January 2005: Winter Survival

It was particularly cold and raw morning on the platform at Westport waiting for the 5:30 am train to the city. One of the platform regulars, Bob, who grew up in Iowa was commenting how the blowing snow and bitter cold of this morning reminded him of winters from his childhood when winters were winters and nobody ever heard about global warming or holes in the ozone layer. Another regular commented that her son was going on a camp out over the weekend with the Boy Scouts. Everyone kind of oohed, aahed, or groaned contemplating camping in the dead of winter.

Once on the train, just as I was settling in for a short winters nap, I was thinking about a great winter camping experience from days as a Boy Scout. Troop 223 in Detroit was based at Robert Burns Elementary School. It was a great troop because of both the boys and the dedicated Dads that lead us.

There were three of us, three friends, all Life Scouts on the verge of becoming the second, third and fourth Eagle Scouts of the Troop: Brad Lackie, Tim Miller and me. We were in the same grade and knew each other for our entire scouting and school experience.

Mr. Lackie, Brad’s father, came up with the idea of a Winter Survival Campout in which we would go out on a Friday night with whatever we could carry on our backs and return on Sunday afternoon. We were to be on our own, with no adult help. Mr. Lackie would take us up to his family farm in Hale Michigan, about a three to four hour drive North up Rt. 23 from our neighborhood in Detroit. Until then, our winter camping experience was limited to staying in an unheated barracks style cabin at Camp Howell. That experience could be cold but we would have been hard pressed to say that we were roughing it.

Mr. Lackie envisioned a real winter, survival experience. He wanted it to be an annual event for senior scouts and even custom made patches that the “survivors” could proudly display on their uniforms. Tim, Brad and I were to be the first scouts to experience what Mr. Lackie hoped would be a kind of right of passage in the Troop. The year was 1968; we were fifteen years old and in the 9th Grade. We were more than excited to do this.

We talked a lot about what to take or not to take in terms of gear or food. Brad actually went out and shopped for the appropriate gear. He and his father hit the Army surplus store and bought the right clothes and sleeping bag. I remember mostly the gloves. They were the biggest, largest, fluffiest and longest artic tundra backcountry gloves I had ever seen. I recall Tim seriously studying about and building snares. He really wanted to snare a rabbit, skin it and cook it. He was definitely in charge of that department.

Me? I was a pretty darn good procrastinator even then. I didn’t do much until a few nights before. I knew I was not properly equipped but I didn’t even think of asking to go shopping to outfit myself properly especially for what was most certainly to be a one weekend thing. Back then I had one winter coat of Sears or Monkey Wards vintage, sweatshirts, one pair of camping shoes with galoshes for waterproofing, a knit cap, long johns, jeans, wool socks, sweatshirts and a pair of heavy gloves. Today, I would go out and spend hundreds of dollars on me or my son for the right North Face or Carthett outerwear consisting of both parka (no longer simply a “winter coat”) and pants, waterproof Goretex boots, base layers, fleece, gloves, scarf and hat all rated for temperatures and wind chills that only happen in Antarctica and parts of Minnesota.

I would have bought a real sleeping bag for spending two nights in the dead of a northern Michigan winter. The sleeping bag I had would be considered a “sleep over” bag today. It was probably rated to about 46o F with no wind chill. As we were packing the night before our big weekend, my mother realized that it was not going to be enough. We added another blanket and she came up with what seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. She took a vinyl shower curtain and created a pre-Goretex layer of sleeping bag, shower curtain, and blanket. The fact that the shower curtain didn’t “breathe”, probably would even keep me warmer. Until now, I never thought of my mother as the conceptual inventor of Goretex. We should should have patented the idea!

We had to carry all our food. We talked about, planned and bought dried meats, powdered soups, instant mashed potatoes, hot chocolate and I cannot remember what else. For breakfast, the guys brought powdered eggs and bacon. My mother suggested that I take oatmeal, premixing it with raisins and brown sugar arguing that all I had to do was boil water and add the mixture. I did not like the idea of oatmeal simply because powdered eggs were something new and exotic. If we were to do this campout today, the choice of heat and eat frozen and packaged foods would have afforded us gourmet choices. Of course, there was the possibility of barbecued rabbit with Tim’s growing expertise in snaring.

We went up to the farm on a Friday. We had permission to miss school, which in itself was a big deal. The drive up was uneventful. All I remember is that the truck of Mr. Lackie’s car was loaded with all our gear. I remember being ready to get out of car and hit the trail. As a result, I was overdressed in the car and had to shed a layer or four just to be comfortable.

We arrived at the farm mid-afternoon. We were to carry everything we needed in the woods, find a suitable campsite, and prepare ourselves for the cold night. We were a bit rag tag because we had on our backpacks but our arms were full of other suitcases or bags containing all the gear we were taking. I wish we had a picture because I know I looked comical. But, we were young and in retrospect I am sure we did not walk all that far with our backpacks, suitcases and bundles. Yet, it seemed like we walked miles through the cold and snow.

We found a campsite, probably in a place Brad and his Dad already had in mind. The first order of business was to pitch our tent and get a fire going. We had to hurry because, being winter, it would get dark very quickly. We gathered some wood, I had brought along a bag of shavings from shop class for kindling and we soon had a campfire going. We pitched the tent and laid out our bedding.

The next order of business was dinner. I do not remember what we ate that evening. I remember that it was dark, cold, not particularly comfortable, and the campfire was starting to look pretty small and inadequate. But, we were there, three good friends together, surviving.
We decided to go to bed simply because it was dark, cold and there was not much else to do. We did not have air mattresses or cots; it soon became clear to me that the ground was hard and cold. I realized that I did not have enough insulation by a long measure. The fire died out quickly. I just tried to sleep. The shower curtain, which seemed like such a good idea, crinkled and cracked with every toss and turn on the hard cold ground. I had only taken off my coat and boots and I was still freezing. We were certainly roughing it.

Somewhere in the middle of that first night, horror of horrors, I had to go. Not only did I have to pee, which would not have been so bad, but I had to do it all. Arghh. This meant that I had to get up, find my flashlight, toilet paper, a suitable spot and do my bare bottomed duty. As darkness had come on us so quickly, I was not real organized for this eventuality. I fumbled for my boots. Somehow I found the toilet paper. I could not find my flashlight. I had it earlier but it chose to roll or hide in some nook or cranny in our tent. With the campfire long dead, I was forced to grope around for it, without waking my buddies who somehow were blissfully asleep. The call of nature, probably due to the cold, became more urgent than the need for light. So, I had to go. It was pitch black, a moonless, starless night. I went out of our tent, and edged away gingerly in order not to trip. Not being able to see, I had to guess that I was far enough away from the campsite. I did what I had to do and got back to my crinkly, crumbling shower curtain sleeping bag as fast as I could. The rest of the night was uneventful, just cold.

With dawn, I got up. I was up first. Moving around and trying to start up the fire had to be warmer than lying on the frozen ground. When I went to build the fire, I noticed that I had done my duty right there on the campfire ashes. I started laughing and thinking that I had chosen the only spot that was probably just a teeny bit warmer. I theorized that I had a heat seeking butt. I removed the frozen evidence and got the fire going again. This is the kind of stuff you never hear about from the pioneers.

I realized my mother’s genius again that morning. While the shower curtain, poor man’s Goretex, lining in the sleeping bag was more brittle and crinkly than warm, the oatmeal hit the spot. It was easy to make, very filling, and unbelievably warming. I immediately felt like a new person. The cold and ache left my bones.

Breakfast helped us all get warm and fueled for the day. It looked to be a glorious day at that. It was a cold, crisp, blue skied, sunny winter day. We talked and decided that we had one order of business, simply to prepare for and to make that second night warmer and more comfortable then the first. We were taking the survival part of Mr. Lackie’s vision seriously. We were experiencing the Maslow Hierarchy of needs in the school of the very cold real world. We were stuck in the bottom level of food and shelter. We had enough food and were well fed, so shelter was our immediate and next concern.

We gathered wood intent on having a great fire that would last all night. We gathered more wood; in case we needed the fire looked like it wasn’t going to make it through the night. This was the easy enough. We were in the woods and there were plenty of dry branches and logs.
Tim set up his snares. He had really prepared well for this having prepared the ropes and sticks like an experienced Huron or Wyandotte. He brought carrots for bait. He was ready to dress, cook and eat whatever he caught. We were all excited to see if he could actually catch something, though I was less excited about the parts that came after catching something.

Next we gave our attention to making our sleeping quarters significantly warmer and more comfortable. We decided first to transform the tent into a lean to with the open end facing our great fire. That would take care of the staying warm goal. Next, we needed to do something about getting ourselves either off or better insulated from the cold ground. We brainstormed a bit about making a bed out of leaves and moss. As we were each contemplating the lameness of leaves and moss, Brad came up with a great idea. He spent summers at this farm and knew where there was a significant number of bales of hay. Hey! Hay! Hey! What a great idea. A bale of hay would certainly do the trick.

We hiked over to the neighboring farm. Sure enough, there was a large stack of bales. Upon knocking and realizing that no one was home, we did a very un-Boy Scout thing and just took one. It was a comedy hiking back to our campsite with this bale of hay through the snow, deep at times, over rocks, logs, whatever else was in our path. It was a big bale. It was not the weight so much as the bulky hard to manage size of the thing. Two had to carry it, making walking awkward at best. I have no idea how far it was from our campsite to the neighbors place but it was certainly shorter going than returning.

