© 2024 Jeff Shuck.
Life
Finer husband
Better father
Finer leader
Better friend
More hope
Better health
More spirit
Better self
Simple to write and likely hard to do. But worth giving a shot.
Happy New Year, everyone.
Santa in the form of a loving Mom and Dad sought fit to place the Explorer under the tree that year, and I played with it for years. I still remember laying all the pieces on our blue shag carpet Christmas morning, putting it together for the first time with my Dad and Uncle Rich. I put it together and dismantled it and augmented it and blew it up and reconstructed it dozens, or probably hundreds, of times after that. I couldn’t count how many times the Galaxy Explorer crew and I saved the Universe.
As I grew older I lost or gave away or broke most of my toys, and I got involved in things that seemed cooler and more mature. But I knew enough to save the Galaxy Explorer — and my mother, bless her heart, never got rid of it. When my parents died I was touched and excited and oddly heartbroken to find the box lovingly stored away.
This morning I pulled out the box and put it together with my two oldest sons. I’m not sure that this makes any sense to anyone except me — but the whole thing encapsulates everything I’m thankful for this year.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
After an invigorating but long week of travel, I’m sitting down to watch the most recent episode of The Voice. It’s really hard to describe how much I love this show.
Some of you know that I occasionally dabble in music — or rather, I constantly dabble in music but only occasionally finish anything I think is worth sharing. It’s been about nine months since I posted anything, but I put something up earlier today.
I’m not sure where I come down on the debate about art, whether it exists in and of itself or if it is only present upon being received by someone else, but it does seem like there’s some imperative to let it out to the world, warts and all.
So with that, here’s a new song, Freedom II. (There was an original Freedom, and I ended up shelving it. My naming certainly hasn’t gotten any more original.) I don’t claim it to be anything special, but it is mine, and I’m happy to claim it as that. hope you enjoy it.
It’s Saturday morning, which around our house means a busy morning getting everyone ready and out the door for our weekly soccer mini-marathon/forced march. Does everyone have their soccer shoes? Everyone have a water bottle? What happened to your coat? Did you bring the snack for the second game? Do we need the soccer ball today? Are we ready to go? Wait, what happened to Danny? Who took my keys?
When we get to the field, there’s a similar set of questions and distractions. Yes Ellie, you can go over to the play set. Johnny, did you talk to your coach? Yes, you can have a dollar for a snack. Is Ellie still over there? Did we leave a folding chair in the car? I didn’t think it was going to be this cold. Is that the woman we met at the restaurant the other night? Has anyone seen Ellie? Who took my keys again?
It always surprises me how much sound and fury (albeit at the elementary school level) can accompany three soccer games. And after four hours of constant activity, inevitably I’m driving out of the parking lot thinking, “Did any of the kids win their games?” After all of that, I can probably count the individual plays I can remember on one hand, because I’ve spent three hours running errands, scurrying about, looking the other way, and attending to various distractions.
There’s a somewhat trite and overly obvious event fundraising metaphor here, and since event fundraising is what I do, I’ll go ahead and make it: Oftentimes we spend so much time attending to the details of the event (and for most events, there are hundreds, if not thousands of details) that we lose sight of the fact that the event at its core is an effort to make our mission real. And more specifically, the event is a way to make the mission real so we can raise money to achieve it. The mission, and our passion to fund it, is the what the event is about. Place settings, site maps, signs, thank you cards, and the ever-present t-shirts are all important details. But that isn’t the event, any more than talking about play sets, snack time, lawn chairs, and neighborhood gossip helps me do what my kids really want, which is watch them play soccer.
There’s an only slightly less trite, slightly less obvious life metaphor here, too, and since I’m the blog writer I’ll go ahead and make that one as well. We all spend a lot of time preparing for the game: Packing for it, driving to it, ensuring we’re properly clothed and fed and protected for it. But we spend so much less time actually enjoying it.
A good message for spring: Don’t worry as much about the details. Watch the game — or better yet, get on the field.
Robert R. Shuck, my father, was killed in a car accident on November 7, 2009. His death was a shocking, heartbreaking tragedy. I delivered a eulogy at his funeral on November 12.
I would like to start by thanking all of you who have come here today. Many of you traveled some distance and at considerable inconvenience to be here, and we are profoundly grateful.
I have struggled this week to make sense of what has happened, what is happening, and what will happen. As much as I want to reflect on what kind of person my Dad was, I have found it hard to do so. It is difficult to fully describe the soul of a person when you are immersed only those possessions they left behind.
