My New Style

On my birthday last year, I decided to stop coloring my hair.  I was 63.  Some people say that is too young but I had told my family I was going to do it on my 60^th birthday.  I had even planned to sell tickets, with the proceeds going to charity, to see someone cut it off really short to start the growing out process.  It never happened.  I chickened out.  I had asked a former hair stylist about growing it out and her response was, “You will have to wear a hat for a year.”  My current hair stylist, who is also a lifelong friend and my cousin’s wife, also advised against it.  She didn’t even color my hair.  I was a do-it-yourselfer.  “You won’t like it,” she said.  “Your hair is as fine as frog hair.  At least the color gives it some umph.”  So, I kept putting it off and putting the ash brown on.

My grown daughters hated my brassy, almost blond, ash brown hair.  When I was younger, my natural hair color was dark brown.  They could never get used to their mom with her weird hair color that could change from week to week depending on how close I was to a re-do.  I hated the constant upkeep but so does everyone who colors their hair.  My husband of forty plus years is a silver fox.  I have never told him how to do his hair so he never advised me on mine.  OK, maybe, once or twice I told him how he should have his hair cut but he never listened.  When I colored my hair, I would do it when he wasn’t home.  Just keeping up the mystic, I guess.

So, on my May birthday I looked in the mirror and thought how I needed to pull out the box of ash brown I had stocked away.  I flipped it over in my hands a couple of times and put it back in the closet.  Nope, I am done.  That’s it.  No more.  I am going to be free to be me.  Even if I have to wear a hat for a year.  Even if I have to cut it all off.  Even if my stupid straight, baby fine hair lays flat on my big head.  My oldest daughter was now 40 so it was time for me to stop pretending to be her sister.  I am the grandmother of a teenager for Pete’s sake.

I called my sister who is five years older than me to share my epiphany.  “Oh, I stopped about two months ago.  I am ahead of you.” she said in her best, big sister voice.  Fantastic!  I will have a buddy to join me on my journey!  My sister and I have this uncanny sister thing.  We lived hundreds of miles apart for many years but we managed to buy the same purse, get the same haircut and buy the same Christmas cards that we both addressed in metallic ink.  To know that we were going gray together made my decision all the more solid.  (I did, however, keep the box of ash brown in the closet, just in case.)

I started sharing my liberating news with my friends.  It was met with mixed reviews.  “Why would you want to do that?”  “I will go to the grave coloring my hair.”  “I like your hair the way it is.”  “Oh, I don’t know about that.”  I had to coerce people into being supportive.  My family, on the other hand, was very pleased with my decision.  Surprisingly, my husband was my biggest champion.  I guess my silver fox wanted his foxy lady to be silver as well.  Who knew?

The crazy, dark blond hair was good for one good thing.  The growing in gray hair didn’t look too bad next to it.  The hat was totally uncalled for.  That is until I was diagnosed with a basil cell carcinoma on my scalp in September which had to be cut out and covered with a large bandage.  My friend/hair stylist cut my shoulder length hair to chin length with layers to hasten the transformation but I never had to cut it super short as I feared.  My sister went that route and it was totally adorable on her. 

Our baby brother has been naturally gray for some time.  Near the end of my transformation my hair did start resembling my sister’s Yorkshire terrier – one third blond, one third dark brown and one third silver.  It was an odd look but by then I was emboldened by my new liberated do and wore it proudly.

My last haircut in December cut out all of the strange blond except for a few tips here and there.  All of a sudden, people started noticing my hair was different.  They asked me if I had it “done” that way.  Nope, just grew out of my head this way.  Where have you been for the last seven months?  I really like my “new” hair.  I guess God does know a little something about what looks good framing this less than perfect, almost 64-year old face.  My sister calls my super fine, gray hair “silver cotton candy.”  I’ll take that.

A Game based on a Game

I must preface my comments by admitting that I am not into sports.  My father didn’t play sports.  My mother didn’t play sports.  Neither did my brother or sister.  As a matter of fact, I can’t think of anyone in my extended family on either side who played sports except for a few eight year old kids.