We laughed, stumbled and shared the load. I clearly remember thinking this was going to be one of those moments I would never forget, sitting, resting and talking midway in our lugging this bale of hay. We were acclimated to the cold, we were energized and warm from the walking and toting. The sky was blue, the air fresh and the sun radiant. Here we were three great buddies, in a great setting doing a most cool and fun thing, unencumbered by the details and concerns adult life would foist on us in a few short years. We were young, hearty, and hale (in Hale!) having the time of our lives. It was indeed a great moment.

We eventually made it back to our campsite with the bale of hay intact. We set to prepare for the evening. We broke up the bale and spread it out in our lean to. It had to be 10 inches thick. We put a tarp over it and folded the tarp under on the side that faced the fire. We did not want an errant spark from the fire to make ignite the hay and make us extremely warm. We laid out our sleeping bags and blankets on top.

We got the fire going and began preparing dinner. Tim checked the snares which were empty so there was to be no rabbit for dinner. I believe we did baked beans and hotdogs grilled on sticks. It was warm, the food tasty, and the conversation and camaraderie exceptional.
I never slept so well as that night. Our bed was soft and well insulated. The fire roared and kept us toasty all night. There could not have been a greater contrast between our first and second night.

Memory being suspect, I e-mailed a draft of this letter to Tim who remembered our lean to as follows:

I remember that our lean to was more like a Hilton than a Motel 6. We worked so hard that I remember starting out with deer hunting like outer ware, and getting down to just a shirt. I remember three large logs on the rear of the lean to and tall sides, lots of hay and one of my best nights sleep ever. It seemed that the hay was so deep that it almost took away the definition of the word "survival." My only fear was that we would burn to death.

He also reflected on the quest to snare a rabbit:

You may remember that the first night it snowed a few inches, and a rabbit ran about 30 feet from my box trap. The next night we moved it closer, the rabbit ran past the trap about 10 feet. It came back to the trap, but I didn't touch the carrot that had become frozen, so the rabbit walked up to the trap and left. That barbequed rabbit got away. My father helped me build that trap. It was one of my fond memories. Mr. Lackie did say that we could have turned it in for some ground beef. I would have been more excited to have caught the rabbit and shown it to him rather that eating it.

Over breakfast the next day, we lamented that we could not stay a few more days now that we had such a sweet setup. But school beckoned. We broke camp and hiked back to the house where Mr. Lackie was waiting. We loaded the gear in the car and drove home. We were happy and proud. Mr. Lackie had a great idea and we were glad to be the first in the Troop to experience the Winter Survival.

At the next court of honor, we were given our patch which we proudly sewed on our right breast pocket of our uniforms. Unfortunately, I believe we were the first and only scouts in Troop 223 to get this experience. The demographics of Detroit were changing and in 1968 our neighborhood was on the edge of that transition. With the riots of 1967, “white flight” to the suburbs began in earnest.

In the next two years, everyone moved out, scattered to the various suburbs. It was sad and really horrible timing. Tim, Brad and I were just about to enter high school. Our local high school, Cooley, was a magnificent facility with a great reputation. It was becoming dangerous and full of racial tension. Parents did not want to send their children there so if they could they moved. Most could. This, of course, hastened the transition. The truly sad part, taking economics, race, prejudice, social injustices, and whatever out of the picture was the effect it had on people exactly my age. We were just getting ready to enter high school with friends we have been in school and scouts with since kindergarten. We all ended up spread out among the suburbs of Detroit and really lost contact with each other.

In retrospect, the Winter Survival Campout was our greatest and one of our last times together. We did not know it at the time. I checked via internet, sadly there is no longer a Troop 223 in the Detroit Area Council of the Boy Scouts. I do not know if the Troop merged with another or simply folded. I am guessing the latter.

Tim has been good at keeping in touch. He and I have exchanged e-mails and Christmas cards. He has kept in touch with Brad. Tim is on the mailing list of this e-letter. Brad does not have e-mail but I will mail him a copy. When I talked to Brad last year, I learned he was a police officer in West Bloomfield, MI. I also sadly learned that Mr. Lackie had been killed in a traffic accident a few years ago. I would have liked to thank him today for his dedication and leadership to Troop 223 and for the great idea that created so many memories and truly was a rite of passage and inflection point for the three of us.

Whenever it is really, truly, a cold blustery winter day, I think back to our Winter Survival Campout and feel warmer and ready to brave the elements.

As Tim wrote to me, “It was the best of times - the best of friends - a story to be told over and over to friends and children.” I am happy I was able to relate it here for all of you.

The Photo: Troop 223, I believe the day of Tim’s Eagle Court of Honor. Tim is the tallest scout. Brad is just left of him and I am to the right. I think this is the last time we were together as Scouts in uniform.

December 2004: Peace on Earth…

It is the last day of 2004. It is a good day. It is my daughter Armené’s nineteenth birthday. She is a joy, treasure and a beauty. We are going to Philadelphia for PAND: the Philadelphia Armenian Nor Dari or New Year Celebration.

While it is raining this evening (yes, I am typing this in the car), it was a beautiful afternoon. It was sunny and in the 50’s. I had a chance to go on the last outdoor bike ride of 2004. When I recorded the mileage in my log and tallied the December and total year mileage I was delighted to see I had ridden 1,800.1 miles outside this year. My goal was 1,500 miles. Very cool.

Beyond Armené’s birthday and a biking milestone, AMC was running a Three Stooges Marathon. No matter what other interests either intellectual, cultural or sports related that I may have, I have been a lifelong fan of these Princes of Comedy. In my most early and most impressionable years, the Stooges brand of silliness and physical had such a negative enough influence on my behavior that my Mother had no choice but to ban my watching the boys for a few years. It was a great parental call on her part. In watching some of the shorts this afternoon, I called and was called by some of my “Stooge” buddies when one of our favorite episodes was on, repeating lines to each other, laughing and, oh yes, wishing each other the best in 2005.

This year end letter is being written in the closing hours of the month and the year. I really believed, back at the beginning of December, that I would have had this done and distributed by the 20th. I had a topic and was under the false impression that I was clear and organized on what I wanted to say. The topic was to be religion. I was naïve to think I could be clear and concise on this topic. I was not planning to address the large and general topic but rather to focus on one aspect of religion that I have found most confusing.

I kept writing about it, daily, in my notebook. I kept thinking about what I thought I wanted to say and looking for clarity. It just was not coming easily. Partially, I was looking for a way to not to offend the religious diversity of those on my distribution list which includes Christians including an Armenian priest, a Morman, and several devout Paulists, Jews, Moslems, agnostics, atheists, the generally confused by it all and the genuinely mystified by it all. I am not sure what made me think I could easily and clearly capture in words what I was thinking. In the history of humankind people much smarter, more devout and better educated than I have devoted their life, either willingly through interest or by divine calling to this subject. They have written sacred and secular tomes on religion. Some have written are intellectual and scholarly tomes. Others have written metaphorical and allegorical tomes.

It is hard to write about religion. For me it is very personal. Also, beyond the basic belief in God, it gets quite dogmatic with rules, metaphors, and stories that are either true or designed to convey ideas and behaviors. It is the dogma, beyond the basic belief in God that seems to cause all the problems. Even within the same religion there are factions that do not respect, honor or even acknowledge each other. For example, consider the Sunni and Shia branches of Islam. I see evangelical Christians actively recruiting Christians from another branch into their fold. There are some orthodox Jews who view Reformed Jews as gentiles. It can be mind boggling with so many factions and sects all believing in the one and only God entirely sure their own spin is The Way.

It is no surprise that I could not sum up my personal views clearly and concisely in a few pages. Whatever was I thinking?

I was thinking simply about monotheism: the notion of one God. Christmas season seemed to be an appropriate time to write about it. Consider that there are three one God religions all part of the chaos, destruction and death in the Middle East. Probably, it is all about money and power, I will address that again in a few paragraphs from here. Religion, however, is a huge polarizing and motivating factor for all involved. The so called Radical Islamists are the center of the activities of the insurgents and suicide bombers we are always hearing about. Orthodox Judaism is central to policy and politics in Israel. In the recent presidential elections here in the United States, there have been several reports that Bush won the election because the Democrats underestimated the numbers and views of the growing New Age or Born Again Christians in the United States. So, I have a very hard time separating religion from the on-going conflicts in the Middle East.

There religions have been at odds for centuries. Three appears to be no end to these struggles. Interestingly, Christianity and Islam both believe that they need to convert everyone via message, missionary and at points in history, the sword. Judaism, in the orthodox form, actually prefers to keep their club private. Not only do they not solicit converts, but they actually discourage them. I am not as familiar with Buddhism, Shinto or Hindu but I rarely read about conversion movements from these Eastern Religions. Not counting the Hari Krishnas hounding folks at airports (other than coins, I still have no idea what they stood for or what they wanted), I don’t see any conversion efforts on the parts of these faiths.

I remember being in Sunday School back in the 1960’s at St. Sarkis Armenian Church. Early on it my religious education, I asked a question that probably has been asked by countless others. If “different” religions believe in one God, why hasn’t anybody figured out that it is probably the same God? It seemed obvious to me. Neither the teachers nor the clerics gave very convincing answers. Either they made no sense or were too complicated and convoluted to be of any use.