I have spent the last four days absently trying to sort out those possessions –- shifting through piles of paper, sorting through to-do lists, culling through files on his computer; moving from room to room, picking up books in one, picking up pictures in the next.
I found a rake with leaves still in it, well worn, set in its place in the garage. His legacy, the tools of a patient gardener.
I found a gold star that he made, by hand, for the front door — as well as a prototype, perfectly measured, folded carefully from graph paper. His legacy, the proof of a disciplined craftsman.
I found dozens of post-it notes, with lists of tasks and bullets of thoughts and reminders. “Plan for window & door improvements in 2010.” “Children’s Books – Research.” “Ask Cathy about cheese soup recipe.” His legacy, on orange and pink squares of paper, the evidence of an ordered mind.
I found pictures of grandchildren, framed and displayed, pictures given to him and a few he took himself. I have thought about what we will do with the pictures. We will gather them up I suppose, all but the picture they represent, the legacy of a proud grandfather.
I found a journal of days, an entry book logged with comings and goings. “June 4th: 2 mile walk in park.” “October 16th: Raked leaves and trimmed bushes.” And in between the daily order, I found thoughts heartbreaking to read. “July 7th, 2007: I am not a meaningful part of my family’s lives, nor they of mine. I am too isolated.” Another entry from several months ago, after I had called him to ask that he postpone an upcoming visit, said simply: “September 5th: I was invited to stay home.” A legacy of repetition and routine. A legacy of a father too distant.
I found the confused eyes of children too young to understand, searching for an explanation that I already know age will not provide. I found comments like those from my son: “I think Daddy wants another Dad.” No, just the one I already had. A legacy of questions.
In a search to understand I found tire tracks in the grass and an impact in the mud. I found glass shards and pieces of plastic. I found a car crumpled, nearly snapped in two, a physics problem made real, the solution to which was blood and broken bones. A legacy of senseless violence, a horrible legacy for a peaceful man.
None of these –- the post-it notes, the logs, the tasks, the pictures, the debris — are any part of the legacy I wish to keep, nor any part of the legacy I wish you to have. We must do our best together to remember a better legacy, a legacy more representative of the life.
To my sister Cathy: A legacy of love from a man who cared deeply about you. Although he never could quite find a way to express it as you might have wanted to hear it, he expressed it in the way he needed to say it. You were his biggest joy.
To my brother Tim: A legacy of pride from a father who loved you as his own and admired you more than you know. Your intellect and dedication to craft reminded him of the best pieces of himself.
To my wife Jeanie: A legacy of tenderness from a person who reveled in your unconditional acceptance, your lack of pretense, and your caring.
To my uncle Dave: A legacy of admiration from a brother who considered you his biggest hero.
To my aunts Cathy and Jane: A legacy of thanks for the joy that was your family, and Mom’s.
To our children, Dad’s grandchildren –- Matthew, Sierra, Johnny, Ellie, Celia June, Aidan, and Danny: A legacy of strength, a legacy that my grandmother called “the red blood of the pioneers” –- a legacy born of centuries working the soil, the fortitude to keep walking forward in the face of the inertia of the world.
To the Marsicks, the Schurdells, the Krafts, and all of his neighbors and friends: A legacy of gratitude, an unarticulated thank you for the shared experiences and laughter. You brought out Dad’s best, and you understood that though he expressed himself through the dimension of science, he was far from one-dimensional.
And to me:
I have not been sure what my legacy is. I cannot so easily move past the debris and the broken bones. I cannot so quickly forget the journal entries and the notes, the expressions of a solitude borne somewhat unwillingly.
And yet my legacy sits in this room. In my family –- those connected to me by blood, but more than that, in the many of you who have become my family by choice, a choice more yours than mine. Dad’s legacy to me is a quiet admonition that the human experience is not a solitary one. My friends, you have been unwilling to let me be isolated and alone, and in doing so you have helped me extend my reach further than Dad was able. My dad’s legacy is your friendship, and I am incredibly grateful for it.
We must remember that God almost never gives us what we want, but almost always gives us what we need. These gifts –- these gifts of love, pride, tenderness, admiration, gratitude, fortitude, laughter, and friendship –- these gifts are Dad’s bequest. They are to be respected, to be cherished, and above all, to be shared.
