Blog

One advantage of writing a blog rather than writing for a serious publication is that I can take a few liberties with the rules of composition. This week, for instance, I have several things on my mind that might not appear to belong in the same post.

But it’s my blog, so I’m going to try it anyway.

Brenda and I recently traveled to St. George’s Caye, off the coast of Belize, with a group of former Winona State softball players who competed together almost a quarter century ago. While I was not instrumental in their playing careers, spending time with them reminded me of all that is right with sports.

These women don’t see one another often. They don’t necessarily communicate regularly, either. Yet when they gathered, they picked up right where they had left off. It was almost as if they were returning for another season rather than reuniting after so many years.

That is a remarkable thing.

We spend considerable time discussing what is wrong with sports, and there is plenty to discuss. But watching these women reconnect was a reminder that some of the most valuable things sports produce never appear on a scoreboard. The seasons end. The relationships endure.

Whatever frustrations I have with the business of sports, I still find something inspiring in the bonds among people who once worked toward a common goal.

Another pleasure of travel is the opportunity to read.

I have mentioned before my frustration with how few people seem to read books on airplanes. This trip did little to change that impression. But I had books with me, including two that had been waiting patiently on my shelf: Ron Chernow’s Grant and Charles Krauthammer’s The Point of It All.

Both were published nearly a decade ago. After reviewing several newer books recently, I enjoyed the reminder that a book does not have to be new to have something timely to say.

I had been slow to tackle Chernow’s biography partly because I had already read two excellent biographies about Grant: Jean Edward Smith’s Grant and H. W. Brands’s The Man Who Saved the Union: Ulysses Grant in War and Peace.

There was another reason, too. Chernow is a fantastic biographer, but you have to be ready for him. His books require sustained attention. You don’t casually wander into one and expect to finish it between a few errands.

His biography of Grant rewarded that attention. It belongs alongside his biographies of Hamilton and Washington. He has an extraordinary ability to make a complicated life understandable without making it seem simple.

Grant’s achievements as a general are familiar. His presidency offers a different set of questions, and reading about it during an election season made those questions feel especially relevant.

Grant was personally honest, yet his administration was damaged by corruption among people around him. His trust in others, so often an admirable quality, could also become a serious weakness.

Reading about the scandals of the Gilded Age, I found myself thinking about money, influence, and public trust in Washington today. At times, the distance between the nineteenth century and our own seems smaller than we might like.

But the passage that stayed with me most came from Grant’s travels after he left the presidency:

“The fact is, we are the most progressive, freest, and richest people on earth, but don’t know it or appreciate it. Foreigners see this much plainer than we do.”

Reading those words while traveling outside the United States gave them particular weight.

As Brenda and I traveled through Belize on our way to St. George’s Caye, we saw poverty that stayed with me. It made Grant’s observation feel less like a passage in a history book and more like a question directed at the reader: How much do we take for granted?

Much of our political conversation is consumed by what is wrong. Some of those criticisms are necessary. Still, I wonder whether we have allowed dissatisfaction to crowd out gratitude.

Surely, we can recognize our problems while appreciating the freedoms and opportunities we have.

Krauthammer’s The Point of It All prompted a different kind of reflection.

I had put off reading it because I regularly read his columns in The Washington Post and Time. My assumption was that I had probably already read much of what the book contained.

That turned out to be a poor reason to leave it on the shelf.

Returning to his columns, essays, and speeches reminded me of the power of a serious mind making a carefully reasoned argument. Krauthammer was one of the great conservative thinkers and writers of his time, and what impresses me most is the coherence of his thinking.

Sometimes I disagree with him. But when I do, I frequently find myself examining my own position more carefully. His logic requires me to ask whether I can explain my disagreement as clearly as he explains his argument.

That is something I value in a writer.

There is satisfaction in reading someone who confirms what we already believe. There is also considerable value in reading someone who makes us pause, reconsider, and perhaps acknowledge that our own thinking needs more work.

I wish we had more of that spirit in our public conversations: the willingness to take an argument seriously enough to examine it, even when we don’t like its conclusion.

So perhaps these thoughts belong together after all.

A reunion of former teammates reminded me of the lasting value of shared effort. Chernow’s biography reminded me how much history can illuminate the present. Krauthammer reminded me of the value of clear thinking and the willingness to question my own conclusions.

And traveling with Brenda gave me the time and distance to appreciate all three.

I came home grateful for the friendships sports can create, for writers whose work continues to challenge us years after publication, and for the considerable good in our lives that can become so familiar we forget to notice it.

That’s the perspective this week.

Until next Friday,

C Tuescher

I have a confession to make. I really admire the Milwaukee Brewers.

This week’s perspective comes a little early. Brenda and I will be traveling later in the week, and I wasn’t sure I could get a post published while we were away. Since my goal is to share one perspective every week, this seemed like a good time to talk about playoff baseball.

October can be painful for a person like me. The Chicago Cubs have been eliminated, and with them goes my hope of celebrating another World Series championship. But with the Cubs out, it is easy to turn my attention a little farther north along Lake Michigan.

The Milwaukee Brewers are simply a fun team to watch.

Ten years ago, postseason baseball was magical for Cubs fans. The 2016 World Series championship was the culmination of dreams passed down through generations. For millions of us, it was something we had spent our lives hoping to see.

I will always treasure that season. But over the past decade, the smaller city up the lakefront has built something that deserves admiration, even from those of us who bleed Cubbie blue.

Michael Lewis wrote Moneyball, which later became a movie. Some people loved the book, others loved the movie, and plenty had criticisms of both. Whatever your opinion, the story offered a compelling look at how a baseball organization could compete against teams with far greater financial resources.

The Brewers deserve a book of their own.

Year after year, Milwaukee finds ways to compete with teams that can spend considerably more. The Cubs, Dodgers, Yankees, and other wealthy organizations have advantages the Brewers cannot simply purchase. Yet Milwaukee continues to put a team on the field that makes life difficult for all of them.

As I write this, the Brewers hold a 2–0 lead over the Los Angeles Dodgers in the National League Championship Series. These are the two-time defending World Series champions, an organization with baseball’s largest payroll and enough talent to make any opponent wilt in the heat of postseason baseball.

And Milwaukee is taking the game right to them.

What I admire most, though, goes beyond the score. As a former coach, I watch the Brewers and see the kind of team coaches hope to build.

Whether you coach youth baseball, high school baseball, or college baseball, you want players who understand that winning requires more than individual talent. You want them to value preparation, execute the fundamentals, accept their roles, and recognize that their contribution matters even when it doesn’t make the highlights.

That is what I see in Milwaukee. They play baseball the right way.

Analytics certainly belong in the winning baseball equation. Any organization trying to compete should use the information available to it. But what impresses me about the Brewers is how everything comes together on the field. The numbers serve a purpose: helping a team find ways to win.

Their success also seems remarkably durable.