Consider that Abraham is the founder or starting point of three major religions: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. All three are monotheistic, yet each considers the others to be lesser and refers to them as such by labeling them as heathens, infidels, gentiles and the like. The religions have many of the same prophets. The five Major Prophets in Islam are Noah, Abraham, Moses, Jesus and the last or ultimate prophet Mohammed. Christianity shares all these prophets but Mohammed. Judaism only includes the first three.

So, I have to ask, what is the difference? The difference seems to be in the last prophet. In Judaism, they do not recognize Jesus or Mohammed. Christians do not recognize Mohammed. All three believe in one God, presumably the same God, the same one and only God. Is one more “right” than the others? Are they three doors to the same house? Why the differences and why do the differences get so extremely emotional at times? Good questions, few answers.

Well, of course, there are answers. Devotees and clerics of each religion can give passionate faith based discourses on the true word of God, being saved versus eternal damnation, and other similar arguments designed to reinforce belief that is already there, scare one into faith, or trying to demonstrate the inner peace they feel by being on the right path. Some clerics and academic theologians can get, as mentioned above, really complicated and convoluted in their explanations.

In Christianity, the religion I think I know the best of these three. God, the one and only God, is divided into the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Well, is there one or three? The answer is yes, and no. Depending on who you ask and how “educated” they are. Even in Christianity there are enough different approaches that it can be quite confusing. Consider the Mormans, the Church of Jesus Christ and the Latter Day Saints, who have added an entire third testament to chronicle the mission of Jesus in the Western Hemisphere.

We all believe in the same God. Yet, I feel that if one were to loudly proclaim this and ask what all the animosity is about, he would have about as much effect as Rodney King asking “Can’t we all get along?”

As mentioned above and in my June letter, there is, of course, an economic component to the religious struggles in the Middle East. There are 300 million or so people in the greater Arab world. The have a collective GDP which is $60 billion less than the $890 billion GDP of Spain. Spain’s population is only 11 million. There are less foreign books translated into Arabic than there are translated into Greek. The population of Greece is just 11 million. The mass of the Arab people are quite poor and uneducated. The ruling few are obscenely rich and powerful. This provided a perfect environment for those preaching a better life via extreme or radical Islam.

There was a piece on CNN just after the 9/11 attacks that I remember. They were talking about the Islamic Madrasahs or school in Pakistan and how those schools were a breeding ground for extreme Islam. The CNN piece focused on students simply studying a memorizing the Koran. Focusing on one of the students, it was reported he used to work 10-12 hours a day making mud bricks for literally pennies a day. It was a harsh life with little or no hope. The Madrasah, by contrast, was a kind of paradise where the studies were demanding but one was relatively well fed and clean. Young men were attracted to the schools because it offered a better life then most could find elsewhere.

Another CNN piece this year focused on the popularity of Muqtada al-Sadr who is often referred to as a “firebrand young cleric.” This piece focused on how many of his fiery speeches and sermons, as well as other “extreme” clerics were recorded, mass produced on CDs and distributed for pennies in Iraq and beyond. The war may be for oil, power, peace, democracy, freedom or whatever other banner is waved but the motivation and polarization seems to be around these three monotheistic religions. It boggles the mind and, obviously, stirs the blood.

Another religious based thought has been with me this Christmas season: Peace on Earth, Good Will toward Men. I must have seen this hundreds of times in Christmas cards and messages. I have heard it at least an equal amount in sermons, carols, pageants and movies. It always meant something to me, but not as much as this year.

Maybe it is because I am older and thus either wiser or more sentimental. More likely it is because approximately thirteen hundred American soldiers and five to ten times that many Iraqis having died in this war. These feelings were amplified by the massive loss of lives in the recent tsunamis in Asia. Either way, it seems that we could all use a bit more “Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men.”

I knew the phrase was Biblical and upon consulting the oracle at Google.com I found it was from Luke 2:14. It comes as part of the birth of Jesus. After the birth, an angel came to some shepherds near Bethlehem and related the good news. Upon relating this news, the angel was joined by a “heavenly host” which proclaimed “Glory to God on the highest and Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men.”

The magic of the internet also allowed me access to several versions of Luke 2:14 from various translations. The one I have been quoting is from the King James Versions. Others include:

1. Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among men.
2. Glory to God in the highest and earth peace among men with whom He is pleased

Beyond this all encompassing wish of Peace on Earth, Good Will toward Men, I would like to wish everyone the best of health, happiness and prosperity in 2005.


Errata from November Letter:
I referred to Marx and Engle. Engle, of course, should be Friedrich Engels (1820-1895) the German Socialist.

Several kind readers and one son have suggested that I upgrade my proofreading skills or even “outsource” that responsibility. I will include that as one of two 2005 e-Letter resolutions. The other will be to get a website up.

November 2004: Out-Sourcing & Off-Shoring

The globalization of business and commerce is seemingly inevitable. Actually, it has already happened. Economic conditions, in terms of wages, exchange rates, duties and incentives change faster than plants can be built and relocated. I have seen it happen in almost every industry from cars to clothes.

In my lifetime, the textile mills of New England moved to the Carolinas and more recently off shore to who knows where in Asia and Latin America. The Rag Industry, the sewing and assembly of clothes, used to be heavily concentrated in New York. Regular production has moved to low wage countries, often in Free Zones within those countries. The only production that remains in New York is for samples and prototypes used to test designs and for selling lines to the buyers of the chain stores or at trade shows. I sit on the train with second and third generation family heads running their clothing businesses. I hear them talking, often complaining how their business has changed from their father’s and grandfather’s days. I see them on the planes to the Dominican Republic and Guatemala going to visit their own factories if they are big or those of suppliers if they are more modest in size.

Free Zones are interesting. These are tax and duty free zones set in countries where goods can be warehoused as if they are still at sea in international waters. Goods can be sent to other countries from Free Zones without incurring any export taxes and fees. Goods stored in Free Zones only incur import duties and taxes when nationalized, that is, brought into the country for sale. Free Zones are also ideal for light manufacturing or assembly where the capital, i.e. machines, needed is minimal. Free Zones are perfect for the sewing or assembly of clothes.

There has been a lot of buzz in the media about the off-shoring of call centers. When you dial an 800 number for any kind of customer service from any kind of store or utility you could easily end up talking to someone based in the Philippines, India, or Dominica instead of someone from Omaha or Poughkeepsie. This latest wave of jobs moving out of the US to lands of much cheaper labor is bothersome to people for two reasons. First, the accents and knowledge of American English of those answering the phones and trying to help make communication difficult, frustrating, and even at times humorous. This problem can and will be resolved by time and training. In a few years, we probably will not even be able to tell the difference. The other source of consternation with the off-shoring of these call center jobs is that most of us thought that these were jobs that would have to remain here because of the language skills required by the customer service representatives and what we believed were prohibitively high international long distance rates. The communications costs, of course, have dropped like a stone over the past ten years due to competition and the rapid expansion internet and satellite services. It was inevitable this would happen, but it caught many people by surprise.

I was in Montevideo, Uruguay a few years ago. I was visiting a free zone to see if there were opportunities for contract warehousing. I noticed a building in this Free Zone of about a dozen warehouses and small factories that was festooned with satellite dishes and antennae. When I asked what the building was, the representative of the Free Zone giving us the tour informed us that it was the Mercosur Call and Information Processing Center for Merrill Lynch servicing Uruguay, Argentina, Chile and Paraguay. The call center was in the Free Zone so they did not have to pay any taxes on telecommunications. Learning this was the first example of the globalization of Call Centers for me and it took me by surprise.

No one I know wants to close and operation, factory, warehouse or call center. There is no pleasure in that. There are many reasons, however, for which there is no choice. First, there is the economic motivation. When conditions change, be it transportation costs, wages, taxes or duties that make a facility unnecessary or redundant, such a facility must be closed. Otherwise, ones competitors facing a similar condition will act and be able to lower costs, prices and thus take market share from you. Secondly, facilities age and become obsolete in a few different ways. The physical structure may be too small for the projected volume of business and there may be no need to expand. A factory or warehouse could be, as was popular many years ago, multi-storied. Today, such multi-storied facilities are inefficient. The building could be filled with asbestos making it more cost effective to tear down rather than renovate or expand. But, mostly it is cost that drives the closing of facilities and either out-sourcing or off-shoring them. When confronted with such a situation, a cold hard fact of business is that a change must be made. No one likes closing facilities and putting people out of work. But, businesses have to drive cost savings to stay competitive, in business and to grow. It is better to put some people out of work, create fewer newer jobs elsewhere than to jeopardize the entire company by operating on a higher cost basis than ones competitors.

With globalization, there are subtle changes we almost never think about. In thinking about Latin America, for example, more and more production overtime is centered in Brazil, Mexico or out-sourced and off-shored to China. As a result, the industrial base in smaller countries such as Panama and Uruguay and larger countries like Peru and Argentina simply evaporate. Jobs are lost and these countries are left with increasingly lower paid agricultural and service jobs. They import more and more of their industrial goods and export agricultural or other commodities assuming they are lucky enough to have the natural resources.

It is one thing to replace a plant or warehouse that is either too small or too antiquated with a new more efficient facility in the same general area. It is entirely something else to close a facility and incorporate that volume into a facility in another country. Walking through a closed factory or warehouse always makes me feel a little sad. Walking through a closed facility whose volume of business has been off-shore, really increases the sadness. This is true even when the reason for the closure makes the best business sense. I know many of my colleagues feel the same way. No one wants to close things, we would rather build and expand things.