My husband on the other hand LOVES sports of all kinds.  He didn’t come from a sports playing family but somehow the bug bit him.  In his younger years, he regularly played golf, tennis and softball.  He coached high school golf and tennis for many years.  Even in his sixties, he still plays golf regularly and softball with the church team when pressed into service.  What sports he doesn't play, he watches on TV.

My dad did like to watch stock car racing and professional football on TV.  Back in the 1960’s and 70’s, homes only had one TV (imagine that!) so whatever my father watched the rest of the family watched.  Stock car racing never interested me.  They drive in circles for hours with the only excitement being when they crash.  Not a fan.  Football, however, did catch my eye.  Maybe it was the tight pants and a player with long hair named Broadway Joe Namath who played for the New York Jets.  Whatever the reason, I was hooked.

When Jerry and I started dating in 1969, he was still in college so we only saw each other on weekends.  After church on Sunday and a meal of my mom’s roast and vegetables, we would join my dad in the den and watch football.  During those Sunday afternoons, sitting close and holding hands, I learned a lot about Jerry and a lot about football.

Even though sports have never been important to me, I wanted our daughters to develop some skill and understanding of sports that I had always lacked.  Being short and near-sighted like their mother, we knew they would never be great athletes but we tried at least to provide them with opportunities to learn.  They both played recreational league basketball.  They took numerous tennis lessons and played on their high school tennis teams.  They both were cheerleaders (yes that is a sport). 

Our oldest daughter is our sports nut.  She cheered all through elementary and high school.  Had she gone to a smaller college, she could have cheered in college.  She also played elementary school softball.  She has her dad’s competitive attitude that drives her to want to not only play sports but win.  She turns 40 this year and still plays team tennis at her local country club.  It is fitting that she had a son.  Developing a love of sports in her has paid off.

One sport that my husband plays these days, I just can’t understand.  It is fantasy football.  They have a big party at church to pick their teams and this year’s winner was announced from the pulpit last Sunday morning.  There is also an XM Radio station devoted solely to fantasy football and other sports.  He has tried to explain it to me but I can’t quite get it.  It is a game based on how other people play a game.  How can that possibly be fun?  I still don’t get it.

"Assembling to Save the Universe" - Oh, if that were only true.

A billboard caught my eye one morning as I was stopped in traffic near the Hermitage post office.  It was advertising a show to be held at the Bridgestone Arena in December featuring various superheroes from the Marvel comic books.  It says, “Assembling to save the universe.”  My thought was, “Oh, if that were only true.”

Is it just me and my advanced age or does it seem the universe is going to hell in a hand basket?  It would be nice to think that a group of hunky super beings dressed in primary colors was assembling to save the universe.  I can imagine Spider-Man swooping down and disabling a group of evil terrorists by capturing them in a gigantic spider web after which Superman would gather up the whole mess of them and fly them away to a far off galaxy.  Now, see, even that is fantasy since Spiderman is from Marvel Comics and Superman is from DC Comics.  They could never work together.

What is up with this generation’s fascination with superheroes anyway?  Yes, I grew up watching the Adventures of Superman starring the real Superman, George Reeves.   The grand feats he accomplished on my small, black and white TV screen were amazing to a naïve, young girl.  Today, the movie theaters are crowded with male, 20-somethings who live, eat and breathe all things super.  They can’t seem to get enough of Spiderman, Batman, The Hulk, The Fantastic Four, Captain America and The X-Men.  In 1979, there were two movies featuring superheroes.  In 2014, there have been five.  In 1979, I had two babies and a mortgage.  There was no time for movies or the secret world of superheroes.

