why they couldn’t. There were potbellied men in suspenders, young mothers with strollers, men in suits, old ladies with canes and a smattering of employees with ID’s hanging from their necks.

And there, standing in their midst, were the bride and groom - separated from the rest because one held a gold and purple bouquet, and the other wore a gold and purple corsage.

At the far end of the lobby was a jury-rigged altar supporting a vase of flowers, all of the same colors and kind. Soon Ben stood in front of that altar as the bride and groom zigzagged between constituents looking on with curiosity and amazement.

A few moments later the vows were over, and the new bride stood there beautiful, and freshly kissed. Friends of the couple descended upon them with joy and congratulations, while county officials descended on the mayor with complements and questions.

At the end of an appropriate interval I interrupted the “county klatch” surrounding Ben. “Your honor,” I said, “it’s nearly 12:00, and you’re scheduled to deliver a baby at noon.”

Ben smiled and we rushed from the “Treasurer’s Chapel” in the direction of the escalator.

Not That Rare

Things I miss from the campaign….

 

·         No parades, door to door canvassing or picnics. I come to work each day, sit down at a desk, answer phones and write letters. Since that fateful Tuesday last November I’ve gained twelve pounds, and I desperately need a leaflet drop in the hilliest part of Sandy.  

·         No Julie McAdams… in fact, the entire McAdams family have resumed their normal everyday lives. So James, Kate, Robert, Isaac, Susan, Jackie etc. etc. have become a rarity. Their presence gave the campaign a sense of being conducted from the McAdams kitchen table.  Our headquarters had the taste of warm home cooked food, and I miss that.

·         No volunteers. Our staff is filled with people of tremendous intelligence and great experience - I admire them all. But there was something beautiful about the company of work-a-day people who made telephone calls, walked door to door, and pasted fans together simply because they loved Ben McAdams, and they trusted the democratic process.  

·         No suspense. During the campaign I had a sense early on that magic could happen, and we could win. But it was never a sure thing, and even back in February Election Day seemed like it was scheduled for tomorrow. We had a few months to create our version of the future, or watch every effort disappear in smoke. That made life a good deal more vivid.  

 

Things I enjoy about being in county government….

·         We’ve all heard gripes about the absence of a stop sign, or the need for a children’s program and responded by joining in the complaint… “Yeah, isn’t it awful? Why can’t they fix that?” Well, now, I can hear someone make such a complaint and say, “Sure, we can fix that, give me your phone number. I’ll call you tomorrow.” (Fess up, what would you give to say that, just once?)

·         I love to write, and I love to learn new things. Because I have a flair for putting words together, and I enjoy Ben’s kind regards, I spend my days writing to CEO’s, 102 year old women, law professors and bereaved mothers. I write about Brigham Young, botanical gardens, bereaved mothers and bicycles. For me, this is a dream come true.

·         Imagine being a fan of Ben Kingsley, Ben Hogan or Ben Franklin… any Ben of your choosing. Then one day you’re told that Ben wants you to have a back stage pass, it will last for four years, and it comes with a salary.

·         One more thing could be added to the end of either list. It’s the simple joy of being in the company of people I deeply respect, and who deserve my affection. For all the differences between the campaign, and my new role in county government, that one thing has remained the same. Hang around Ben long enough and you’ll start to believe that wonderful people just aren’t that rare.

They Know The Truth

OK, I’ve now been in the Mayor’s office for almost two months. What are my initial impressions? What surprises me, and what requires some adjustment?

 In no particular order of importance, here are a few…

·         Salt Lake County government is a large and complex organization. We have thousands of employees, scores of services and hundreds of buildings. It’s hard to learn it all, even if you’re a full time employee with time to master it. So, I often wonder, how is John Q. Public supposed to figure this out? And, in fact, many never will. That was made clear today when I received an e-mail from a frustrated constituent certain that only “real city mayors” had “real responsibilities.”

“Why should I pay Ben McAdams salary,” she said, “there’s absolutely nothing for him to do.”

·         I had no idea how many beautiful facilities Salt Lake County owns. Places like the Viridian Center, Abravenal Hall, South Mountain Golf Course, The Capitol Theatre and the list goes on and on. By now, if someone told me the Taj Mahal or Pebble Beach were county facilities, I’d believe them.

·         The person who did the numbering system for the Government Center was perverse. I’ve been given office numbers and wound up totally lost. I’ve given office numbers to others fearing they’d never find their destination. Last week I ran into a soul directed to the assessor’s office days before. Worn down, confused, exhausted, he was now resigned to an $800,000 appraisal on his two-bedroom home. “Please,” he said, “just show me the way out.”

·         There’s only one person who’s mastered all there is to know about the county, he’s Ben’s assistant, and his name is Jon Hennington. No bit of County minutia has escaped him; no minor bureaucrat is unknown to him. I swear, if I called out, “Jon, who’s the second assistant deputy director of drainage design?” He’d have a name, a phone number and someone to call if the second assistant was out of town.