This is our obligation to the patient gardener: To extend his life into the next; to multiply his blessings; and above all, to go out into the world and to sow the seeds he has given us.
Yesterday, I had the profound honor of addressing my graduating class at the commencement ceremony for the Kellogg Executive Masters Program. It was an incredible — and incredibly humbling — experience. Here, apart from a few side comments, is what I said.
——-
Dean Jain, Assistant Dean Cisek-Jones, distinguished faculty and staff, honored guests, graduates of EMP 74, and of course, classmates of EMP 73:
Thank you.
There are so many people in this room who have impressed and awed me over the past two years. I am honored and humbled to speak to you today on behalf of EMP 73.
I had a reputation – probably merited – as being one of the most talkative people in our class. Whatever the topic, I had a question about it, or a comment about it, or a question about my comment. So it is quite incredible to me that anyone in my class believes I have anything left to say. I’m sure that they figured that if they didn’t let me speak, I’d find some way to add a comment anyway.
In any case, I’ll do my best to exhibit a brevity that was absent during my two years as a student.
Please allow me to convey three messages.
First and most importantly, on behalf of my entire class, I want to thank everyone in the audience who is not wearing an academic robe. To all of the family and friends who are here today, thank you. As our wives, husbands, daughters, sons, brothers, sisters, parents, and friends, you went through the experience with us. But your part was much more difficult than ours. In many ways, you bore all of the hardships – the long days and nights, the studying, the stress, the awkward weight gain! – and yet you received few if any of the benefits. You became accustomed to eating alone, or caring for children by yourselves – and a few of you even gave birth while you shared your marriage with the EMP program. You did not embark on the experience to learn new skills, or make new friends, or expand your business networks. You supported us only because you care about us. Thank you. We want to let you know that we are profoundly grateful for your love.
And specifically to the children in the audience: We hope that you do not mistake the times we were absent from dinners, and school concerts, and swim meets, and soccer matches, and games of catch, and stuffed animal tea parties, and Lego battles as anything other than our desire to make you proud through our effort. Do not think for one moment that you are not our most important priority, because you are. Among all the marks we received during our two years, by far the most important is the grade we receive from you. We hope we ended the program with a High Pass. Thank you for being here, because you are the reason we do what we do. (And to Matthew, Johnny, Ellie, and Danny – I love you, I’m proud of you, and yes, we can finally go to the aquarium now.)
Secondly, to everyone who teaches and works at Kellogg: Thank you. Your work is superb in intent and in implementation, and you shared it selflessly with us. Thank you for shouldering our inexperience, our overconfidence, and our impetuousness with professionalism and grace. Thank you for seeing something in us that we only hoped to see in ourselves; thank you for inviting us into your circle. We hope that we make you, and the school, proud.
And finally, to the graduates in the audience, and in particular to my fellow graduates from EMP 73: So here we are. It is amazing to think that something that took so long could go by so fast. Less than two years ago we gathered for the first time in a room just half a mile up the road as the frightening realization dawned on us: The program is not only going to involve numbers, but there’s actually going to be math. And, they’re really going to test us on it.
But we overcame our fear, and soon we got into a routine. It was a routine that was hard not to like. It involved new books every six weeks, books that were labeled with our names neatly on the top. It involved weekly group meetings, and lots of lecture notes – but it also involved omelets, and quite a few more meals than normal, healthy people should eat.
It’s true that there were exams and assignments and papers, but it also turned out that there was something else – there were good people, the kind of people you’d always wish and hope that you’d meet, people who were smart and funny and challenging and inspiring. And though we came into the program thinking that the people were a way to understand the coursework, it soon became clear that the reality was just the opposite – that the curriculum was just a door into the real value of Kellogg: All of you.
And after all your effort, after all our time learning about marketing mixes and weighted-average cost of capital and the theory of constraints and pricing strategies, our reward is to be turned loose into the worst economy the world has seen in seventy years.
It would be absurd not to mention current conditions, because the impact of those conditions has been keenly felt by our class. Our classmates have seen their salaries cut, opportunities eliminated, relationships strained, and for some, jobs lost. In a better time, discussions around the dinner table might involve decisions between new career opportunities – now, the discussions are just as likely to concern loans, and mortgage payments, and dwindling retirement accounts. The news from both Wall Street and Washington doesn’t inspire many warm feelings, and it is hard not to wish for a third year of school as a refuge. One has a sense that though the exams have ended, the biggest tests are still to come.