Despite our current fascination and my desperate hope, there is no group of superheroes assembling to save the universe.  We created this mess and it is up to us to fix it.  The news is filled with stories of religious fanatics who are willing to sacrifice their lives to take one or more of ours.  And now, if a cutthroat terrorist organization such as ISIS weren’t enough, we have the deadly Ebola virus sneaking across our borders to worry about.  If we ever needed a superhero, it would be now.  Maybe that is why so many of our young people bury their heads in comic books.

There have been many other times in history when the situation looked bleak.  Times when evil seemed to be overcoming good.  I wasn’t around during World War II but my parents were.  It was a time when trying to ignore evil far removed from home seemed like a good idea until it wasn’t.  President Franklin D. Roosevelt responded to evil by saying, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself” and a bunch of teenaged, superheroes like my dad sailed off to confront the evil.  British prime minister, Winston Churchill told us to “Never, never, never give up.”  That is advice we need to remember today when evil seems to be winning and superheroes are few and far between.

There is bit of good advice for these times found in Matthew 24:6 of the Bible.  It says, “You will hear of wars and rumors of wars but see to it that you are not alarmed.”  That advice may be hard to live out in evil times but the scripture says, “see to it that you are not alarmed” not just “don’t be alarmed.”  It implies that it won’t be easy to not be concerned.  We have to make an effort to trust that good will always overcome evil.  “I have told you these things, so that in Me you may have peace.  In this world you will have trouble.  But take heart!  I have overcome the world.”  (John 16:33)  So, you see, a Super Hero is assembling to save the universe after all.  Praise God!

Taking one step at a time

I am back from my pilgrimage to Greece and Turkey.  It has taken me a few days to recover from the jet lag but it has also taken me a few days to process the places and feelings I have experienced.  So, how do I share all that is in my heart and mind?  I start with a miracle.

Four and half weeks before leaving on this once-in-a-lifetime adventure I was on crutches.  It was a minor, hairline fracture that I had dealt with for two months.  I had hiked around Honduras with it broken on a mission trip in February.  I had never been in a cast before so I just thought I would start walking again and everything would be fine.  I didn't realize how much calf muscles atrophy in three weeks.  Needless to say, my foot was no longer broken but I was in worse pain than I was before.  I started physical therapy three times a week plus worked hard myself on off days.  I walked around my neighborhood to try to build up my stamina but I was slow and it was painful.  The pain in my left foot caused me to limp which caused an old case of bursitis in my right hip to flare up.  I am not typically a worrier but I was worried that I would have to cancel my trip to Greece.  Everyone told me it would be fine but I knew how I felt and it wasn't good.  People were praying for me but time was running out for a miracle.  While reading my devotional one day during the week prior to leaving, I was reminded that God goes before us AND He goes with us.  He already knew the steps I would have to take on this trip and He promised me He would be there with me every step of the way.  My physical therapist warned me about swelling in a country where ice is not readily available.  My orthopedic doctor threatened to put me back in a cast if I over did it.  My mantra would be "One step at a time."  I didn't have to know how it would work out so I bought sturdy hiking shoes, strapped on my brace and took off.


We flew into Thessaloniki and drove by bus to the port of Kavala where the apostle Paul first stepped onto European soil.  From there we drove north to the ancient town of Philippi.  Our first stop was at the river where Lydia, the first Christian convert in Europe was baptized by the apostle Paul.  It was a moving experience to be anointed with water from the same river.







Our leader, Dr Kimberly Majeski, encouraged us to take a few moments alone to pray and contemplate this special place.  I went over and sat down at the river's edge and just thanked God that I was there.  I had made it.  God honored my taking that first step in faith.  The worry left me right there at that river.

Me with brace at statue of the apostle Paul in Berea

I walked slowly and carefully with my sensible shoes and clunky brace but I walked those cobblestones in Berea.  I climbed over ancient ruins at Philippi.  I went up and down steps at Meteora.  I hiked up to the hillside temple at Delphi.  I strolled down the marble sidewalk in Ephesus.  I navigated the path at Corinth.  We walked 3 to 5 miles a day on rough terrain but the pain was manageable and there was no swelling.