When the Cubs hired Craig Counsell away from Milwaukee, I certainly hoped Chicago was gaining an advantage, and yet the Brewers kept moving forward under Pat Murphy. From where I sit, they look even stronger.

That is no slight against Counsell or what he accomplished in Milwaukee. It is a compliment to Murphy—and to an organization whose identity could survive the departure of a successful manager.

The same can be said about losing David Stearns to the New York Mets. A departure like that might have disrupted everything Milwaukee had built. Instead, the Brewers continued to thrive. The Mets’ financial resources have hardly made sustained success automatic.

At some point, you simply have to admire and respect an organization that keeps finding the right answers.

None of this means I am surrendering my Cubs fandom. Childhood dreams are not easily relinquished.

Jerry Seinfeld famously joked that sports fans are essentially cheering for laundry. The players change, the managers change, and we keep rooting for the uniforms. There is truth in that observation, but those uniforms carry memories. They connect us to childhood, to people we love, and to moments we will never forget.

My allegiance will always belong to the Chicago Cubs.

But right now, I am rooting for the Milwaukee Brewers.

Their success is good for Milwaukee, good for Wisconsin, and outstanding for the game of baseball. They remind us how much can be accomplished when an organization develops people, establishes an identity, and gets everyone pulling in the same direction.

Even a Cubs fan can appreciate that.

That’s the perspective this week.

Until next week,

Coach T.

Many of us worry about the future in one way or another—the health of our families, our financial security, or what the next chapter might bring. As we get older and retirement draws closer, that chapter becomes less of an abstract idea and more of an approaching reality.

Will we have enough? When will we be ready? What do we want our lives to look like?

Recently, Brenda and I finished reading The Retire Sooner Method by Wes Moss together. This week’s perspective is our second effort in cowriting a blog post. We both had reactions worth sharing, and Brenda’s perspective deserves to be told in her own voice.

Before getting into the book, let me recommend something to other couples: read a book together. Sharing a book gives you something to discuss, and sometimes those conversations take you well beyond the pages. That was certainly true for us.

This was the second book by Moss that we have read together, following What the Happiest Retirees Know. One of the things I enjoy about his writing is that retirement planning extends beyond just financial planning. When he does discuss the numbers, his explanations are clear enough that even someone with my limited mathematical aptitude can follow along. Brenda, on the other hand, is quite comfortable with numbers and immediately starts testing his formulas.

That difference makes for some interesting conversations.

Reading these books has also reinforced our appreciation for working with financial professionals. Having people we trust help us plan our future has been one of the wisest decisions we’ve made together. Books help us ask better questions; our financial planners help us work through the answers as they apply to our lives.

What caught my attention most in The Retire Sooner Method was its discussion of life beyond finances: community, sleep, and what Moss calls “core pursuits”—essentially, “hobbies on steroids.” Alongside finance and economics, the book ventures into psychology, sociology, and philosophy as Moss explores what the “Happiest Retirees on the Block” have in common.

His discussion of happy and unhappy retirees left me thinking about something broader: what makes a fulfilling life?

I appreciate the research behind his ideas. Still, when the discussion turns to how many pursuits or social connections happy retirees tend to have, I wonder how much the numbers can capture. We can count the activities on our calendars, but that doesn’t tell us their value. We can count our connections, but that doesn’t fully describe the depth of our relationships.

At times, I think Moss is trying to quantify something that is qualitative by nature. For me, the questions underneath the numbers are the most interesting.

What gives us a reason to get up in the morning? What do we enjoy learning? Where do we feel useful? Who do we want to spend time with?

We all have different answers, and those questions matter long before retirement.

As I read, I kept returning to this thought: If we hope to find joy and fulfillment in retirement, shouldn’t we begin practicing the things that bring us joy and fulfillment now? Retirement may give us more time, but we still need some understanding of what makes that time meaningful.

After telling Brenda my reaction to the book, I asked if she would be willing to share her reaction. She immediately said, “Sure.” Then came the warning: “I’m going to be real, raw, and authentic, because that’s who I am.”

To understand how she feels about retirement, it helps to understand how she feels about work. I’ll let her tell that part.

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My working career started when I was twelve, delivering the La Crosse Tribune in Tomah, Wisconsin. I remember telling my parents I wanted my own money. When that first Friday payday arrived, this girl thought she had won the lottery. My parents let me open my first checking account and gave me some freedom to decide how to spend the money I earned.

Every Friday after payday, I headed to the grocery store for candy bars, junk food, and Teen Beat magazine. Some of you know exactly what I’m talking about. Yes, I’m dating myself! Donny and Marie, Scott Baio, and Shaun Cassidy were worth a little of that hard-earned money.

Those are fun memories, but they also tell you something about me: I’ve always liked earning my own money.

As daughter number three, I wanted fancy jeans and name-brand clothes. My mom’s answer was simple: “Brenda, you’ll have to get a job.”

So I did.

During high school, I worked weekends waitressing at Country Kitchen. My parents instilled a strong work ethic, and it has stayed with me ever since.

My first adult job marked the beginning of an eighteen-year chapter at Black River Memorial Hospital. I can still picture sitting in a conference room with HR and our financial advisors, reviewing our 401(k) plans and listening to conversations about retirement—something that might be thirty or forty years away.

At the time, that sounded like forever.

Now, here we are, talking about retirement. Forever has a way of arriving faster than you expect.

Let’s be real: Could Chad and I retire today? Absolutely. Does that mean I’m ready? This girl gets anxious just thinking about it.

Throughout my career, especially in sales, I’ve paid close attention to finances and numbers. Working for a Fortune 10 company and earning a good income helped me appreciate both the opportunities work provided and the responsibility to prepare for the future.

But being financially able to retire and being emotionally ready to retire are two different things.

My full-time job gives me satisfaction and purpose beyond the paycheck. It brings relationships, challenges, and the gratification of knowing I still have something to contribute. I enjoy what I do, and I’m proud of what I bring to it.

I refuse to retire simply because I’ve reached a particular number.

There is, however, one thing I keep telling Chad: We have to retire together. I don’t want to sit at home and crochet alone while he’s off working.

Now, I know retirement can offer much more than that. But when I picture leaving work, sometimes that’s where my mind goes: sitting around, getting older, and wondering what to do with myself. That picture doesn’t exactly make me eager to turn in my notice.

The retirement I do want to picture includes Chad and me traveling, exploring, spending time with the people we love, and having new experiences together. That gives me something to look forward to.

I believe I’ll know in my heart when the right day comes. Until then, I feel good about continuing to do work that gives me purpose while preparing for the life Chad and I want to enjoy together.

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Whenever Brenda says she doesn’t want to sit home and crochet alone, I feel compelled to clarify something: “I don’t ever want to learn how to crochet.” Retiring together may be the plan. Crocheting together is going to require some serious negotiation.

I tease her about that picture of retirement, sitting around and getting old, but underneath the joke is a concern worth taking seriously: What will replace the purpose, relationships, and satisfaction that work provides?