I remember reading a quote from Henry Ford when I was in college. He said, “if you need a new machine and do not buy it, you will end up paying for it anyway and still not have it.” He was and is absolutely correct. The same applies to facilities and parts of businesses. If you need a newer, more efficient and consolidated factory, warehouse or office and do not make the move, you will end up paying for it several times over and still not have it. You could weaken and put your business at risk.

It would be easy to say I worry more, in this regard, about Uruguay and Armenia than the US. The US economy is massive and jobs get created and off-shored as we innovate and create new industries and businesses. This may be true of the larger cities here, but I think one only needs to visit the smaller towns off the interstates and look beyond the chain stores and strip malls to get the feeling that there is also an impact in this country.

Currently, we are worried about the job losses to China. It seems to be a very real fear. We read stories in the papers and business magazines that the increase in steel, petroleum and cement prices are due to the increased consumption of these commodities in China with their building boom and increase in cars and trucks. Oil consumption is increasing at a rate of 7.5% per year. China is the world’s largest consumer of cement at 495 million tons per year, followed by the US at 102 and India at 84. China’s steel consumption in 1995 was 13.5% of global consumption. This year that number has grown to 31%. This is incredible growth.
It was in the 1980s and early 1990s, we were worried about Japan Inc and their economic engine. Japan was the major recipient of the imbalance of US imports and exports. Cars, consumer electronics and other home goods were the reason for their success. When a Japanese company bought Rockefeller Center in New York and other icon properties, the media was rife with reports on our economic decline in the face of seemingly the superior Japanese system. We learned and implemented Japanese production and quality methods. We closed that gap while the negative parts of Japan’s economic boom, their real estate bubble, imploded and dragged their economy down.

Korea has also made headway. The copied the Japanese model in creating corporate empires like Hyundai, Samsung and LG. They have taken the lead in microwaves and telephones. Their cars are getting better every year. Yet, we were never worried about Korea Inc like we were about Japan Inc.

China, however, is another matter. An ever increasing amount of our production has been outsourced to China. Somehow this move to China seems more ominous than any previous migration of jobs and production. Is it truly different? Or is the intensity just due to the fact that it is happening now? I think it is the latter. There is definitely a large adjustment going on.
What it all comes down to is the quality of life. As a youngster, somewhere around the 4th, 5th or 6th grade, I bought a book entitled What is Communism?. I bought it through the Scholastic Book Club. I ordered this particular book because in the early and mid-1960s, I heard a lot about communism, Cuba, the USSR, China, Vietnam, the domino theory, and the Cold War. I didn’t know enough about any of these things to have any kind of opinion. So, I got this book to see if it would help.

It was definitely the right book, read at the right time. It was well done and geared to my reading level. It gave me the history of Marx and Engle, providing a clear overview of their philosophy. In its purest form, communism made a lot of sense. The book covered the birth of the Soviet Union, the passing of Lenin, his entombment under glass (most fascinating to a grade school kid), the murder of Trotsky, the rise and despotism of Stalin, the annexation of the Eastern European countries and finally Khrushchev. It was clear to that the communism of Stalin was indeed evil and I understood us vs. them and good vs. evil definitely from the American point of view. What really struck me about the book was the last chapter. After all the philosophy, history and politics, the last chapter of this children’s book contained a table comparing how many hours an average person needed to work to purchase a variety of items, dress shirts, shoes, suits, dresses, washing machines and cars. It was shocking that the average Russian had to work five to ten times longer to buy the same item of clothing. The difference was astronomical for more expensive goods like appliances and cars. In the end, our way of life was better because we could more easily buy things. We had freedom and were a more efficient market.

I wish I still had the book. I tried to find updated tables that compared not only the US and Russia but other representative countries in the world. We have continued to make things less expensive as a percent of average wages and thus hours worked. I know that because of Wal-Mart, TJ Maxx and Costco, a dress shirt costs less in terms of hours worked than ten, twenty, or even thirty years ago.

So, is this globalization so bad? We continue to have more for less. In my lifetime, the average household has gone from no TVs, to one TV to almost a TV in every important room of the house. We have gone from one car per household to at least two. We have gone from one telephone per house, to several per house, to everyone having their own personal cell phone. The innovation and importance of computers is without parallel.

It is funny that we were seriously talking about a four day work week in this country in the mid-1970s. This was just around the time that the oil crisis hit and Japan Inc. began its ascendancy. Now, thirty years later we are faced with increases in gas prices again and the fear of China Inc. changing the value and quality of our lives. I will be concerned but will stay more optimistic this time through simply because we came through the last one better then many expected.

Out-sourcing and off-shoring will continue, it is a fact of globalization. I imagine that in ten or twenty years we may see production moving from China to Africa. We just have to be prepared to manage, innovate and lead in this continually changing world.

October 2004: Mid-Life Course Correction

What do I want to be when I grow up? This is a question not only asked by children but often a question that lingers well into adulthood. The question may go dormant for awhile but often it arises again in middle age when it becomes the fuel that drives many mid-life crises or Mid-Life Course Corrections.

Mid-life Crises are probably a great topic. I even thought about titling this e-letter venture as An Attempted Mid-Life Crisis. But, that is probably a better title for a book. Rather than any kind of crisis, I am thinking about careers, what makes people happy, what makes many people want to change and for a lesser amount to make that change.

Most everyone has dreams of doing and being something other than their current condition. This ranges between idle daydreaming and a heartfelt desire.

Turning fifty was the motivation to do a life assessment and to consider Mid-Life Course Corrections and lifestyle changes. That exercise led to the creation of this monthly e-letter. It was a good process to go through. Throughout our lives there are a progression of key thoughts and feelings we deal with in varying degrees at various times. Some of these are motivated by physical changes, like puberty, others are more subtle like this mid-life whatever it is.

In talking with friends and colleagues in relaxed settings, many are mulling over the same thoughts of Mid-Life Course Corrections. There is a realization that there are likely less working years left than we have worked. Rarely do I hear the word “rut” which was more popular in the 60’s and 70’s. Three is more concern about quality of life both in and out of work. The idea of being a rut seems passé, to me, because the demands of the modern workplace seem more intense and diverse than ever, negating the very idea of routine and “rut.”

In contemplating this, I have always been amazed by anyone who knew what they wanted to do in high school, be it a doctor, lawyer, artist, financier, or whatever, and then they went out and made it happen. I am more amazed when they do it their entire career and enjoy it. It must be a very good thing to be aligned with ones vision and fully integrated into their life style and profession.

For the greater majority of us, our career paths are a bit more of a random walk, a combination of not really being sure what we want and key events, some accidental, that attract or divert us in one direction or another. That certainly has been my case. In retrospect, I would not have it any other way. Certainly, there are roads not taken. If I know what I think I know now, would I have planned or maneuvered differently? I cannot say. I wonder if those that knew exactly what they wanted to do at sixteen and have been doing it successfully for years, ever have these thoughts.

Money becomes less of an issue for people thinking about a Mid-Life Course Correction. First, one has done well and has amassed enough wealth to facilitate such life style changes. Second there is the larger majority who really do not have the economic freedom to do what they are thinking about. You would think this would be a deterrent, but truly money becomes less of a barrier. Dreams do not cost anything upfront. You need no money to buy into a dream. I am coming to believe that people with a real motivation, desire, and passion somehow figure out a way to realize their vision, even if only as a hobby. Look at peoples hobbies. They are quite varied and very often quite time consuming.

There is something else that liberates people from money in middle age. If you do not have the means, you probably realize that the probability that you will make a liberating fortune is quite close to nil. This thought itself, in an odd way, is liberating. All of a sudden it does not matter. One is simply where one is. The key is to know what you really want to do and what you really have a passion for.

I sketched out this little matrix in trying to figure out where different people were in their careers.

Good at it Not so Good at it

Passion for the Work 1 2

Not a lot of Passion 3 4
for the Work


Clearly we all want to be in quadrant 1. This is where we want to be, living what I think of as an integrated life aligned with what we are passionate about and doing well at it. Quadrant 4 is a bad situation I would guess makes one very unhappy to be in a career or lifestyle you are neither passionate about nor very good at. Quadrants 2 and 3 are probably where the majority of lie, with the bulk being in quadrant 3.

In thinking about Mid-Life Course Corrections, I immediately think of my friend and former boss Dale. He left Colgate in 2000. He worked for a Japanese company for a few years and then retired and moved to Texas. He was idle for about six months and took a job at Baylor University in the graduate school of business. Dale and I are the same age, so his “retirement” really grabbed my attention.

In thinking about this letter I gave Dale a call to discuss his particular motivations for changing. He, as a recipient of this letter, was more than happy to talk about it. His changes were motivated by a desire to have more time and be closer to his family. He felt how precious time was due to the untimely deaths of a few close friends and family members of close friends. In talking with Dale he used the words of someone in quadrant 3. He said he “performed well but was unfulfilled.” It is a good place to be but what is missing is the passion and alignment. The passion for Dale is quality of life and being more involved in his family’s lives. His changes brought him to a integrated lifestyle.

Dale and I talked about the financial issue. He agreed that being financially able to make Mid-Life Course Corrections certainly helps. But financial freedom is not necessary. It is more important to know, truly, what one really wants and to move in that direction when one has the time, energy and health to do so.