Me holding on to my sister, Linda, in Berea

Being able to walk on the ancient surfaces that had been walked by the apostle Paul, the apostle John and even Mary, the mother of Jesus, was a divine treat.  Being in the places where scripture was not only written but lived out was mind-blowing to this 21st century American.

I did give in to my temporary "disability" at Meteora where they built monasteries on the top of huge rocks.  A few of us opted out of the 300 step climb to the top to tour the monastery.  You will notice we wore skirts that day because women are not allowed into the monastery in pants.

Steps at monastery in Meteora

Linda waiting for me to come back down at Delphi

How could I have missed this marvelous adventure?  I know it was only by the grace of God that I was able to do the things I did.  While at the theater ruins at Ephesus, Sarah, the singer in our midst, stood and sang "Great is Thy Faithfulness."  We were spellbound as her beautiful voice rang out over those 25,000 seats.  When she finished, a visitor from another tour began singing the same hymn except in Japanese.  Our tour guide tried to hurry us along but we all sat there weeping.  What are the odds of that happening?  We all needed a moment.  Yes, great is Thy faithfulness, moment by moment, one step at a time.

Navigating rugged path in Corinth

Marble sidewalk in Ephesus

Look Alikes

Oscar Odum

My cousin posted pictures of my oldest uncle on Facebook.  He was celebrating his 96^th birthday with a big party.  In the photograph, he looks so much like my dad that looking at the pictures made me cry.  I cherish my dad’s brothers and sisters who are all still living.  They remind me of where I came from and who I am.  They also remind me of my father because I see Daddy in their eyes.    I always loved my Daddy's eyes because the Odums have blue eyes.  My brother, sister and I all have our mom's brown eyes.

Jim Odum with his son-in-law, Jerry; grandson-in-law,
Todd; and great-grandson, Turner

All of my mom’s brothers and sisters are gone since she was the baby of the family.  Her two older brothers died two years apart in the 1980's.  Her two older sisters died in 2011 within two weeks of one another.  Due to my mom's advanced dementia, we were not able to communicate to her that her dear sisters had passed away.  My mom passed away about a year later.

Cousin Margoline with Aunt Ruby

Last year I went to Alabama with my Aunt Ruby (Remember my Aunt Ruby?  She is one of my Daddy’s sisters and was married to one of my mom’s brothers.  Got it?)  Aunt Ruby and I took a road trip to Alabama to visit the cemetery where my mom's mother and father are buried.  Since it was the annual cemetery decoration day, we met several of our mother's family.  Afterwards, we had lunch with my mom’s cousin.  Although I had not seen her since I was a small child, I knew who she was immediately.  My eyes filled up with tears when I saw her because she looks so much like my mom.

Gladys Odum

Cousin Margoline started laughing when I got out of the car.  She said she would have known me anywhere because I look like Gladys, my Mama.  That got me thinking about how we are connected to family.  Yes, by blood and experiences but also by the shape of our face and the color of our eyes.  There is something familiar, loving and safe about the faces of family.  We are drawn to those familiar faces in a way that is inexplicable.  Our look-alike faces connect one generation to another.

I recently updated my profile picture on Facebook. Immediately my niece commented that she thinks I look like Granny.  I have never really thought I looked like my mom and, frankly, never wanted to look like my mother.  But now that she is gone, I am proud that the color of her eyes and some of her facial features continue in me.

My two daughters look like me.  People tell me that all the time.  I am sure it is something that they cannot yet appreciate.  If they look like me and I look like my mom and my mom looked like her mom, well, how cool is that?  We are family and that is how it is supposed to be.

Who is most blessed? My thoughts on my mission trip to Honduras, February, 2014.

This was my second mission trip to Honduras.  My sister, brother and I had made the trip together in 2012 as a way to honor our parents who had made several mission trips including one to Honduras in the 1980’s.  Both trips were sponsored by our church, the Grace Place, and lead by Hearts to Honduras.  My daughter went with me on my second trip which was a special blessing.  Our focus this trip was to complete a kindergarten building in the village above Santa Rita where a team from our church had built a church building last year.  We have established a “sister church” relationship with that church and plan to go back to the same village on future trips.  In addition to completing the building, our plan was to also continue to build relationships with the people in Pastor Paula’s church and the village.