That brings me back to the question I kept considering as we read: How different are the ingredients of a happy retirement from those of a happy life?

Meaningful pursuits matter after we leave the workforce, but they matter while we’re still in it, too. So do community, relationships, curiosity, and a sense of purpose.

Leaving an unfulfilling job can certainly open the door to something better. But a retirement date, by itself, doesn’t tell us what to do with our days. We still have to discover what matters to us and make room for it.

For Brenda, work continues to provide considerable fulfillment. Part of our homework now is understanding what she values about it and imagining how she might find that satisfaction in other ways when the time comes.

We want to retire happy, and we want to retire together. We’re talking about the life we hope to build, the people we want to share it with, and the experiences we want to have.

At the top of our list, in Brenda’s words: “Travel, travel, and travel some more.”

That is a retirement plan I can enthusiastically support. No crocheting lessons required.

We would recommend The Retire Sooner Method. Its financial discussions are accessible, and its broader questions give couples plenty to talk about. We approached the book with different perspectives, and reading it together helped us understand both our future and each other a little better.

We certainly don’t have all the answers. But we’re doing our homework, asking questions, and making plans. Those conversations are also helping us appreciate what already makes our lives meaningful.

Preparing for retirement deserves our attention. So does the life we’re living while we prepare. We want to arrive at that next chapter with things to look forward to—and good memories of the years that brought us there.

That’s our perspective this week.

Until next week…

Chad and Brenda

One of the glories of fall is the sports calendar. Football is in full swing. Basketball and hockey are gearing up. And, most importantly, the Major League Baseball playoffs have begun.

It is a wonderful time of year. Every pitch seems more consequential. Every managerial decision invites scrutiny. The tension of the regular season becomes heightened in the postseason.

At least, that is the promise.

I began writing this earlier in the week, thinking about the value of baseball’s long regular season compared with the excitement of its playoffs. Since then, my beloved Cubs have been swept by San Diego, two games to none. Both American League Wild Card Series also ended in sweeps. Only Philadelphia and Atlanta are going the full three games.

For all the anticipation, much of the opening round has felt rather flat. Perhaps being a Cubs fan has something to do with that. But it has also sharpened a question I was already considering: how much excitement do expanded playoffs create, and how much do they take away from the regular season?

When I was a child, my father would gently mock my excitement about the baseball playoffs.

“When I was a kid,” he would say, as adults so often do, “there were no playoffs. The best team in the National League played the best team in the American League in the World Series.”

At the time, I thought he was simply being an old man. Now that I have passed through some of the stages of life my parents and grandparents occupied when I was a boy, I see things a little differently.

I have always loved the baseball playoffs. Yet I also question them.

The business interest of sport does not always align with the true purpose of sport: sustained excellence.

Fans love tournaments. Few sporting events capture our collective attention quite like March Madness. The uncertainty, the upsets, the possibility that a team might accomplish something nobody expected—all of it makes for compelling viewing. That appetite for excitement has helped fuel expanded playoff fields across professional sports.

As a Cubs fan, I was grateful for the wild card slots. Without them, the Cubs would have been watching October baseball from home.

But my gratitude does not entirely settle the question.

Of all sports, baseball seems especially well designed to measure excellence over time. Its 162-game season stretches from early spring through September. Teams play day after day, navigating injuries, slumps, fatigue, and the constant adjustments the game demands. With interleague play, every team now faces every other team during the season.

That is a substantial body of evidence.

This year, Milwaukee won 103 games and finished with the best record in baseball. The Cubs finished second in the Central Division with 89 wins, 14 games behind the Brewers. Atlanta won 94 games, finishing six ahead of Philadelphia in the National League East.

Yet the Braves must now beat the Phillies in a deciding game to keep their season alive. Six months of finishing ahead of Philadelphia have brought Atlanta to a night when one loss can erase its opportunity to advance.

Meanwhile, consider what the National League race might have looked like with only one wild card berth.

Instead of the Padres, Cubs, and Phillies all qualifying, those three teams would have been competing down the stretch for a single opening. Every win, every loss, every glance at the scoreboard would have carried greater consequence. Based on the final standings, San Diego would have earned that spot.

Would that race have been more compelling than the opening round we have just watched?

For me, the answer is clearly yes.

The business appeal of expanded playoffs is obvious. More rounds mean more viewers, more tickets, and more revenue. Professional sports are businesses, and keeping fans interested matters. But adding postseason games does not guarantee compelling competition. It can also reduce the urgency of the games that come before them.

I think back to 1993, when Atlanta and San Francisco battled to the final day for the National League West title. The Braves won 104 games. The Giants won 103 and went home.

It was easy to argue that both deserved a postseason berth. But the stakes gave that pennant race its extraordinary tension. Every game mattered because only one team could advance.

Then there was the final day of the 2011 regular season, when the wild card races produced one of the most remarkable nights baseball has ever given us. Boston and Tampa Bay were fighting for one spot in the American League; Atlanta and St. Louis were fighting for one in the National League.

The games had a playoff atmosphere because the season itself had brought those teams to a moment of consequence. The excitement grew naturally from the competition.

Baseball added a second wild card in each league the following year. That did not eliminate the possibility of a dramatic finish, but it changed the stakes. Both contenders in each of those 2011 races would have qualified under the expanded format.

More opportunities can create more excitement. They can also diminish the consequences of the race we have spent six months watching.

Now San Diego, looking like the hottest team in baseball, will face Milwaukee, the best team over the regular season. That could be a terrific series. It also captures the distinction at the heart of this discussion: the team playing best right now against the team that accomplished the most over six months.

Both achievements deserve admiration. I simply wonder whether baseball gives the second enough weight.

I do not pretend to know the ideal playoff format for baseball, or for any other sport. Division titles, first-round byes, and home-field advantage do reward regular-season success. The question is whether they reward it enough.

I will keep watching. Even with the Cubs eliminated, I will appreciate the drama of a close game and the thrill of an unexpected victory.

But I will also admire what Milwaukee accomplished from spring through September. Winning day after day, month after month, is an achievement that deserves more than a favorable position in a tournament bracket.

As a fan, I love the excitement of October. As someone who appreciates the purpose of sport, I admire sustained excellence even more.

That’s the perspective this week.

Until next week,

Coach T

“Can we be serious now?”

Tom Hanks asks that question in Sully as the investigation into the landing on the Hudson River reaches its climactic moment. It’s a terrific moment in the movie, and lately the question has been running through my head whenever I watch television, which is usually to watch a ballgame.

Last week, I wrote an enthusiastic endorsement of Angela Duckworth’s Situated. This week brings another book recommendation, though with a few caveats: Sarah Longwell’s How to Eat an Elephant: One Voter at a Time.