In considering example of the aligned lifestyle, my father also comes to mind. He is a born coach. He never got a degree and due to the necessities of marriage and family, he took a job with a bank. He did well in his career but sports and coaching were always his passion. To me, Dad was clearly in quadrant 3. Yet, he is a great example of a gradual evolution to where he wanted to be. It began with him coaching our church softball team when I was a teen. We became quite good under his very organized and mildly stern tutelage.

He later move to coaching the track and field team of the Detroit Chapter of the Armenian Youth Federation (AYF). From it’s inception in 1933, the AYF has had a love affair with Track and Field having its own Olympic Games every Labor Day weekend. Dad’s passion for running and the coaching of runners began while a member of the Watertown, MA High School track team under the legendary coach Arthur Perkins who built a ten year dynasty cross-country and track state champions.

My Dad is now 75. He is the coach of the Schoolcraft College Women’s Cross Country team. His team just came in second in the Regionals and as I write, they are preparing for the Nationals. The older he became, he devoted more time to his passion. Basically, he now does it full time. Good for him!

Mike is the President of the Division of Colgate that I work for. He is wealthy. You could see on any of the numerous financial websites, like Yahoo Money, that over the past five years he has cashed matured option to the tune of $3-6 million. Many of us ask each other over lunch or coffee, “How many years of that would you need before you just retired?” The answer is always one, maybe two years. Yet, Mike continues to work. Why? I believe he is in quadrant 1. He loves what he does. He really likes to run a large business and he is very good at it. His life is integrated. Why would he change? I know other executives with greater wealth than Mike. Some love the flow of money in their direction, or they really like being King of something. That is passion, as well, but not as pure as Mike’s.

I have a friend Peter. He has carved out the most interesting lifestyle for himself. He works intensely for 2-3 weeks and than take is easy for the next 2-3. He is a distributor catering to privately owned convenience stores, pharmacies, gas stations and such. He is constantly renewing his product lines. He has to do this because his competitive landscape is continually changing.

A few years ago the bulk of his business was distributing street maps for a well known company. He moved their product in the small Mom and Pop operations the larger company could not reach. He grew his business, that of the map company, and that of his customers. But, with the demise of independent bookstores from competition from Barnes & Noble and Borders, independent pharmacies from the expansion of CVS and Walgreen’s, and the growth of companies like Wal-Mart and Costco in our area, Peter’s map business dried up. These large chains buy directly circumventing Peter and sell at prices Peter’s customers cannot match.

As a result, Peter was required to replace this volume and he has done a masterful job of it. He is always on the lookout for products that no one else offers. He wants products that are unique and compact enough to place by the cash register to generate sales from impulse purchases. He is a master of this. He has a passion for this. While Peter does not have degree, he has a practical MBA in retail management and marketing. Peter thinks I am making fun of him whenever I relate this observation to him. Nothing could be further from the truth. He is clearly in quadrant 1.

In thumbing through the latest issue of Fortune (November 1, 2004), the editors of that magazine must have known the topic of this e-letter. There were three pieces on very successful men who were making Mid-Life Course Corrections. The first of these is Jeff Bezos, the founder of the internet retailing giant, Amazon.com. He started a company, Blue Origin, whose mission is to develop technology that “will help enable a enduring human presence in space.” He has always had a passion for the space program and space exploration. He is now acting on that integrating is life with his passion.

Frank Stronach is a Canadian billionaire who built his company, Magna International, into one of the largest and best automotive parts suppliers in the world. Magna was very innovative and moved from just supplying parts to supply sub-assemblies, just-in-time, and sequenced to the assembly plants production schedule. There was talk that Magna might even become an auto producer. But, instead of moving in that direction, Stronach followed his passion for the sport of Kings: horse racing. He created Magna Entertainment which now owns Santa Anita and Pimlico racetracks. The venture is hemorrhaging money but Stronach is following his passion. He seems to have moved from quadrant 3 to quadrant 2.

Lastly, there is Marcus Guttierez. He is on his second Mid-Life Course Correction. He began as a Navy surgeon and served in Desert Storm. He then started a surfboard company. Now, he is an IMAX filmmaker focusing on the extremes of nature such as volcanoes, tornados, and earthquakes. Guttierez seems to move from quadrant 1 to quadrant 1a and then 1b.

Me? I saw a bumper sticker once that said something like, “The worst day sailing, is better then the best day at work.” That kind of defines passion. My passion is teaching at the college level, playing music and now writing. I will comment on the music. I do not play a lot but I love it. I love it to the point I never think about the hassles of schlepping equipment through the bowels of buildings to service elevators, driving hours to a gig, setting up and tearing down or the low pay. These are all eclipsed by the playing. The fact I get paid at all for this gives me a professional feeling that cannot be matched. The worst day playing, is better than just about anything else.

This all reminds me of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs (see sidebar below). This idea of Mid-Life Course Correction lies in the top rungs of the hierarchy: Esteem and Self-Actualization. The concepts and levels through Esteem seem quite intuitive and probably Maslow’s notoriety is as much for the concept of Self-Actualization as it is for the entire codification.

With American Thanksgiving approaching I must point out how fortunate I am to be contemplating the upper levels of this hierarchy. The vast majority of the world’s population is fighting for Physiological needs or Security and here I am writing a letter to friends and family on Mid-Life Course Correction. Life ain’t so bad when you look it this way.

Happy Thanksgiving to one and all!


Sidebar: Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.
Abraham Maslow was a psychologist most noted for developing a hierarchy of human needs. One is concerned with fulfilling higher levels only when the lower ones are satisfied.

1. Physiological: The basic need for air, water and food, the basics to sustain life.
2. Security: Fear from threats both physical and psychological.
3. Love: Belongingness and camaraderie, the joy of family and friends.
4. Esteem: Being proud and happy about what you do and having that recognized by others.
5. Self-actualization: This is where you want to “be all you can be” without necessarily having to join the Army. It is about realizing one’s maximum potential.

http://web.utk.edu/~gwynne/maslow.HTM

September 2004: Michigan Football

I used to read a syndicated columnist by the name of Sydney Harris. He was an Englishman that had settled in the United States. In one of his memorable columns he expressed his amazement at how much Americans define ourselves, associated ourselves and maintain a passion for the universities we attended. He thought we did this much more than anyplace else in the world. He could not understand how a four year college experience could have so much impact thirty, forty and fifty plus years later. I think the difference between the United States and other countries in this regard is simple and obvious: football. If one’s school had a big time football program with any degree of success and a few key rivalries, it is easy to get hooked for life. Students and alumni follow their teams, attend games, and live and die with victories and losses.

Michigan has been playing football since 1879 when they played two games, the first against Racine who they beat 1-0 and the second against Toronto who they tied 0-0. They played one game in 1880, which the won, and three games in 1881 losing to Harvard, Yale and Princeton. In 1882, they did not play any games but have played every year since. This current season marks the 125th year of Michigan Football.

A few years ago, I was at a YMCA swim meet at Wesleyan College in Middletown, CT in which my daughter, Armené, was participating. It was one of those massive youth swim meets which can be like watching paint dry except for the three or four events in which your own child is swimming. Needless to say, I had a lot of time on my hands. The pool was in the Wesleyan College Athletic Building, so to pass some of the time I looked at the Wesleyan Athletic Trophy Case and Hall of Fame. In the middle of the trophy case, prominently and centrally displayed, was a very old football. There were words painted on the ball. As I looked closer, I read “Nov. 19, 1883, Wesleyan 14 Michigan 6.” I was amused. It was the only time the two teams had ever played and here was this football from over one hundred years ago in the middle of their trophy case. I remember thinking that a rematch was in order. But, that is not likely to happen as the teams are mismatched as Michigan plays Division I and Wesleyan plays Division III. I also remember thinking that very few Michigan players could even get into Wesleyan. Most Wesleyan players could probably get in Michigan but none could probably play football there.

My love affair with Michigan Football began on November 22, 1969. I was sixteen years old and a junior in high school. Michigan was playing the Ohio State University. They were defending National Champions, they were undefeated and most everyone thought they were a shoe-in to repeat as National Champs. There was even buzz that this Ohio State team coached by the fiery and passionate Woody Hayes was the greatest team in the history of college football. Bo Schembechler was in his first year at Michigan. He was a protégé of Woody Hayes having been Woody’s assistant at Ohio State. It was student versus teacher. Bo was reviving Michigan football, that was clear, but not many gave Michigan a chance in this game. It was one of the first football games I recall being interested in. I guess it was hard to avoid all the pre-game hype, Ohio State was ranked #1 and Michigan was ranked 12th. I watched the whole game, which Michigan, for the most part, controlled and went on to upset Ohio State 24-12.

The following year I applied to Michigan and was accepted. I enrolled in 1971 and have had season tickets ever since. I keep buying season tickets even though I have lived in Connecticut since 1990. I send the tickets to my friend Chris Solakian who uses some, sells or trades others. I make one or two games a year, usually going with Chris. This year I am planning to attend the Michigan State game on October 30th. I will go to that game with my good friend and best man Jack Hachigian who is a Michigan State graduate and a rabid Spartan fan.