Upon arriving in Honduras, the thing that most Americans notice first is the poverty.  As soon as the Heart to Honduras bus leaves the airport parking lot at San Pedro Sula, a silence comes over the occupants of the bus especially the ones who have never been to Honduras.  The cameras come out of the backpacks because what is seen rolling past the windows is so different from what we see in the U.S. surrounding a major, international airport.   There are men on horseback trotting down the side of a four-lane highway.  There are huge carts of sticks being pulled by bicycles.  And there are shacks, lots and lots of shacks.  It is hard for our mind to believe what our eyes see.  People really live in these shacks.

As we travel into the interior of Honduras to our destination of Santa Rita, the terrain gets more rugged and the signs of poverty more profound.  There are banana trees and coffee fields.  There is corn planted everywhere.  We try to imagine how a person would plow a field of corn that goes straight up a mountain until we remember they do it by hand not by tractor.  We see children carrying bundles of sticks.  We see children carrying machetes as long as their arm.  We meet the people of the village and visit their homes.  As we get to know them, we are amazed by their contentment and faith in God.  We realize they don’t know they are poor.

Pastor Paula, of our sister church in Santa Rita, takes us to visit members of her church so we can pray with them.  As we enter their fenced in yard, we are greeted warmly.  They drag out plastic chairs for us, their visitors.  Their sense of hospitality puts us to shame.  They are not embarrassed of the trash on the ground or the outdoor kitchen with its mud oven.  We are invited to go into their homes to look around the two room dwelling.  They have so much less than we do but they are not ashamed of their home like some of us are.  They are thankful for what they do have and don’t seem concerned about what they don’t have.  Many people in our congregation will not invite a Bible study group into their home for fear that their house

won’t measure up to other houses.

While in Santa Rita, our associate pastor and trip leader asked us what impressed us most about our visit to Honduras.  Many people talked about the people and the poverty.  Pastor Owen told us how torn he was with the idea of bringing 25 people to Honduras on a work camp at a cost of $1,000 per person.  What could $25,000 accomplish in a community like Santa Rita?  Are our personal relationships with these people worth $25,000 when $25,000 in cash could potentially build a new water tank system for the entire community?  None of us knew the correct answer.

As I was coming through U.S. Customs on my return to the United States, the customs officer asked me if I was a part of a mission team.  I told him I was and realized my Heart to Honduras t-shirt had given me away.  He thanked me for what I had done in Honduras.  I told him I believed we got more of a blessing from the trip than the people of Honduras had received.  Again, he thanked me for what I had done “down there” and said, “Welcome, home.”

Many Americans come home from third world countries with a feeling of guilt.  It is the guilt of having excess.  I have more clothes than I can possibly ever wear and, yet, I want new ones.  I have boxes of shoes for every occasion.  I have multiple bedrooms; pure, clean, running, hot and cold water; an indoor, electric kitchen and three cars, two of which are in garages.  I know God has blessed our country, my family and me personally.  I don’t feel guilty about that.  I use what God has blessed me with to serve Him and others.  What I do question is whether or not we should share our hunger for more stuff with people who are so content with so little.

One of our translators while in Santa Rita was a 21-year old young man named Isaac.  A native Honduran, Isaac was fluent in English and worked as a translator for several groups.  He was making a good living by Honduran standards but he desired more.  His brother had gone to the United States and was living in Florida illegally.  He was urging Isaac to join him.  Isaac desired all the good things that he thought would be waiting for him in Florida but was fearful of the dangerous and expensive trip by train and bus through Mexico to Texas.  We tried to encourage Isaac to stay in Honduras and use his abilities to advance his own country.  We explained to him that the life of an illegal in the United States may not be what he thinks it will be.  Yet, he was not persuaded.  The desire to have the same stuff as the “rich” American mission workers was too strong.  I have no doubt that by now Isaac is in the United States illegally and for that I feel just a bit guilty.