First, you have to be willing to read about contemporary American politics. I understand why that isn’t at the top of everyone’s to-do list; it can be a rather depressing subject. Second, I suspect some of my friends who strongly support Donald Trump and the MAGA movement will reject the book’s premise outright. Third, my liberal friends who are “Never Trump” will most likely disagree with aspects of Longwell’s argument as well. While this book may not have the universal appeal of Situated, it is still worth reading, especially if you are truly trying to understand American voters.

Two things stayed with me that were not central to the book’s thesis. One was Longwell’s respect for American voters. She takes the trouble to listen to them, even when what they say is complicated, inconvenient, or even nonsensical. The other was a smaller point, made almost in passing, that I found a little depressing: negative advertising appears to be a durable feature of political campaigns. I closed the book thinking about voters, then turned on the television and found myself watching another campaign commercial.

We are approaching a congressional election, and Wisconsin is choosing a governor this November, along with officials for multiple local offices. Night after night, political ads dominate the commercial breaks of the game I am watching. Thirty seconds is hardly enough time to explain a serious policy proposal, but surely it should be enough time to say something accurate and meaningful.

This is not a claim that political campaigns used to be gentle. The election of 1800 brought fierce conflict between Federalists and Democratic-Republicans, with partisan newspapers and pamphlets helping carry the fight. What started with the original American political parties continued through the nineteenth century with the Whigs and Democrats, and then with the Republican and Democratic parties that exist today. American history offers little reason to imagine a golden age of serious and honest campaigning.

Nor can I pretend that the commercials I grew up with were all models of thoughtful persuasion. Fear has been a familiar campaign tool throughout my lifetime. It is a powerful emotion, and the people who make these commercials are happy to use it to win an election. Perhaps that is why I find myself less surprised by negative ads than exhausted and annoyed by them.

There is a chicken-and-egg aspect to the lack of seriousness in political ads. Is it the voters’ fault because we are too easily manipulated by our emotions? Or are politicians to blame for making commercials that are disingenuous at best and dishonest at worst? In my humble opinion, there is plenty of blame to go around. But if Longwell is right that voters are worth listening to, then we are worth speaking to honestly. Candidates can tell us what they hope to accomplish, what it will cost, and what they would give up to get it done. Every act of public policy involves trade-offs. Those answers may not fit neatly into a thirty-second commercial, but campaigns have plenty of other opportunities to give them.

As much as I believe politicians have a responsibility to be more honest in their campaigns, we voters have an obligation as well. We can demand more from candidates than a slick television ad. We can ask for details about the costs and benefits of proposed legislation and refuse to be so easily swayed by emotional appeals. We can hold candidates of either party to the same standard of accuracy and candor. If we want serious campaigns, we have to insist on them while the candidates are asking for our votes.

I don’t have a tidy solution to the way we campaign in this country, or a better alternative to our current two-party system. I do think we should keep asking for more substance from people seeking public office, especially when the problems before them are difficult and the trade-offs are real.

Until November, I expect I’ll see plenty more commercials between innings. And each time one offers fear in place of an answer, I’ll find myself asking the same question:

Can we be serious now?

That’s the perspective this week. Until next week…

Chad Tuescher

One of the primary reasons I started writing Perspectives from Petenwell was that I wanted a place to write about the books I was reading.

I also suspected that Brenda was tired of listening to me talk endlessly about them, so I decided it was time to stop pestering only my wife and begin sharing my enthusiasm for books with a larger audience.

You’re welcome, Brenda.

This week, I want to tell you about a fantastic book that was recently published: Situated: Find the People and Places That Bring Out Your Best by Angela Duckworth.

It is, quite simply, glorious.

As I finished the book, I found myself remembering the old Chiquita Banana commercials that suggested the banana might be the world’s most perfect food. While reading Situated, I began to wonder if this might be quite possibly the world’s most perfect book.

I realize there is no such thing as a perfect book, and I am sure some readers will be less enthusiastic about it than I am. But I cannot recommend Situated highly enough. It is insightful, practical, personal, thought-provoking and immensely enjoyable to read.

Duckworth is also the author of Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance. If you have not read Grit, I strongly recommend it as well, but as good as that book is, I believe Situated is even better.

Situated feels like a remarkable combination of ancient wisdom and modern social science. Much of what Duckworth writes makes perfect sense intuitively—as if she is simply putting words to something we have understood all along. Yet other parts of the book are surprisingly counterintuitive, challenging many of the lessons we were taught while growing up.

Most of us were raised to believe in willpower. We were taught to persevere, overcome adversity and make the best of whatever circumstances life handed us. At some point, nearly every one of us has been told to “make the best of a bad situation.”

There is certainly wisdom in that advice. Life does not always go according to plan, and we cannot abandon every difficult circumstance we encounter. Sometimes perseverance is necessary. Sometimes we must remain where we are, roll up our sleeves and work to make things better, but Duckworth challenges our tendency to view willpower as the solution to everything.

Sometimes the best way to change our behavior is not to summon more discipline or determination. Sometimes, instead of endlessly struggling to make the best of a bad situation, we simply need to change the situation.

That idea caused me to reflect on the different places and environments that have shaped my own life.

I had the opportunity to be a part of some wonderful school districts and communities. Each school district was a wonderful experience for me. They shared some similarities, yet each possessed its own distinct culture, expectations, traditions and personality. I like to think I had a positive impact on the places I worked, but there is also no denying the fact that those communities had a bigger impact on me than I had on them.

Brenda has lived in Wisconsin, Pennsylvania, Colorado and Ohio. Together, Brenda and I also lived in Florida for a brief period. Each of those places enriched our lives. Each introduced us to different people, perspectives, routines and experiences. We carried the same basic identities with us wherever we went, but our surroundings inevitably changed us—hopefully, at least slightly, for the better.

When I was in college, I remember many classroom discussions about the old nature-versus-nurture debate. Situated explores something a little different, but it raises a similarly important question: How much of who we are and what we do is influenced by the situations in which we place ourselves?

We like to believe we are always in control of our behavior. When we want to change something about ourselves, we assume we simply need more discipline, determination or willpower. Duckworth reminds us that we are also profoundly influenced by the people, places, conditions and cultures around us.

If you have read Charles Duhigg’s The Power of Habit or James Clear’s Atomic Habits, you already understand how powerfully habits can govern human behavior. There are similarities between those books and Situated, but Duckworth takes the discussion in a different direction. She examines how we respond to our circumstances—and how we can intentionally shape those circumstances to bring out the best in ourselves and others.

Duckworth is a respected social scientist, and the book is grounded in serious research. Yet it never feels like a dry academic textbook. She is remarkably candid about her own life, including her relationship with her mother and the challenges within her marriage.

Those personal stories make the book relatable and immensely readable. As Duckworth shares her experiences, it becomes almost impossible not to think about your own life: the people who influence you, the places where you thrive, the environments that drain you and the situations that either encourage or prevent you from becoming the person you want to be.