Michigan football is the only sport I follow. It is the only season’s sport ticket I have ever bought. I follow other sports but not like Michigan Football. I have way too many Michigan hats, shirts, sweat shirts, warm up suits, coffee cups and other paraphernalia. I have a Michigan Alumnus license plate frame and Michigan trailer hitch cap on my car. I love it and take it very seriously.

There are great wins like the 1969 upset of Ohio State. There are also some losses that I cannot shake from my memory. Consider the September 24, 1994 game against the University of Colorado in Ann Arbor. Michigan was coached by Gary Moeller and ranking fourth in the nation. Colorado was ranked seventh and coached by a Detroit native Bill McCartney, who had been a storied defensive coordinator at Michigan under head coach Bo Schembechler. Michigan looked like it had the game in the bag leading 26-21. Colorado had the ball with 60 some yards away from the goal line and time for only one more play. Colorado quarterback Kordell Stewart dropped back and unleashed a Hail Mary pass. The pass made it to the end zone, Michigan defenders and Colorado receivers jumped up, the ball was tipped and Colorado’s Michael Westerbrook ended up with it lying on his back in the end zone. There was one of those moments where time stops and followed by the realization of joy on one side and deflation on the other. Michigan lost this game 27-26. A very good Michigan team went on to lose three more games that season to Penn State and Wisconsin at home and Ohio State on the road ending up with an 8-4 season. That loss took a lot of both the team and the fans.

I remember that 1994 Colorado game for two reasons. First, this is the tenth anniversary of the game and ESPN Classic showed the game on the anniversary date. I do not think many Michigan fans watched it again. Secondly, I remember the game for a more personal reason. I was watching the game, on TV, at home. I was lying on my bed, watching the waning moments of the game and savoring what seemed like a sure win that would have given Michigan a 3-0 record. Armené, eight years old at the time, climbed on the bed and joined me to watch the end. After the Hail Mary and that moment where time stopped, I jumped up, ran to the TV, ranting and raving, yelling “No! No! NO!!… I can’t believe it” and other such things. Armené jumped up after me and said, “Dad you’re going crazy!” I retorted, “Did you see what just happened! We lost! Arghhh!” In her youthful wisdom and naiveté, she then said, “Dad, it is just a game.” I ranted back, “It is not just a game, it is Michigan, they lost! We should have won! We were robbed! It’s unbelievable!” Then I continued raving in tongues. We laugh about that still and I am sure will do so well into the future.

While every game is important, a few rivalries stand out. The cross-state rivalry with Michigan State and Notre Dame are huge games. But, the biggest game on the Michigan schedule is always the last regular season game, the annual Michigan – Ohio State game. It is the biggest game for Ohio State as well. Nothing matches this game. All Michigan and Ohio State fans consider it the biggest and most important game of the season. Most of us consider it the greatest rivalry in college football eclipsing the likes of USC – Notre Dame, Texas – Oklahoma, Army – Navy, Florida – Florida State, and Harvard – Yale. We simply refer to it as The Game: The Ohio State game.

Last year was the 100th game in this storied series which began in 1897 with a 34-0 Michigan win. Michigan leads the series with 57 wins versus 37 for Ohio State. They have tied 6 times. In the first fifteen meetings, Michigan won 13 teams. There were two ties. Michigan dominated the early years of the series.

While Ohio State is a huge rivalry, it is not the only one. I cannot talk about Michigan Football without considering the cross-state rivalry with the Spartans of Michigan State University. The University of Michigan is in Ann Arbor, Michigan State University is in East Lansing, the schools are sixty some miles apart. The only reason the Ohio State game is more notable is because it is the last game of the regular season and for more years than not in the past twenty years, the winner of this game has won the Big Ten title. The Michigan State game has not had the same impact on the standings. This does not mean the game is not intense. It is every bit as intense as the Ohio State game.

Michigan first played Michigan State in 1898. The overall record versus Michigan State is 63 wins, 28 loses and t ties. In the past ten years, the record is 7-3 in favor of Michigan. For most games, Michigan stadium, the largest college stadium in the US with a capacity of 107,501 is sold out. For most games, there are tickets to be had on game day albeit from scalpers. But for the Michigan State game, because the rivalry is in-state, there are rarely any tickets being sold even by scalpers on game day.

There are a few interesting things about rivalries. Fans can be quite partisan, passionate, and even obsessive. They view the rival often as the enemy and even “hate” them. But, you simply cannot have a rivalry without… the rival. Also, if you beat the rival every year, there is no rivalry. There is no rivalry when there is no drama and intensity. There is no Michigan – Indiana rivalry since Michigan has won 47 of the 56 games they have played. Against Ohio State, during the Woody Hayes – Bo Schembechler era from 1969-1979, the record was 5-4-1 in favor of Michigan. That series took the rivalry to new heights. When John Cooper took over at Ohio State, Michigan had a great run of winning 10, losing 2 and 1 tie. It was lopsided in the Cooper era but so much fun as the Ohio State fans and press were completely out of their minds. With their new coach, Jim Tressel, Ohio State is 2-1 against the Wolverines. It is apparent with the arrival of Tressel that Michigan won’t have it so easy against Ohio State.

Notre Dame is another great rivalry. Their first game ever was against Michigan, on November 23, 1887. In fact, it was an instructional game in which Michigan taught the Fighting Irish how to play football! Michigan won that first game and leads the overall series 18-12-1. Of the first ten games, Michigan won 9. They played off and from 1887 to 1909 when Notre Dame beat Michigan for the first time. Fielding Yost would not play them again. They had another game in 1942 which Michigan won. They did not play again until 1978. With the revival of the series, Notre Dame leads with 12 wins versus 9 for Michigan and 1 tie. Notre Dame has become a huge rival. The have the most storied program in all of college football and both Michigan and Notre Dame have the highest winning percentages of all universities.

In the years I have been a Michigan fan. They have never had a losing season. In the seventies, they never lost more than two games in any season. Their last losing season was in 1967 when they went 4-6. Since then, the worst they did was going 6-6 in 1984. Even that year, Michigan was 3-1 going into the Michigan State game. In that game, the great Michigan tailback fumbled the ball, quarterback Jim Harbaugh dove for the fumble and ended up with a season ending broken ankle. Michigan lost that game to State, 19-7. They went on to lost 4 more games that season including a 24-17 loss to the National Champions, Brigham Young, in the Holiday Bowl.

Michigan won a co-National Championship in 1997 going 12-0. That was a great season with Brian Griese at quarterback. The story of that season was the ferocious defense led by Heisman Trophy winner, Charles Woodson, which allowed opponents an average of 9.3 points per game. They were incredible. It was Michigan’s first National Championship since 1948.

Getting back to Sydney Harris’s observation, it does amaze me that I am such a fan. I follow no other sport or team with even 10% of the interest I have in Wolverine Football. Many of the players are not really students and, without football skills, may not have been able to get into the university. This is not, however, new or unique. In the early days of college football, the days of Knute Rockne, Fielding Yost, and Amos Alonzo Stagg, players were definitely not students. Good players would go from school to school, playing three – four years at one school and then playing a few more years at another school. The best players in the heyday of Army football weren’t even cadets! The renown George Gipp of Notre Dame was not the all-American boy and student as portrayed by Ronald Reagan in the movie The Knute Rockne Story. In fact he was a great player but not really a student and more of a hooligan off the field. Fielding Yost even tried to recruit (steal, bribe, whatever) Gipp from Notre Dame to play at Michigan. Things are much more regulated today then in the early 1900s.

Michigan Football is a real passion. I take the games seriously; too seriously, to the point you would think it is a matter of life or death. I have no idea how I got this way, but I would not have it any other way. Go Blue!

Michigan Fight Song
© Louis Elbel/The Regents of theUniversity of MichiganWritten 1898

Hail! to the victors valiant

Hail! to the conqu'ring heroes

Hail! Hail! to Michigan

the leaders and best

Hail! to the victors valiant

Hail! to the conqu'ring heroes

Hail! Hail! to Michigan,

the champions of the West!

August 2004: Memories of August Festivals

I. Woodstock
My definitive source of news lately the USA Today reminded me that August 15-17 was the 35th anniversary of the Woodstock Music and Arts. I thought, or rather had fooled myself into thinking, that we were still living in Detroit when Woodstock happened. But, clearly, we had already moved to the Detroit suburb of Livonia. This was just before starting my junior year at Stevenson High School. I do remember learning of this landmark event on the radio but only after the festival was making news due to the incredible traffic back-up of miles on the New York State Thruway.

Woodstock took place Friday August 15 to Sunday August 17 in 1969. I remember clearly the weather in Detroit was good, great in fact. I was listening to WABX, the alternative rock station in Detroit, in those days it was called an underground station where the Disc Jockeys were under spoken and played more music than they talked. We were in the thick of the Vietnam War. It was the year after the Summer of Love. The times, they were a changin'. I learned about Woodstock on Thursday or Friday whenever the unexpected traffic jams were making the news. Woodstock. It had and has a magical ring to my heart and soul. I felt a real tug to go, to just get up and get there. It was a nine hour drive, with no twenty mile long traffic jam to deal with, but I felt the lure of the times and hype and hoopla that was beamed over the underground airwaves of WABX. That tug, that lure, was not only felt by me but many of us on the younger side of the so called generation gap of those changin’ times. That feeling was encapsulated perfectly, for me in Joni Mitchell's song: Woodstock.

We are stardust, we are golden, and we have to get ourselves back to the garden.

That was the mood and state of mind many of us were in.