I think, however, that this is not the right way to view the situation. We are not the next round of cattle being led to the stockyards; perhaps we – though not completely aware that we are up to the task – perhaps we are the cavalry. Perhaps we ourselves are the solution that we are looking for.
In school we talk repeatedly about Ps – about price, promotion, place, product, and of course, the biggest of all, profit. As we leave Kellogg in these uncertain times, I have a sense that we will need to focus on two more important Ps: Passion and Perspective.
Right now, the world needs people who care – people who care enough to look beyond band-aids and sound-bites to create lasting, meaningful solutions.
And the world needs people who understand that success in business is simply a tool. It is not the end goal. The end goal is prosperity and peace for our great-grandchildren. The end goal is long-term relationships that are made of respect and integrity. The end goal is workable, sustainable methods for encouraging initiative while discouraging exploitation. The end goal is less hate and more light; decreased ignorance and increased understanding; less suffering and more healing. The end goal, quite simply, is a better world. We must have the passion and the perspective to focus our businesses, our careers, and our lives on those goals.
It is true that we are leaving Kellogg with newfound knowledge. But your biggest asset is not your head, it’s your heart. Over the last two years I have had the joy of experiencing that heart first-hand, and it fills me with optimism and hope.
There is a lot to do. The world needs you. And what’s fortunate for all of us is that you are ready.
Godspeed friends. Let’s get to work.
Warren J. Shuck, my grandfather, died in early February at age 97. He was an incredible man in the way that phrase should be used — he was honest, caring, intelligent. He had character.
I had the huge honor of speaking at his funeral.
Gramps, I found the note that you wrote to us. You had placed in the upper drawer of your desk, on top of a pile of this month’s checks. When I read it, I understood that you meant for us to find it.
You wrote,
“Now that my days are numbered and I have only memories, I think of all the things I didn’t do. I loved my family very much and was so proud of each of you but I didn’t tell you when I should have. Richard was our pride and joy, and now I don’t remember ever telling him how much I loved him. Now I wonder how I could have been so involved in the activities that had no lasting permanence and not more devoted to the things that last.”
Gramps, I want to tell you two things.
The first thing I want to tell you is that we know that you loved us. In particular, I know that you loved me. Despite what you remember, you actually told me quite often. Maybe you were different as a father, but as a grandfather you were one of the most expressive and emotional men I’ve ever met. You couldn’t say grace without crying halfway through. You laughed a lot. You worried about your family, probably too much – in fact, it was after watching you just this past December that I realized that I learned my nervous habit of picking my fingernails from you.
But most of all, you never let a visit go by without telling me that you loved me and that you were proud of me.
In the past week we have talked to quite a few people about you. Every one of them has told us how important you were. When they reminisce about you, they use words like “sweet,” “kind,” and “gentle.” You were both devoted and involved, and it has made a huge difference to the people that know you.
The second thing I want to tell you is that I know that you did not write the note simply to make yourself feel better. I know you weren’t looking for affirmation or reassurance. The note was written to us, not to yourself, and it would be missing the point to dismiss it by simply saying, “Don’t worry Gramps, we knew that you loved us.” You were trying to tell us something.
So I want to make sure you know that I have heard your message. But what I need now is some help in following it.
Gramps, you have taught me that real accomplishment is shared accomplishment. So in my dealings with my business associates, help me put integrity ahead of achievement and support ahead of success.
Gramps, you have taught me that the ties of family are tighter than the bounds of biology. So in my relationships with my relatives, help me place acceptance over agreement and reconciliation over retaliation.
Gramps, you have taught me that love is gentle. So in my marriage, teach me humility instead of hubris and compassion instead of competition. Help me to say what should be said rather than what could be said.
Gramps, you have taught me that time is precious. So in my parenting of my own children, help me practice patience. Help me overcome the tendency to train good children and instead help me raise fine men. Help me find ways to show love in action as well as in words.
Finally Gramps, you have taught me to enjoy and strive for a better life. So in my regarding of my own self and the world around me, teach me charity over criticism and courage over complacency. Help me enjoy each minute without regards to the number remaining. Help me see the beauty of life.
Lastly Gramps, I wanted to let you know that I’m sorry about the fish – I really thought they would live in the toilet. As for the fence post, I pretty much knew that would break when we hit it.
Say hello to Gram and Mom and Rich. I’ll miss you.
You are here with us every day, and we love you.