As I read, one question kept coming to mind. If I ever had the opportunity to speak with Angela Duckworth, I would ask her:

Is changing our situation ever a sign that we are giving up?

There are undoubtedly times when we should remain in a difficult situation and work to improve it. Schools become better because teachers refuse to give up on them. Teams become better because coaches and athletes commit themselves to changing the culture. Workplaces, families and communities improve because people decide to stay, contribute and do the difficult work required to make them better.

Leaving is not always the answer.

But as I continued reading, I realized Duckworth had already answered my question.

Changing our situation does not always mean moving to another city, accepting a different job or walking away from a difficult circumstance. We may not be able—or willing—to leave our current location. But we can still change important parts of the environment around us.

We can alter our routines. We can reconsider the information we consume. We can choose the people with whom we spend our time. We can arrange our homes, classrooms and workplaces to support better habits. We can seek mentors, build healthier relationships and intentionally create environments that encourage us to become better versions of ourselves.

That is true whether we are students, teachers, coaches, parents, professionals—or just an old man sitting near Lake Petenwell writing a blog.

I have recommended books specifically for coaches, teachers, parents and leaders. Situated is different. Its message is universal. I would make it required reading for every high school and college student in America. I would put it into the hands of every parent, educator, coach and leader.

In fact, I would recommend it to anyone who has ever tried to change a habit, accomplish a goal, help another person or better understand why human beings behave the way they do.

So, essentially, everyone.

We live in a time when enormous amounts of information wash over us every day. Streaming services, social media, and the internet compete endlessly for our attention. Much of that content disappears from our minds almost as quickly as it arrives.

What an absolute joy it is to sit quietly and read a thoughtful, beautifully written book—one that causes us to pause, reflect and reconsider how we are living our own life.

Situated is that kind of book.

It reminds us that positive change does not always require heroic amounts of willpower. Sometimes it begins with taking an honest look at where we are, who surrounds us and how our environment influences the choices we make.

The book also encourages us to think beyond ourselves. By improving the situations we create for our families, students, teammates, coworkers and communities, we may help bring out the best in the people around us.

Perhaps that is how we begin improving our little corner of the world: one relationship, one environment and one situation at a time.

Do yourself a favor and find a copy of Situated at a bookstore or library near you. Angela Duckworth has written a wonderful book—one that may change how you look at the places you inhabit, the people who surround you and the situations you have the power to create.

Sometimes we must make the best of a difficult situation.

And sometimes the best thing we can do is change it.

That’s the perspective this week.

Until next week,

Coach T

Today marks the 25th anniversary of September 11, 2001.

The day—and the entire week—has been filled with essays, speeches, commemorations, and memorials. That is altogether fitting and proper.

My own recollections may be of little significance in the larger history of September 11. My story does not include the trauma of being in New York City, Washington, D.C., or aboard one of the four hijacked airplanes. Yet everyone who was old enough to understand what was happening that day has a story.

This is mine.

On Tuesday, September 11, 2001, I went to school expecting an ordinary day.

I was beginning my second year as a teacher at Sauk Prairie Middle School, and my third year of teaching overall. It would ultimately become one of the best years of my classroom career. I had finally found my footing as a teacher and was blessed with an extraordinary group of students. After two years of learning, experimenting, struggling, and only occasionally succeeding, I finally felt as though I understood what I was trying to accomplish as a teacher.

My act finally worked.

That morning began like any other. I taught my first-period class, but as that period came to a close, I had my first warning that something was happening. As the hour ended and the students were exiting the room, my good friend—and science teacher extraordinaire—Greg Puent was standing outside my classroom door with an unusually serious look on his face.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“You’ve got to see what’s happening,” he said.

We walked down the hallway to the teachers’ workroom, where there was a small television. Greg told me that a plane had struck the World Trade Center. At first, I did not understand the magnitude of what he was saying. I assumed it had been a small private plane and some kind of terrible accident.

When we reached the television, I saw smoke pouring from one of the towers. As Greg explained what he had already heard, we watched the second plane slam into the World Trade Center. In that instant, we knew this was no accident. We also knew the world was suddenly different.

Like millions of other people watching that morning, we were shocked, dumbfounded, and terrified. We did not understand what was happening, how extensive the attack might be, or what would come next.

The rest of the day became a blur. We tried to maintain some sense of normalcy for the students in front of us while also struggling to comprehend what was happening in New York, Washington, Pennsylvania, and perhaps elsewhere. At that moment, nobody knew whether more attacks were coming.

The terrorists had succeeded in creating terror. We were frightened not only by what had happened, but also by everything we imagined might happen next.

In the days that followed, I became glued to the television. Every night, I went home and watched hours of news coverage, searching for information and trying to make sense of a world that suddenly felt far less secure.

Eventually, I realized that my constant watching was not helping me understand anything more clearly. I was not learning anything new. I was simply watching the same images, hearing the same speculation, and becoming consumed by the endless cable-news debate. I wanted to remain informed, but I also had to step away.

Like many Americans, I felt duty-bound to do something. I just did not know what that something should be.

For a time, I seriously considered quitting teaching and enlisting in the military. The husband of one of our teaching aides had been a career Marine, and I spoke with him about the idea. He was supportive of my desire to serve, but he also understood the reality of military service in a way I did not. He knew that beginning that journey at my age would be difficult.

More importantly, he reminded me that teaching was also a form of service.

He helped me understand that I did not necessarily need to put on a uniform to make a contribution. My responsibility was already standing in front of me every day, so I recommitted myself to teaching those students. As a teacher of history and civics, I felt an even greater obligation to help young people understand their country, their government, and their responsibilities as citizens.

Twenty-five years later, I still think about those students. They are no longer middle school kids sitting in my classroom. They are adults with careers, families, and children of their own.

And I am no longer the young teacher standing in that workroom trying to understand what he was seeing on a small television. Sadly, even though I have passed from a young to an old man, the events of 9/11, the aftermath, and what has transpired in our country for the last quarter century has me as confused today as I was back then.

I was born in 1972. The division is not mathematically exact, but I have now lived roughly half my life before September 11 and half my life after it.

Before 9/11, my generation witnessed the tensions of the Cold War. We watched the Berlin Wall fall and the Soviet Union collapse. We saw the first Gulf War and the extraordinary technological and economic expansion of the 1990s.

For a brief time, it seemed possible that the world was entering a safer and more peaceful era.

But the warning signs were already there. We witnessed the first attack on the World Trade Center in 1993, the bombing of American embassies in Africa, the assassination of Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin, and the attack on the USS Cole.

Then came September 11.

The images from that day remain almost impossible to comprehend: airplanes striking buildings, smoke pouring into the sky, people desperately trying to escape, and two enormous towers collapsing into the streets of New York.

Amid the horror, we also witnessed astonishing courage.

We watched firefighters and police officers run toward buildings from which everyone else was trying to escape. We learned about the passengers and crew of Flight 93, who understood what was happening and acted to prevent an even greater tragedy. In the years that followed, we honored the members of our armed forces who were called to serve in Afghanistan, Iraq, and elsewhere—along with the families who carried the weight of their sacrifices at home.