Following the GPS

While preparing the disciples for His death, Jesus tried to comfort them by telling them He had to go away but they knew the way to the place where He was going.  The Apostle Thomas said to Jesus, “Lord, we don’t know where you are going, so how can we know the way?”  (John 14:1-7)

Do you ever feel like Thomas?  Lord, I don’t know which way to go.  Life gets so confusing.  There are decisions to make but no answer seems right or, even worse, no answer seems wrong.  It would be so much easier if someone would just tell me the way to go.

In my sales job, I frequently have to drive to unknown locations.  I pack the car with everything I need for the appointment and make sure the tank is full of gas.  I punch the address into my GPS and I take off following the woman’s voice blindly.  “Follow I-40 East for 56 miles,” she says.  I never check to see if she is taking me the right direction; I sit back and drive.  I listen to the radio, relaxing and enjoying the scenery.  Sometimes I even have a snack as I am driving down unfamiliar roads.  The voice directs, “Right turn in 1.2 miles.”  OK, no problem.  I am confident that she will take me to my destination because she always has before.  “You have reached your destination,” the pleasant woman’s voice says.  “Thank you,” I say.

Many times while studying the story of Moses leading the Israelites out of Egypt I have wondered why they didn't just follow God’s leading.  They could have made the trip to the Promised Land in about two weeks and saved themselves all that heartache.  It has occurred to me recently that I may be guilty of the same behavior.  I, too, get distracted by personal needs and wants.  I worry that things won’t turn out the way I want them to.  I am focused on busyness instead of listening for His voice.

Why can’t I be as confident that Jesus is leading me on the right path as I am of the soothing voice of the GPS?  My Lord is probably saying, “What is wrong with her?  She is wondering around just like those Israelites in the desert.  Doesn't she know that I know the way?  Hey, Wanda, relax.  Listen to my voice and I will get you to your destination.  You know I AM the Way.”

A Season of Discontent - a fictionalized true story

         

"It's done,” he said, his face expressionless.  The computer geek took his hands off the keys and turned to face me.
“That was fast,” I said stepping over to peer at the cantankerous laptop’s stupid screen now blinking its welcome.  “I have been locked out for three weeks.”  I said again more to express my frustration than to try to explain.  I pulled my checkbook from the desk drawer and wrote him a check for $100.  That is how much stupidity costs when you forget to write down your password.

The check put a punctuation point to the theme of the last few months.  Nothing has gone the way I planned.  Everything that could go wrong has gone wrong.  Well, not everything, I suppose.  I still have my health but the stress is probably killing me.
              
During the summer I started training for a new position at work.  Along with the new position came the possibility of more money.  The excitement of learning something new and making some much needed cash kicked my motivation into high gear.  By fall I was raring to go but then the computer system that supports the new position crashed.  “We are working on it.  Hang on.  Give us another month.”  A month turned into six weeks and the new position was put on hold.  All this new knowledge is getting me nowhere.  I am working smarter but not faster. 
           
The work drama has been compounded by a string of silly accidents.  None of them were my fault necessarily which made them all the more exasperating.  The first one involved a shoe carelessly left at the bottom of a flight of steps by a young man visiting my house.  Boom, my foot hit the shoe and I went careening off to the left spraining my ankle.  The second incident involved volunteering at a horse ranch for autistic kids.  Another volunteer at the farm suddenly slapped my arm.  “A bee was crawling on you,” he said all proud of himself for his bravery.  I’m allergic to stings, you imbecile, and you don’t slap bees you shoo them.  I got over it but it took some time.