·         Whatever else there is to know about our deputy mayor, there is not one single ounce of “stroll” in that woman. Everywhere Nichole Dunn goes she marches with a stride and determination that would challenge any brick wall to stop her.  When she charges out the door at the end of the day I fear for some poor dog at home, soon to be walked, and expected to keep pace at the end of a leash.

·         I occupy a desk just outside the mayor’s office.  It’s the first bit of furniture you see when you walk through the door and into the mayor’s suite. There are two realities existing on either side of that door. First, there are people from the outside who think I’m someone far more important than I am. Second, there are those people whose job exists inside that door, and they know the truth.  

A Star Without Pedigree, A Wonder Without Precedent

For the most part, people who have important positions on the mayor’s staff share a common pedigree. They combine excellent academic preparation with a sequence of ever more responsible administrative positions. You meet them, ask what they were doing before they joined us, and it all makes sense.

There are a few exceptions, however, and I’m on that short list of wildcards. It would take someone far more creative than I am to draw a logical line between a South Salt Lake liquor store and the mayor’s office.

I’m painfully aware of that fact, and I work hard to prevent eyebrows being raised and questions being asked.

However, as short as that list might be, I’m not the only person on it, and when a fellow wildcard proves to be a star it gives me infinite satisfaction.

A case in point is Celina Milner.

She’s a lovely Latina with great interpersonal skills and a quick mind. Be in her presence for a minute and it’s impossible not to want her friendship.

She is that charming.

Celina also belongs to a small cadre I call, “The Miller Musketeers.” We are three in number – me, Joel Freston and Celina. We all report to Justin Miller. We all are recent graduates of a political campaign. And we all have responsibility for some part of constituent relations.

That makes us unique, and it brings us all together.

As I suggested, Celina didn’t take the usual route to the Mayor’s office. About ten years ago she was a newly single mother of two. It was a status she hadn’t planned for, and she didn’t have a roadmap.  Yet, over the intervening decade she found a way to raise two great kids and become a successful sales executive in the hospitality industry.

If she had done nothing more, Celina, like millions of other single mothers, would have qualified for the Congressional Medal of Motherhood.  But somehow, starting with such a terrible deficit and then achieving the impossible, wasn’t all she had in mind.

Celina decided to invest back in her community all the free time and surplus energy that comes with single motherhood. (Feel free to laugh.) She volunteered for non-profit boards and put her hand in the air whenever a worthy cause asked for help. That avocation for community service reached its zenith when last year she ran for the state legislature and lost by only a few hundred votes.

Now, last week, she was sitting at my desk planning a new literacy outreach for Salt Lake County. It occurred to me that while my segue into county government may have been unconventional, hers was miraculous. I danced into Ben’s office with a surplus of conviction and enthusiasm, but like Ginger Rogers, Celina did it dancing backwards and in high heels.

How does that happen? Well, I learned that creativity and resourcefulness played a part.

We were talking about ways to bring reading into the life of poor Hispanic families who have pre-school children. Bookmobiles came to mind.  “Ben’s Book Club For Kids" was another idea. There was a suggestion for story hours to be held at community laundromats.

Then it occurred to me that I should ask Celina about her own experience. What had she done to help her pre-school children learn to love books? After all, the accomplished, confident and articulate woman sitting across from me wasn’t always that way. There must have been a time when Celina was poor, scared and making it up as she went along.

“So, what did you do?” I asked, “How’d you get your kids to like books.”

“We went to Costco,” she said matter-of-factly.

“How would a trip to Costco help with something like that?”

“Well, for us at least, Costco wasn’t just about shopping. It was the only family outing we could afford. We treated it like a carnival or a street fair. There were new things to see, people to watch, and all these wonderful samples of free food. Best of all, the price of admission was free – if you didn’t count the membership card.”

“That’s great, but what does any of this have to do with books?”

Celina looked at me as if I was hopelessly out of touch. “Do you belong to Costco?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And you know they sell books, right? They have these long tables stacked with books, including children’s books.”

“Yes, I know, and they’re a bargain. But they’re not free.”

“Who said we bought them?” she asked.

“But if you didn’t buy them, Celina, how could you read them?”

“Easy, we’d go through all the children’s books, every one of them, and find a few we thought promising. Then we’d find the furniture display – there’s always a furniture display with big overstuffed chairs and couches. We’d cuddle together on that couch as if in our very own 100,000 square foot home. I'd read out loud, and gradually, as the story rolled along, it was as if no one else was there.”
 
“Sounds magical,” I said.

“It was.”

“And an object lesson in getting the most out of your Costco membership.”

“That too,” she laughed.

So there you have it, a Latina who found a way to launch herself from a couch at Costco right into the mayor’s office. She’s a star without pedigree, and a wonder without precedent. Next to her story my own little tale about a liquor store seems almost routine and predictable.

Who knows, if I hang around Celina long enough perhaps my colleagues will one day look at me and think, “Yeah, a liquor store, that makes sense.”