About six weeks after the attacks, I traveled to Washington, D.C., to visit friends. Reagan National Airport had only recently reopened. The Transportation Security Administration did not yet exist, and members of the National Guard stood at the security checkpoints carrying automatic rifles.

While in Washington, I saw the presidential motorcade leave the White House. The enormous security operation surrounding it was another visible reminder that we were living in a different country than we had been only weeks earlier.

The world had changed. America had changed and would continue to change in the coming decades.

In the immediate aftermath of September 11, Americans came together. We were united in our grief, our fear, and our determination. For a brief period, we seemed able to set aside our political identities and see one another simply as neighbors, fellow citizens, and countrymen. We put away our partisan blinders and shackles.

People said, “We will never forget.”

Twenty-five years later, I sometimes wonder whether we have remembered anything at all; not only the images or the events themselves, but the unity and shared purpose that followed.

In the years since September 11, we have become a more fractured society. Our public discourse has become coarser, cruder, and ruder. Political disagreements are no longer treated merely as differences of opinion. Too often, we view those who disagree with us not as fellow Americans who see the world differently, but as enemies who threaten our way of life.

Our political divisions have become so deep that they sometimes feel like an existential threat to the country—every bit as dangerous to our long-term future as any terrorist organization plotting against us.

That may be one of the most difficult lessons of this anniversary: the United States can be attacked from the outside, but it can also be weakened from within. September 11 showed us the worst of humanity, but it also revealed some of the very best. It showed us courage, sacrifice, duty, compassion, and unity.

Those qualities did not belong exclusively to the America of 2001. They are still available to us today, but only if we choose them.

Abraham Lincoln concluded the Gettysburg Address by challenging the living to ensure “that these dead shall not have died in vain.” On this 25th anniversary of 9/11, that challenge still belongs to us.

We honor the victims of September 11 not only through memorials, speeches, and moments of silence, but through the way we live.

We honor them when we value our shared citizenship more than our political differences.

We honor them when we disagree without hatred.

We honor them when we treat our neighbors with dignity.

We honor them when we place service above self-interest.

We honor them when we remember that being an American is something greater than belonging to a political party, watching a particular cable-news channel, or winning the latest argument.

Everyone old enough to remember September 11 has a story. Mine began in a middle school classroom in Sauk City, Wisconsin, surrounded by a remarkable group of students at the beginning of what would become one of the best years of my teaching career.

Twenty-five years later, those students are grown. The young teacher is now an old man writing a blog. The country and the world have changed dramatically in the two-and-a-half decades since 9/11.

But our responsibility remains.

We must remember those who died. We must honor those who served. And perhaps most importantly, we must work to recover some measure of the unity, grace, and shared purpose that followed that terrible September morning.

That is how we ensure the honored dead did not die in vain.

That’s my perspective on this Friday, September 11^th.

Until next Friday,

Chad Tuescher

My mind is spinning in several different directions this week.  I have too many different topics that I want to write about, but each topic deserves a blog of its own.  So, as I may stray from a central theme, please bear with me as I attempt to weave several different strands into one strong braid of a coherent post.

Monday is Labor Day.

For many Americans, Labor Day weekend represents the unofficial end of summer. It is one final three-day weekend for boating, grilling, traveling, or simply relaxing before summer gives way to fall.

But as I wrote around Memorial Day and the Fourth of July, I sometimes worry that we enjoy our holidays without giving enough thought to why they exist. Labor Day strikes me in much the same way.

The first Labor Day celebration took place in New York City on September 5, 1882. Twelve years later, in 1894, President Grover Cleveland signed legislation establishing Labor Day as a national holiday to be observed on the first Monday in September.

It is remarkable to consider what labor meant during the late 19th century—and what it means today. Mark Twain is often given credit for saying, “history doesn’t repeat itself, but it does rhyme,” even though that phrase is a distortion of what he actually wrote in his book, The Gilded Age, but whether he said it or not, that phrase resonates, especially when comparing the changes to labor in the late 19^th century to the changes happening to labor today.

When Labor Day was created, America was in the midst of the Industrial Revolution. People were leaving farms and small communities to work in factories, mills, mines, rail yards, and rapidly growing cities. The nature of work was changing dramatically, and workers were struggling for fair wages, reasonable hours, safer working conditions, and basic dignity.

Today, we find ourselves amid another great transformation. This time, it is a digital revolution. Technology, automation, artificial intelligence, and remote work are once again changing what we do, where we do it, and even what it means to have a job.

The tools have changed. The workplaces have changed. But labor remains at the center of human progress.

I have also recently read two books that are not specifically about labor, yet both caused me to think deeply about it. H.W. Brands’ Dreams of El Dorado and Wallace Stegner’s Where the Bluebird Sings to the Lemonade Springs examine the history, identity, and mythology of the American West.

It seems particularly fitting to think about the history of the West on Labor Day, because nothing about America’s westward expansion happened without enormous human effort.

The plains were cultivated through labor. Pioneers crossed the Oregon Trail through labor. Prospectors chased dreams of fortune during the California Gold Rush through labor. Railroads, towns, ranches, mines, and communities were built through labor.

Much of that work was dangerous, exhausting, and backbreaking. It also came at an immense human cost, particularly to Native Americans whose lands, cultures, and lives were devastated by white expansion.

The history of the American West is therefore not simply a story of adventure and opportunity. It is also a story of physical endurance, ambition, conflict, displacement, sacrifice, and survival.

By the time Labor Day became a national holiday near the end of the 19th century, the country was transitioning from an economy dominated by agriculture and manual labor to one increasingly driven by factories and industry. Today, we are experiencing another transition as technology reshapes labor yet again.

But labor is not limited to the work we perform for a paycheck.

Sometimes labor becomes a calling. Sometimes it becomes a craft. And sometimes it becomes a labor of love—work that enriches not only the person doing it, but everyone fortunate enough to experience it.

That brings me to the recent passing of two American giants: Dolly Parton and Wendell Berry.

There is little I can say about Dolly Parton that has not already been said. She was a remarkable singer, songwriter, musician, actress, entertainer, businesswoman, and philanthropist. Her talent made her famous, but her humanity made her beloved.

When I think of Dolly Parton, I am reminded of a line from Rudyard Kipling’s poem “If.” In advising his son about the qualities of being a good man, Kipling wrote of the ability to “walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch.”

Dolly Parton was all woman, of course, but I am not sure anyone ever embodied that ideal better than she did.

She walked with kings, presidents, celebrities, and some of the most powerful people in the world, yet she never lost the common touch. She never seemed to forget where she came from or the people who helped her get there.

We have watched many famous people in music, athletics, entertainment, and public life succumb to the temptations that accompany wealth and celebrity. Fame can distort a person’s identity until the public image consumes the human being underneath it.