Since my mother died nine months before, I was in an altered state when my aunt asked me to drive her to Alabama to place roses on the graves of two generations of my mom’s family.   In retrospect, flip flops were not the best choice of foot attire for an old cemetery.  I took home a raging bout of poison ivy that required a trip to the doctor for a steroid shot.  To add insult to injury, I somehow gave myself a pulled trapezius muscle for Labor Day.  It is fun trying to balance a plate of barbecue while doped up on muscle relaxers.

I have found that nothing satisfies a bad mood more than buying something new, something expensive.  I had gotten a little money when my mom passed so on a whim I bought a new laptop during the back-to-school, no sales tax, weekend.  I didn’t do any research I just bought the shiniest, latest and greatest computer running Windows 8.  I had heard horror stories about the Windows 8 operating system but they didn’t register with me until they became my horror stories.  A problem connecting to the Internet necessitated me downloading a new driver from the manufacturer.  In a fit of rage and frustration, I changed my user name and password in preparation of returning the evil machine for store credit.  That’s when I locked myself out.

I would love to tell you that things are looking up.  The laptop and I are getting along but the job situation has not changed.  Sometimes the only thing you can change is your attitude.  I was due a big attitude adjustment so I made one.  Banging on a locked door doesn’t make it open any quicker.  Sometimes when the door is closed; there are no windows open either.  The only option is to wait and I am not a good waiter.  Being thankful for what’s good in my life helps even when it is a young man who is careless about his shoes or a shiny, new laptop.  I am practicing being thankful for the present and trying not to worry about the uncertain future.

Day of Firsts

I love the first of a new month.  We get a new beginning every 30 days or so.  The first day of August is one of those days.  It is the first day with a major change to how I do business.  It is the first day of school locally.  Traditionally, it was the first day of family vacation when I was growing up.  My devotional reading from Jesus Calling reminded me that God never forgets us like a mother never forgets her children.  I wrote "Carla" and "Kelly" on the palms of my hands in ink so I would remember them during the day.  I am putting them first in my thoughts today.  I will put God first in everything I do and I am promised (Matthew 6:33) that everything else will come together as a result of that.  There is no need to worry.  Also, today is my first day of doing a post a day!

The Sidewalk Salesman

I hate to be critical of someone’s profession but what job satisfaction does a person receive from waving a “Cash for Gold” sign all day or waving to passersby while wearing a Statue of Liberty costume?  I suppose Lady Liberty could be an employee of the firm who has been chosen to represent out on the sidewalk for a few hours similar to the Chick-Fil-A cow but the “Cash for Gold” sign waver, on the other hand, seems to be a whole new job classification.

I have seen these brave, new workers all over Nashville.  The lucky ones get assigned a corner spot of a busy intersection from which to entice passing motorists.  The less fortunate are relegated to a sidewalk in front of a business where they pace for hours.  I have tried on several occasions to snap a picture of one of these sign wavers with my cell phone as I idle at a red light but with little success.  They are an elusive lot. 

Sign Wavers seem to form into two groups, enthusiastic or complaisant.  It is easy to spot the enthusiastic.  One’s eye is drawn to their swirling antics.  It is a new art form almost.  The enthusiastic sign wavers are overwhelmingly young men.  After all, a person would need to be strong to keep that board moving constantly for what?  hours?  The complaisant ones basically just stand there with the arrow-shaped board in their hand only moving it when they see a car approach.  You can tell their heart is not in it.  These young men would rather be home playing video games but they need the cash for a new skate board.  There is, of course, the occasional old Santa or “Cash for Gold” guy but they are rare.  Sign waving is a young man’s game.

As I drive around Nashville and observe sign wavers, I also ponder their financial situation.  How much are these folks get paid?  I assume they are paid based on the number of hours they wave the sign but do they get a bonus for being creative in their display?  Do they get an uptick in their pay when customers actual come through the door of the store they represent?  I am assuming they get the normal benefit of periodic bio breaks or, in the case of a costumed character, time to go inside and cool off but is that it?  What drives a person to a life as a sign waver?  Is it the money alone or the glory of the performance?