A half million young people showed up. The weather turned against the throng. It became miserable. They ran out of food and all the facilities were woefully inadequate for the astonishing number of people that turned out. Yet, they were young, high and resilient. They persevered. It became something very special. A movie of the festival followed along with a sound track. I saw the movie a few times and wore out the cassette tape I napstered from a buddy's record.

I never made it to Woodstock. After all I was only 16, it was far away, I really didn't have access to a car and I was too risk averse to just up and hitch hike which would have been the true counter culture thing to do. I actually never even talked to any of my friends about this desire and lure to “head on down to Woodstock.” Maybe if I were in college with my own car, I might have raised the idea with friends about going. Probably we still wouldn't have gone, but we would have at least talked about it. After the news reports turned and started talking about the rain, the crowds and chaos, I felt kind of glad I did not go.

Upon moving to New York I became acquainted with two fellows that went to Woodstock. One of them still carries the ticket stub in his wallet it meant so much to him.

On August 13th of this year, I must have listen to both the Joni Mitchell and the Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young version of Woodstock a couple of dozen times each. When I was younger, I really liked the driving Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young version. Now, I think Joni's performance better captures and evokes the magic and mystique of the times.

We are stardust, billion year old carbon.
We are golden, caught in the devil's bargain,
and we have to get ourselves back to the garden.
I dreamed I saw the bombers flying shotgun in the sky,
turning into butterflies above our nation.

Woodstock was indeed a turning point. Now, to me, it was not a beginning. It was a defining point and the beginning of the end of the movement. After Woodstock, everything gradually became more commercial. It was as if, the mainstream saw the incredible interest and buying power of the youth and began marketing and capitalizing on it.

Yet, there are things remained from those days. People have been trying to get back to the garden ever since in a variety of ways. America was never the same. While the Woodstock Generation has aged, we struggled with those lofty perhaps utopian principles while struggling to establish ourselves in society. We became entwined in business and the markets we created. We have taken over society in our various careers. We struggle with a war today, some of us straddling the paths of peace and dealing with the very real terror threats as defined in the 9/11 attacks. We still try to be spiritual. Some of us have become seriously Christian, others worship wealth and success. Others take a less defined and more mystical approach.

Thirty-five years have passed. I still look fondly on Woodstock and I still look fondly on the message in the music from that era. It was the era when I was coming of age. I wonder how many others were listening to the Woodstock sound track or watching the movie this month, reminiscing, thinking, and dreaming of how things have and have not changed.

II. Blessing of the Grapes
There is another outdoor setting for August festivals that has a much larger place in my heart and memory. It is a place in Ecorse, Michigan called Greenlawn Grove. It was a picnic ground according to a web search is still active albeit as a flea market today. It was where the Armenians of the St. Sarkis Church community of Detroit would gather for the Annual Blessing of the Grapes Picnic.

Literally for centuries, Armenians have been blessing the first grapes of the season. It is usually done the second Sunday of August in conjunction with, but not related to, the Assumption of Mary. In this Blessing of the Grapes a special prayer written by Nerses Shnorhali or Nerses the Gracious (1100-1173) is read. In this harvest blessing, reference is made that fruit-bearing trees and plants were part of the third day of creation. The first grapes harvested are brought to the church for blessing upon which they are distributed amongst the people. Traditionally, grapes were not eaten until after the Blessing of the Grapes. Today, the availability of grapes year round has made this last tradition most difficult to maintain.

These picnics were magic. They defined a whole part of me and definitely influence the music I love and perform. I remember the times with family and friends, the smells of the kebab cooking, the musicians, the dancers, the tavlu (backgammon) and card players, the kids running around with limitless energy, and the men and women who had been born in the “old country,” the folks of my grandparent’s generation.

While the name, Greenlawn Grove, seems like a more apropos name for a cemetery. This Greenlawn Grove was definitely a picnic ground and dance hall. There were a few ball fields, plenty of picnic tables and that dance hall. The dance hall was truly nothing fancy. It had a barn like floor worn smooth over the years. The roof was arched like a Quonset hut and was shingled, mostly, green but with enough white shingles to spell out Greenlawn Grove. The windows of this hall were large single panel shutters that opened inward, hinged at the top, and latched via hooks and eyes. There were lights, but not enough to make a huge difference which created the right ambiance the evening dances held there. For the picnics, most of the light in the hall came from the windows and three double doors. The hall was a rectangle with benches built in around the perimeter where older people would sit enjoying the music and dancing. Kids would climb and stand on the benches waving out the windows to passersby. Often, they would jump out of the windows soliciting warnings and scoldings about breaking their necks and such from their parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and other concerned village elders. There was a modest bandstand at one end, the end where there wasn’t a door. To me when the band on this stage struck their first notes, the stage became a window into our collective past. I remember the hall as big, dusty, and full of people dancing, watching, kids running, and musicians performing. I am sure if I returned today, I would probably be struck by how small the hall has gotten in these many years.

Besides the people, the Blessing of the Grapes, and the music and dancing, the food also defined the picnic. The main attraction was lamb shish kebab. You could just get a sandwich or a full dinner with salad and rice pilaf. The salad was made in industrial bowls, sitting in oil and vinegar for enough hours to give it that unique and coveted picnic flavor and texture. The pilaf seemed to be equal parts chicken broth, rice and butter, again, made in industrial batches. To this day, people still refer to “picnic pilaf” as the standard against which all others are measured. No one knew about cholesterol back then. If you didn’t like kebab or later wanted something else, there was watermelon, corn on the cob, soda, beer and occasionally khema sandwiches. Khema is like steak tartare but in this case raw lamb mixed with fine ground bulgur wheat, seasoned with olive oil, salt, pepper, onions and parsley.

The shish kebab was most special food attraction at these picnics. The lamb was cubed and marinated a day or two in advance. The kebab was then skewered on long family sized skewers and three dozen skewers at a time would be cooking on a perfect coal fire on a long special barbecue someone had fabricated just to cook the picnic kebab. When done, the kebab was de-skewered, and the skewers re-loaded. This would go on all day, until the picnic ended or the kebab sold out. Those manning the cooking of the kebab took their jobs very seriously. They spent the whole day setting up the barbecue, starting and tending the fire, and cooking the kebab. In the August heat and humidity, it was a very hot and sweaty job. They would drink water, beer and even Raki (Arak or Ouzo) and better if the Raki was homemade. They would, of course, have to sample the kebab to make sure it was fully cooked and met their standards. This fraternity of kebab cooks, the kebabjis, was hard to break into. They loved and valued what they did. I do believe that no one had a better or sounder night’s sleep after the picnic than the kebabjis.

Me? I loved what went on in that hall most of all. I loved the music and the musicians. I spent most of my time by the stage, mesmerized. I loved the dancers especially that first generation dancing in that heavy stately style that no one born in this country has ever been able to match. Those born in the US were much more energetic in their dancing. The same held for the musicians. I was fortunate enough to have heard the Gerjekian band, the only first generation group I ever saw live. They were a trio of clarinet, a set of drums (really just a bass, snare and cymbal), and an oud. Only the oud player was amplified and his amp was the size of a small suitcase. There is no comparison to the musicianship, repertoire, and sound reinforcement of Armenians bands playing the same style music today. Yet, this trio of immigrants, along with their audience and dancers, could create magic. They somehow had a full sound, were plenty loud enough and had that “old country” flavor and style that, again, those of us born here can only hope to approximate. They were not fancy or articulate in their performance. The oud player while not a virtuoso had an amazing tone. I recall that he rarely used the upstroke, using mostly down strokes in picking. I can still hear that deep, woody tone that rang with each heavy down stroke. I would love to match that tone, or at lest the tone that haunts my memories.

What fantastic memories they were. I believe these picnics got me into the music. I still love to play picnics though many musicians can do without them. I play more picnics now than ever. They are best when the weather is nice and over the years we have been lucky in that regard. The musicians I perform with now are a great and fun bunch. The food, at worst, is good. It is a pleasure to be part of a tradition that goes back, who knows how many centuries.

In the diaspora, the church and church hall is the normal venue for things Armenian. Church is fine for religious and most cultural activities. But, at these picnics, these picnics at Greenlawn Grove, a place we rented once or twice a year, we were outside, we were Armenian. We lived in the magical illusion everything we surveyed was Armenia… and for those few hours on Sunday August afternoons it was.

July 2004: Fear, Vigilance & Trying to Understand

Fear: Life changed with the 9-11 attacks in New York and Washington. This is not a profound statement. In the United States, we were rudely waken from the idyll we enjoyed in the 1990s since the end of the Cold War with the fall of the Soviet Union. We seemed to have replaced the fear of global nuclear war with that of terrorism which may include the unthinkable: bio-chemical attacks or dirty bombs. Communists and the KGB have been replaced by Al Qaeda and Islamic Fundamentalists.

I work in New York, a prime target for terror being the financial and cultural center of the United States, some would say the world. We cannot deny it is also a prime target because of its large Jewish population, 1.4 million in the metropolitan area; the largest concentration outside the state of Israel.

Whatever level of fear I had increased a quantum level on March 11th of this year. That was the day of the horrible train bombings in Spain in which 191 people were killed and 1,600 injured from ten remotely detonated backpack bombs on four commuter trains.