Dolly never allowed celebrity to win.

She remained unmistakably herself—funny, generous, grounded, self-aware, and remarkably comfortable in her own skin. Her work entertained millions, but her generosity, including the millions of books distributed to children through her Imagination Library, made her influence even greater.

Her career was a labor of talent, discipline, generosity, and love. That is why her passing feels so personal to people who never had the privilege of meeting her.

We have also lost Wendell Berry, one of America’s great writers, thinkers, farmers, and defenders of place.

As I was reading Stegner, I encountered his reflections on Berry, his former student, and Berry’s remarkable ability to write about the meaning of place. Berry understood that land is not simply property and that a community is not merely a collection of buildings. Both are shaped by memory, responsibility, stewardship, and the work of generations.

I am not qualified to determine exactly where Wendell Berry belongs in the pantheon of American authors. But it seems beyond question that he will be remembered as one of our most important writers about agriculture, community, conservation, responsibility, and the relationship between human beings and the natural world.

He wrote essays, poetry, novels, and stories, but his life and work resisted easy categories. He did not merely write about the land; he worked it. He did not simply praise community; he lived within one. His writing was inseparable from his sense of place.

Berry’s work reminds us that labor can connect us to something larger than ourselves—to the land, to our neighbors, to earlier generations, and to those who will follow us.

The passing of Wendell Berry and Dolly Parton reminds me of something our culture too often forgets: greatness and decency are not mutually exclusive.

A person can achieve extraordinary success without becoming consumed by ego. It is possible to master a craft while remaining humble. It is possible to become famous while staying grounded. It is possible to be both accomplished and genuinely good.

Perhaps that is another form of labor—the lifelong work of holding on to your character while the world rewards you for becoming something else.

From the pioneers who crossed the plains, to the factory workers of the Industrial Revolution, to the farmers, teachers, nurses, tradespeople, entrepreneurs, artists, writers, and technology workers of today, labor continues to change. Yet its essential importance does not.

Work provides a paycheck, but at its best, it also provides purpose. It builds families, communities, institutions, and nations. It creates music, literature, art, medicine, technology, and opportunity. It can exhaust us, frustrate us, sustain us, and occasionally fulfill us.

Abraham Lincoln understood the foundational importance of labor. In his First Annual Message to Congress in 1861, he wrote:

“Labor is prior to, and independent of, capital. Capital is only the fruit of labor, and could never have existed if labor had not first existed. Labor is the superior of capital, and deserves much the higher consideration.”

As is so often the case, I think Lincoln was right.

Capital matters. Innovation matters. Technology matters. But none of them exists without human labor—the effort, imagination, discipline, sacrifice, and persistence of people willing to do the work.

That is worth remembering this Labor Day weekend.

So, enjoy the final days of summer. Spend time with family and friends. Fire up the grill, take the boat out, watch a ballgame, or simply sit quietly and appreciate the extra day.

But somewhere amid the celebration, perhaps we can pause to recognize the workers—past and present—whose labor built the country we inherited and continues to shape the world we will leave behind.

For all of you out there still exchanging your labor for a wage, thanks for your work, and thanks for hanging in there while I attempted to weave these threads together.

Have a safe and enjoyable Labor Day weekend.

That’s the Perspective this week.

Until next Friday…

Chad Tuescher

This weekend, the college football season begins, and for college football fans, it is a wonderful time of year.  Much like Spring Training for baseball fans, this is the time of year when fans can be filled with optimism about their team.

Every team is undefeated. Every new coach has the right plan. Every freshman recruit is a future star. Across the country, fans are convincing themselves that this could finally be the year.

As a devoted baseball fan, I usually approach football with George Will’s wonderfully sharp observation in mind: “Football combines two of the worst things in American life. It is violence punctuated by committee meetings.”

Today, I might add a third element: greed.

Before I get too far into what troubles me about college football, however, I should acknowledge what makes it so wonderful.

College football is one of the great expressions of community in American sports. Alumni, students, local residents and people from every corner of a state come together around a team. There is something special about standing in a stadium with 80,000 other people—singing the same fight song, celebrating a victory together or consoling one another after a heartbreaking defeat.

Yes, fans occasionally cross the line from loyal to fanatical, and rude behavior can spoil the experience. But the marching bands, the rivalries, the traditions and the shared memories give college football a pageantry unlike anything else in the sports landscape.

I love the competition. I love the atmosphere. I love what college sports in general, and college football in particular, can be.

I just hate the system we have built around college sports.

The Athletes Deserved Better

For far too long, the NCAA and its member institutions took advantage of college athletes. There is no honest way around that conclusion.

Universities, conferences, television networks and coaches generated enormous sums of money while the athletes whose talent made the enterprise possible were tightly restricted in what they could receive. Even the term “student-athlete” sometimes felt less like a description and more like a legal shield.

During my years coaching Division II college softball, I always found our NCAA compliance meetings a little absurd. A music major could sing or play an instrument in a bar on Saturday night and get paid for their time and effort, but an athlete, meanwhile, could be told that earning money connected to his or her talent might jeopardize eligibility.

That never made much sense to me.

The athletes deserved a share of the pie, and the new system has finally acknowledged it. In 2025, a federal judge approved the House settlement, which included approximately $2.78 billion in back damages for former and current athletes. The new model also allowed participating Division I schools to provide athletes about $20.5 million per school in direct benefits during the first year, subject to an annual cap tied to athletic-department revenue.

That is not pocket change. It is professional-sports money flowing through institutions that still call themselves amateur athletics programs.

Perhaps the athletes receiving that money is not the problem. Perhaps it is the most just part of the entire arrangement.

The problem is that no one seems willing—or able—to explain what college athletics is supposed to be now.

What Is College Sports For?

Universities are institutions of higher learning. College football is now unmistakably big business. Are those two purposes still compatible?

We like to describe college sports as a free market, but it does not really resemble one. It looks more like a patchwork cartel: conferences negotiate billion-dollar media agreements, schools chase television revenue, boosters organize collectives, coaches recruit from one another’s rosters, and everyone operates under rules that seem to change every few months.

At the center of it all are 18-, 19-, 20- and 21-year-old young men—and, across college athletics, young men and women—trying to make important decisions about education, money, playing time and their futures.

The transfer portal illustrates both the freedom athletes deserved and the instability the new system has created. In the NCAA’s 2022 reporting cycle, 20,911 Division I athletes entered the portal, representing about 13 percent of all Division I athletes. In Football Bowl Subdivision programs alone, 2,918 players entered. Only 1,833 of those FBS entrants were reported as receiving athletic aid at a new NCAA school.

Those figures are a useful reminder: entering the portal does not guarantee a better opportunity—or any opportunity at all.

Some athletes transfer for very good reasons. They may need a healthier environment, a different academic program, more playing time or relief from a bad relationship with a coach. Athletes should not be trapped at a school while coaches are free to leave for a better job and a larger salary.