On particularly difficult days when I come home empty-handed after a sales appointment, I will see a sign waver on the corner and he seems to be having so much fun.  He does not seem to have a care in the world and I must admit I am jealous of his carefree lifestyle.  If you are reading this and you are a sign waver, would you give me a call at the number below?  I have a lot of questions plus I would like to take your picture.

Marketing to Millennials

I stole this magazine from the doctor's office while waiting for blood work.  I had already waited an hour for the doctor after they had called me two days prior to ask me if I could move my appointment up an hour.  I figured they wouldn't miss the magazine.  Since I sell to more and more Millennials these days, I need to know what will attract them to buy health insurance.  Just as I had guessed, nothing.

John Bonini at Impact Branding & Design wrote an interesting blog entitled "What you need to know about marketing to Millennials" as a result of the Time article.  He interviewed other Millennials (Born 1980-2000) to get their take on the topic.  Here are their thoughts compared to my Baby Boomer (Born 1943-1960) perspective:

1)  They do everything online.  OK, have you seen my Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Google+ and Blogspot?  We invented online; of course, we love it, too.  The big difference is we go online either for work or play.  We do not "live" online.  I am not even sure that is possible unless you are an avatar.  Most Baby Boomers are still trying to work at important jobs earning real money so they can retire someday.  That means we have to "live" in the real world not the digital one.

2)  They don't read mail, newspapers or watch ads on TV.  Who does anymore?  Next.

3)  They won't buy something unless they need it and it is recommended by someone they know.  Like you really, reaaaalllly needed that iPhone 5 because 800 of your 1000 Facebook friends had one.  So, your mom bought you one and put it on her plan.  Right, got it.  So, in reality I need to be marketing to your mom who is probably a Gen Xer (Born 1961-80).  It is odd to me when an adult employee tells me they need to check with their mom before they can buy $3 of life insurance.  Do you check with your mom or your Facebook friends every time you feel a need to buy a Starbucks?  Maybe it is because we have delayed the maturation of Millennials to the point where they can't think of why they would need life or health insurance.  I got married when I was 19.  Had a mortgage at 22 and a baby at 23.  We had to delay purchasing things we wanted in order to have the things we needed.  The idea of asking for recommendations from friends and family is a good idea but not a new one.  Relationship selling is an old concept.  I agree with Millennials that people buy from people they know and like.

4)  They get angry if they are not marketed to how and when they want.  One Millennial said, "Make it relevant to me and my needs and interests."  I can sometimes get annoyed by advertising but angry?  Haven't you heard, "The only one that can make you angry is you?"  See, it is all about YOU.  If the Internet is so central to your life that an ad can make you angry, perhaps it is time you stop "living" on the Internet.  My advice to Millennials is the same as I would give to a depressed Baby Boomer, stop focusing on yourself and start giving back to others.  Get out and get your hands dirty planting an urban vegetable garden or building a home for the needy.

5)  They want marketing by companies that make a difference.  This me and my focus is interesting because Millennials also want products they buy to "make a difference."  Have you noticed how many products have a "charity" ingredient?  Perhaps this is how Millennials can have their cake and eat it, too.  Our local chamber of commerce has an annual race to support, uh, the chamber which receives no public funds.  The race took off in popularity only after a small portion of the race fee was donated to a charity.  As a Baby Boomer, I will freely give hundreds of dollars a year to several charities that I select.  I don't need or want a corporation deciding who will receive donations based on me buying a pink spoon.

In summary, human beings are not that different when it comes to buying stuff.  We all want to know and be known.  This is probably why everyone enjoys shopping on Amazon and never admits to shopping at Wal-Mart.  Amazon calls us by name and knows what we have bought and what we want to buy.  They will even gift wrap it for us and send it to our dad's address.  We want to feel like we are smart and capable of making good buying decisions.  We want to feel important and do something important.  It made my day to see that Google had changed their search logo to celebrate MY birthday.  The market never changes just the methods.  We are not so different, you and I.