I truly felt horrible, on a few levels, when this hearing of the Madrid bombings. I felt very sad for the people and their families. Like many others, I wondered “what is this world coming to?” But, I felt sick to my stomach because it made real the fear that the same could easily happen here in New York. Most users of commuter trains and subways harbored this fear, but we almost never verbalized it. The Madrid bombings brought this very real risk to the forefront of everyone’s minds.

You cannot guard against such an attack. Putting in airport like security screening measures is not a good option. That would add, I am guessing, a minimum of thirty minutes to everyone’s daily commute. Commuters would revolt if that were to happen.

The Madrid bombings disrupted and influenced the Spanish elections. It is likely the same could be done here. The Republican Convention will take place in New York the last week of August. It was announced just last week that the Colgate Offices will be closed as we are right across Park Avenue from the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel where President Bush will be staying.

Vigilance: The most absurd thing about security is that the only thing the average person can do, barring becoming a total recluse, is to be more “vigilant.” When the Terror Alert Level goes from Yellow to Orange, government officials and other talking heads on television tell us not to curtail our normal routines but, most definitely, to be more “vigilant.” It is an interesting choice of words. We could be more careful, alert, attentive, or aware. But no, the word often used in “vigilant.” Vigilant is being aware certainly but being aware of dangerous or unsafe situations. So, it is a good word. Vigilant is also close to vigilante.

We are to keep on the lookout for things out of the ordinary. Great! Everyday, in New York, I see things out of the ordinary. But I am a good citizen, plus I love Tom Clancy, Robert Ludlum and Nelson DeMille novels. I can be vigilant. I can be on the lookout for danger and intrigue around every corner ready to spring into action, to dive behind cars or into doorways, to come up shooting or to beat bad guys senseless even though I carry no arms and have no martial arts skills. Yet, I have been vigilant. Here are a few examples.

Taking the train home in the summer of 2002, I notice two serious burly men board the train. I think nothing of it until they sit down one row in front of me, in seats facing each other. Because I am trying to be vigilant, I notice that they did not take off their suit jackets and, even odder, they did not unbutton them. It was a hot day and ninety percent of the men would take them off on the train and I never see anyone sit down anywhere with their jacket buttoned. So, here are two guys doing exactly that. They both look stern and one of them is sweating. I conclude that something is not right with these two guys. As the train is already underway, I decide to wait for the conductor to come by. The wait is short and the conductor collects my ticket first. I plan to follow the conductor past earshot of my two suspects and disclose the fruits of my vigilance. As the conductor asks for their tickets, the suspect facing me moves his suit jacket aside to reveal… a badge. Whew! They were undercover train police. I engaged the policeman in conversation and related this story and told him I was glad that he was in fact a police officer. He commended me for my vigilance. I then asked him what I should have done and he said to tell the conductor. Then what should I have done. “Nothing,” he said. Not good advice if he were really a bad guy. I translate the officer’s message as tell the conductor and get the hell out of that car.

Another beautiful summer day last year, I was walking past the Waldorf. On the corner of 50th and Park, I see a man I could easily assume might be from the Middle East. He is standing on the corner with a video camera, aimed up at the top of buildings, he is filming and slowly turning around to capture the full panorama. Again, due to having vigilant radar on, I make immediate note of this. I take a few steps on notice two uniformed police officers walking my way. How fortuitous, as I imagined myself getting a medal from the President. I walk up to them and relate what I have just seen and point to the man who is still video taping. One of the police officers said, “Makes ya think, don’t it” and they walked away! They did nothing! Confiscate the camera! Drag this guy off to Guatanamo! Do something. What a waste of my vigilance.
Shortly after the Madrid bombing, Metro-North Railroad put a flyer on each seat in order to educate the passengers in how to be more vigilant. I read it but found it to be a waste of time since my vigilance skills were already honed beyond the simplistic advice they were giving.

One day in April, I was taking the train into the city on a Saturday. It was a pleasant afternoon and I was engrossed in the newspaper. A man who looked normal, i.e. like a suburban executive type, plopped a Nike sports bag next to me, asked me to watch it for a few minutes while he went to the restroom. Instinctively, without any vigilance senses working at all, I said “Sure.” Seconds after he left, I looked at his bag and thought how potentially stupid I was. I got up and looked down the aisle and thankfully saw the man go into the restroom in the next car. I kept watching until I saw him come back. I explained my concern. He apologized for not even thinking about it either. We both then commiserated how what once was simple social cordiality was now suspect.

Lastly a few weeks ago, I was in Grand Central Terminal on a Saturday evening about to return home after having dinner with friends. I saw a street woman shuffling through the terminal on a warm July evening wearing a heavy winter coat. Zounds! My vigil-o-meter needle was pegged to the red. This was exactly the kind of “out of the ordinary” thing the Metro-North Flyer advised us to look for and gave the specific example of “someone wearing a heavy winter coat in summer.” Luckily, National Guardsmen were nearby, looking stern, M-16s at the ready. I went up, explained what I saw, pointing out the suspect woman who was still in sight. They looked at me like I was suspect! I tried to tell them that this was exactly the kind of thing the Flyer alerted us to be vigilant about. They didn’t care! I felt like I was in a Michael Moore documentary.

I will continue to be vigilant in my Jason Bourne and Jack Ryan fantasy.

Trying to Understand: Around the same time the Madrid bombings were in the news, the Israelis were assassinating Hamas leaders. First, they killed the founder of Hamas, Sheik Ahmed Yassin on March 22. Hamas immediately named Dr. Abdel Aziz Rantisi as Yassin’s successor. The television was full of images of black hooded, armed, marching and chanting Hamas militants and Israelis justifying the assassination. A few weeks later on April 18th, Rantisi was assassinated in an Israeli airstrike. There were even more images, justifications and vows of revenge. This time Hamas chose not make the name of their new leader public.

Abdel Aziz Rantisi, the name sounded familiar, beyond just being on the news so much. So, I went through my notebook of articles I clip and save seemingly just for such purposes. Yes, I found something. On page 38 of the July 8, 2002 issue of Forbes, there was a very short piece attributed to Charles Oliver, Reason Online. I quote it in its entirety:

Not in My Backyard
“Do as I say, not as I do” seems to be the motto for Hamas leader Abdel Aziz Rantisi, who helps recruit suicide bombers in the Middle East. When his 23 year old son volunteered that he would be “honored” to be a martyr, Rantisi wasn’t encouraging: “He doesn’t know what he is saying… He is only saying this because of his youth. Some men must grow up to become doctors.” (Rantisi’s son is a medical student.) But for that to happen, others have to sacrifice themselves and become martyrs.

I remembered why I first clipped this. I was shocked and taken aback when I first read this. I wondered what the families of those who had given their lives for their cause thought when they read this. Were they blind to the glaring contradiction?

Now Rantisi had been assassinated and along with him one of his six children, Mohammed. I could not confirm through any web search if this was the son he referred to in the quote.
Extremists, religious extremists, those using indiscriminate violence on innocence, confuse me. I just do not understand it. It is, as if, they are operating in a completely different logic than the rest of us. This is driven home whenever I read something like the above quote from Rantisi.
Non-extremists try to look at both sides. They try to understand both sides. Extremists are not so hampered. Their viewpoint is solid and unwavering. While the less extreme are weighing issues, contemplating all points of view, and looking for compromise, extremists can simply act, often violently, toward their own ends. This reminds me of the poem, The Second Coming, by William Butler Yeats in which he states “The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.”

In the US, we think we can barter a peace agreement between opposing sides in the Middle East. In previous peace initiative, I find our government officials using words like “finding a middle ground” or “trying to hammer out a deal.” There is a huge disconnect here. In order to barter, to find a middle ground or to work out a deal require that both parties essentially want the same thing. This is the case in business. Sellers and buyers want to do business; they want a transaction to happen. All they have to do is work out the terms, each party compromising to some degree, depending upon their leverage, to make it happen.

When both parties are diametrically opposed and want the demise of the other side, there is no middle ground and the only use of a hammer is to bash each other. To me, this is why peace in that part of the world will be so hard to achieve.

Why does anyone want to bomb a commuter train full of innocents? The easiest way to answer that question is that the bombers are extremists, they are the worst, they are bad, in short they are the enemy. I am beginning to believe that is definitely true. The problem is that once a group is colored as bad, evil and hence the enemy, is that those labels extend too easily to an entire religion, race or nation. It is easy to write off all of Islam, all Arabs, all Jews, all Irish, all English, all Turks and, yes, all Armenians.

Who suffers? Not the extremists. This is the life they have chosen. I don’t care a wink about Rantisi or his family. I feel a bit more for the families of those he talked into becoming suicide bombers. I feel sorriest for innocent Iraqis killed by Hussein, US bombs and car bombs. I feel bad for innocent Israelis killed by suicide bombers and innocent Palestinians killed in retributions.

If violent extremists decide you are their enemy, there is no time to lack conviction. You have to define them as your enemy and you have to treat them as the same. If you can, you have to go out and get them before they get you. This logic, unfortunately, I can understand. There is no negotiation, there is no compromise. It will not go away. Another unfortunate fact, innocents will get hurt. This logic is tough to swallow and maybe is why the best are lacking conviction.
Others make more eloquent arguments than mine will ever be. But, I still have a hard time understanding violent extremism. I can follow the arguments and see the points, I just have a hard time understanding.

The last line of Yeats poem is even more ominous, “what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”

The Second ComingW. B. Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst Are full of passionate
intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?