But when players attend four schools in four years—or even five schools in five years—it is fair to ask whether education remains part of the college experience. Transcripts follow the athlete, but credits do not always transfer neatly. Relationships with professors, teammates and communities are continually broken and rebuilt. The university risks becoming little more than the uniform a player happens to wear that season.

That is not what college education is supposed to be.

The Adults Have Failed the Young

I still believe deeply in the power of sports to teach teamwork, discipline, perseverance, sacrifice and responsibility. I saw those lessons change lives during my years as a coach.

But the adults have failed the young people in this system.

The NCAA failed them by defending an unfair model for too long. University presidents and conference leaders failed them by chasing revenue without establishing a coherent purpose. Coaches, donors, television executives and sports media have all benefited from the escalation. And we fans are not innocent. We keep watching, buying tickets, placing bets and demanding more.

The current business model is very good for television networks, sports media, gambling companies, coaches and the most powerful athletic programs. It can also be very good for elite athletes who now have opportunities to earn life-changing money—and they should be allowed to do so.

But is it good for college athletics as a whole? Is it good for the thousands of athletes who will never sign a major NIL agreement or play professionally? Is it good for the educational mission of the schools? And is it sustainable?

I do not pretend to have the solution. I am not arguing that we should return to the old system; that system was fundamentally unfair. I am arguing that acknowledging one injustice does not require us to ignore every new problem created while correcting it.

If athletic programs are going to remain part of educational institutions, then education must remain more than a slogan. Athletes need meaningful protections, honest NIL contracts, dependable academic guidance and enough stability to earn a degree—not merely another jersey.

So, as the bands begin to play and the stadiums fill again, I find myself holding two thoughts at once:

I love college football.

And I hate what college football has become.

What do you think? What is good about the present state of college athletics? What is broken? And if the old model was unjust and the new model is unstable, what should take their place?

I wish I knew.

That’s the Perspective from Petenwell this week.

Until next week,

Coach T.

---

Public-record sources

• NCAA, “2022 transfer trends released for Divisions I and II,” February 21, 2023.
• NCAA, “A Letter from NCAA President Charlie Baker,” June 6, 2025.
• NCAA, “The History of the NCAA” (House settlement summary).
• George Will quotation, originally attributed to the International Herald Tribune, May 7, 1990.

I worry that this week’s blog may come across as a long version of one of those motivational billboards:

Kindness. Pass it on.

That is not my intent.

But in a world that can often feel discouraging—and sometimes downright depressing—I think it is important to recognize the small victories of human kindness and decency. Brenda and I were both on the receiving end of such moments recently, and they seem worthy of a little reflection.

When I was coaching softball at Verona, I had the great fortune of working for Cindy Suess. Coach Suess was an outstanding coach who taught her players many valuable lessons, but one of her simplest lessons has stayed with me the longest.

She would tell her players—and her students at school—that two things would carry them a long way in life:

Common sense and common courtesy.

At this point, I have nearly given up on common sense. Despite the name, it seems good sense become remarkably uncommon.

Common courtesy, however, is something I still believe in.

Those who have known me for a long time are also familiar with my affection for quotations. No source has supplied me with more usable wisdom than Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove. In the movie You’ve Got Mail, Tom Hanks’ character explains that The Godfather is the source of all human wisdom. For me, Lonesome Dove is the superior source of wisdom.

One of my favorite lines is spoken by Woodrow Call:

“I hate rude behavior in a man. I won’t tolerate it.”

Woodrow Call possessed the same tenacity for telling the truth that Coach Suess has, and I have always appreciated that particular statement.

I hate rude behavior, too.

Unfortunately, we see plenty of it. We encounter it in restaurants, stores, traffic, television, and—perhaps most of all—on the internet. Children and adults alike can be loud, inconsiderate, impatient, and cruel.

As I get older and settle more comfortably into my grumpy-old-man phase, I find it increasingly difficult not to react angrily when I witness it. I may not respond quite as forcefully as Woodrow Call did—but I cannot promise that the thought has never crossed my mind.

Then something happens that reminds me of the other side of human nature.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about our wonderful neighbor Jeff and how he came to my rescue when I needed help. This past weekend, Jeff once again answered the call.

This particular problem was well beyond my limited capacity to solve. As it turned out, it was even beyond what Jeff could handle alone, so he enlisted the assistance of several more neighbors. Before long, multiple people had stopped what they were doing to help me.

There is certainly some comedy in how frequently my lack of practical ability creates opportunities for other people to demonstrate their competence. But there is also something deeply meaningful about having neighbors who willingly give their time and effort—with good cheer and good humor—to help solve someone else’s problem.

Eventually, the problem was resolved. I was grateful, humbled, and once again indebted to people who expected absolutely nothing in return.

Then, earlier this week, Brenda had her own encounter with kindness.

It was the middle of the workday, and Brenda was home alone when a delivery arrived. She stepped outside to retrieve the package and noticed that the driver was still there.

After Brenda thanked him, the driver asked if he could give her a small gift.

Being home alone and uncertain about where the conversation was going, Brenda was understandably a little hesitant. Still, she accepted his offer.

The driver handed her a small figurine of Jesus Christ.

I am not attempting to turn this into a deeply religious discussion. I probably do not possess the theological capacity for that conversation anyway. But the gift carried special meaning.

Brenda’s father was a pastor, and she had recently observed the anniversary of his death. The delivery driver could not have known any of that. He could not have known what the figurine might represent to her or why receiving it at that particular moment would be so powerful.

He simply wanted to do something kind for another person.

He was not trying to sell anything. He was not trying to preach or convert her. He sought nothing in return. He was merely going about his day, doing his job, and decided to offer a small gift in the hope that it might brighten someone else’s day.

And it did.

The encounter lasted only a few moments, yet it brought a little joy and light into our home.

As Viktor Krankl told us, there is an important space between what happens to us and how we choose to respond. In that space, we have the ability to choose anger or patience, rudeness or courtesy, indifference or kindness.

I often forget about that space. I react too quickly, particularly when confronted with rude behavior. My inner Woodrow Call begins to emerge, and I start thinking thoughts that would probably not qualify as acts of human kindness.

But then I remember Jeff and the neighbors who stopped what they were doing to help me. I remember a delivery driver offering Brenda a meaningful gift without knowing how much it would matter.

Those moments remind me that kindness does not need to be grand or dramatic. It does not require recognition, an audience, or a social media post. Often, it is simply one person noticing another person and choosing to make life a little easier or a little brighter.

Brenda and I were fortunate to be on the receiving end of genuine human kindness this week. We are both grateful to the people who offered it.

So, as I sit here along the shores of Lake Petenwell, I hope all of us continue to look for opportunities to extend a little common courtesy, goodness, and grace to the people around us.

I still do not hold out much hope for common sense, but common courtesy may yet save us.

That’s the Perspective this week.

Until next Friday,

Chad