This is one of my first and favorite web posts. It was written at what was obviously an emotional time for the country — but in addition to the shock of September 11th, we had the joy of the birth of our son Matthew on September 13th. Our emotions were all muddled, like preschoolers muddle paint; bright and bold and dark and murky.
I thought as I publish my first posts, I’d add this one.
Somehow, someway, Matthew turned a week old yesterday. Watching him grow fills me with a sense of disbelief. I am waiting for him take his things and leave one morning, with a wave goodbye and a thank you for the milk and the diapers. I am expecting someone with a clipboard and bad uniform to show up at the door and repossess him. We’ll hand him back with a sheepish apology.
But no one comes to claim him. The astounding nature of the miracle that is a baby starts to sink in, slowly, and over the days I’ve become more willing to admit that he is here to stay. This is our baby.
It’s hard to accept. A sense of self-preservation kicks in when I look at him - “Don’t get too attached. He is fragile, and fragile things have a tough time in this place.”
Or maybe, more accurately, I am the fragile one.
This is the first definition of parenthood I’ve come to learn: An overpowering desire to control your love and hopes coupled with an overpowering inability to do so. I give in to the emotion with the dim suspicion that the other path is the path of the recluse. Not that I have any choice in the matter. He has me by the heart.
The past week has been one of new distractions and tasks - changing diapers, taking baths, watching his mother during feedings. In a week we’ve developed a new routine.
We’ve added other tasks to our routine as well. Scouring the paper in the morning for good news. Conducting seemingly endless vigils with Tom Brokaw. Repeatedly reviewing new bits of information. Connecting with family and friends many times a day to confer about the latest turns of events, conversations that on the surface are about news but at their core are about anxiety. The need to ask “Did you see that?” as a way of saying, “Will you ask me if I saw it?”
Will you ask me if I’m okay?
On the morning of Tuesday, September 11, 2001, Jeanie and I were sleeping in the guest bedroom. Guest bedroom is a bit of a misnomer - it is our everything room, with my keyboards and our office and a spare bed that happens to be much harder than our bed and thus much more comfortable to a woman in early stages of labor. My father-in-law woke us up with a phone call. Even in the confusion of early morning that was normal enough - everyone wanting to know how the baby was coming along.
“Turn on the television. They’ve bombed the World Trade Center.”
That was our introduction to the new world.
Like most everyone else, we watched in shock throughout the day. We saw the same stories and the same footage over and over, but couldn’t turn away. We watched in the hope that somehow the footage would end differently. It didn’t.
Midway through the day, Jeanie and I turned to each other with a selfish prayer: “Please God, don’t let our baby be born today.”
In a day when many prayers were squelched by fire and steel, ours was answered.
The next day, even as we went to the hospital and began labor, we watched the news for reassurance and hope that, sadly, weren’t forthcoming. I will never forget talking with the anesthesiologist about collapsing buildings as Jeanie received her epidural. I will never forget bringing an American flag to the hospital — a nurse came to the room not to inquire after Matthew’s health but to ask “Where did you get the flag? Are there any left?”
Matthew’s birth and the terrorist attacks will forever be linked in my mind, because they are linked in reality. I sit with Matthew on my lap watching MSNBC. I receive emails from friends who thank me for the meaningful news, as if I had some role in its delivery; several people call in tears to say that his birth was the one bright spot in a dark week. I run to the store to buy diapers and notice that all the news magazines have just been released. I buy all of them without thinking.
A week later I am still in shock, still transfixed by both turns of events. It is a feeling of experiencing two shades of the same emotion: Both defy description. How can you explain one life? How can you explain thousands of deaths? I watching him breathing and I watch the towers collapsing and I can’t describe either one. An overpowering desire to control hope coupled with an overpowering inability to do so.
Last night Matthew and I watched the President speak. I look at my baby, illuminated by the glow of late-night television. He opens his eyes and grabs my hand. He is here to stay. He is life; he is renewal; he is purpose.
What has the world become? Is there a way to find meaning in this?
In this moment I understand what our friends have said. In this moment I look into Matthew’s sleepy eyes and I find my answer.
But as I turn my attention back to the speech, I listen to the President’s words and I am struck by a second, more troubling thought:
If we have found our meaning in Matthew, where will Matthew find his meaning?
And I realize my own new purpose, and the new obligation of my generation.
Because this is a question that Matthew is counting on me to answer.
