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One brisk December morning as my five-year-old son Taylor and I skittered across the local mall’s icy parking lot in search of gifts for his two older sisters, Taylor turned to me and asked, “What was your bestest and most favorite Christmas present ever?” I have contemplated the answer to that question over the years since. Despite the fact that as a child I had perched over the toy section of the Sears catalogue (much like a monk musing over a sacred manuscript), my favorite gift never made it into Mr. Sears’ marvelous book. In fact, it was never sold in any store. More curious still, it sat in a box, unopened for almost fifty years. To appreciate this magical gift, you have to know a little bit about how the human mind works.

Although nobody completely understands how anything as complicated as the brain actually functions, I like to think of it as thousands of tiny shelves that sit in long rows inside our head. On these shelves sit millions of even tinier boxes. And inside these boxes you find memories. Some of the boxes remain unopened and unattended for years and the thoughts left inside evaporate like dry ice on a hot summer day. Other memories remain active and vital because we pull a box off the shelf, open it, and relive the experience.

Of course, every time we crack open a memory box we change the contents ever so slightly. That’s because when we visit a memory, we add a little here and snip a little there. With each new peek into the box, we make subtle alterations until one day all that is left is the memory of a memory of a memory; little more than a faint and blurred copy. The original is gone forever.

But not always. Every once in a while the most amazing thing happens. A mysterious force knocks a box off one of our memory shelves—a box that has sat untouched for years suddenly bursts open. And when it does, you relive a precious moment—unchanged and straight from your childhood. That’s what happened to me one December morning a few years ago as I was preparing for my granddaughter who would soon be making a Christmas visit. As I fussed and fidgeted and tried to make the house safe for a curious child, I spotted a small shiny object on the floor, just under our living room couch. As I drew closer I could see that it was a dime.

“We can’t have that lying around!” I muttered to myself, as I dropped to my hands and knees.

At that very moment, a song that I had learned in the first grade started playing on the radio: “Christmas is coming; the goose is getting fat. . . .” The image of the shiny dime coupled with the haunting melody of a childhood song pushed an untouched package off my memory shelf.

Whoosh!

As the lid from this tiny box popped open and the contents tumbled out, I was suddenly six years old. The dime I had been staring at under the couch magically transformed into a dime lying under my grandfather’s candy counter.

When I was a boy my grandpa owned a corner grocery store and every day on the way home from elementary school I’d stop by to see him. Grandpa was always as interested in the characters portrayed in my childhood primer as I was. “Spot ran away, and Sally and Puff are looking for him,” I’d explain. “Really?” he would ask with genuine interest. “Do you think they’ll find him?”

Grandpa always wore a lime green apron that looked clean and stiff and official. As the sole proprietor of our only neighborhood store, I thought he was about as important as any person alive—maybe as important as a brain surgeon, a judge, or even a fireman. I loved my granddad as much as I loved anyone or anything. Grandpa loved me in return. He was proud of everything I did. When I earned a gold star at school, he acted as if I had invented penicillin. Even when I didn’t do very well he’d smile warmly and tell me not to worry.

Sometimes grandpa would use me as a prop. On rainy days (which was most of the time in Bellingham, Washington), I’d stop by the store and he would go through the same routine. Grandpa would be chatting with a grownup customer and as soon as I’d walk up next to him he’d mention how miserable the weather was. Then he’d look out at the drizzle and say, “You know, I wish the sun would come out. Not so much for myself but for my grandson.” Then he’d pat me on the head and explain, “I’ve seen the sun before, but my grandson never has!” Everyone would laugh.

On this day—that is, the day that fell down from my memory shelf—I was on my hands and knees doing what little boys do when they’re at their grandfather’s grocery store, next to the candy counter. I was looking for coins. Sometimes grownups would drop a penny, and if you were lucky, you’d end up with a tasty treat. Only this time, I spotted a shiny new dime. Ten whole cents!

I can still remember what I bought—one licorice whip, one red-hot jawbreaker, two sour cherries, one raspberry vine, and ten Whoppers. (Whoppers were two for a penny.) Grandpa smiled wide as I scampered out of his store. You would have thought that he was the one with the pocketful of candy.

Since I was still a child when this took place—and still believed in miracles—the next day I ran out the back door of school, raced down the hill, burst into Grandpa’s store, and dropped to my knees in search of treasure. Then I crawled around and looked and sniffed, and probed, and hunted until—guess what? I found another dime. I couldn’t believe my good fortune! This time I bought my older brother an Oh Henry candy bar and myself five pieces of penny candy.

And so it went. Every day I’d drop to my hands and knees, find a dime, and marvel at my good luck. Sometimes I’d only spend five cents, and the next day I’d buy a fifteen-cent kite. All through that spring and well into the summer I bought fudgesicles on hot days, kites on windy days, and candy bars when I was thinking of my brother. And every single day Grandpa would smile wide as I ran from the store with my treasures in hand.

This was the box that fell from my memory shelf when I knelt to pick up a dime the day my granddaughter was coming for Christmas. The entire rush of thought—complete with Whoppers, kites, and licorice whips—passed in a flash.

As I arose from my hands and knees nearly fifty years after finding that first dime, the adult inside me returned. “Why grandpa!” I thought to myself, “You put those dimes there didn’t you!” Sure enough, at age seventy-two, he had gingerly lowered himself to the floor and secretly hidden a dime in a different spot each morning. He didn’t do it for the thanks. He never told me what he had done. He did it because he loved me.

I had a friend growing up who was given some of the most amazing gifts for Christmas. The year he turned sixteen his parents gave him an entire automobile. Not just a leather steering-wheel cover, or one of those smelly cardboard pine trees you hang on the rearview mirror—but an entire car. If his five-year-old son were to ask him about his “bestest and most favorite” Christmas present ever, I bet he would talk about that shiny red Chevy. But for me, my favorite gift fell off a shelf after it sat untouched for nearly fifty years. It was wrapped in childhood innocence and when the lid popped off and the contents tumbled out, it bathed me in the warm glow of my grandfather’s love.

Sometimes when I’m feeling blue I open that glorious box and look at the kites and penny candy and relive the joy. Sometimes the box falls down all by itself. I’ll be walking down the street when a person wearing lime green clothing passes by me and bumps the box. Plunk. And you know what—I think sometimes my grandpa from somewhere far away whispers, “Happy Christmas!” and the breeze from his sweet voice gently nudges the box.

Whatever causes the package to tumble, the result is always the same. I taste the sweet fudgesicles, feel the tug of a kite, and imagine my grandfather on his hands and knees—hiding a dime for his beloved grandson. And even though my “bestest and most favorite” present was never listed in any department store catalogue, that extraordinary box—that memory box filled with grandpa’s love—is far more precious to me than anything ever shaped by human hands.

I shall cherish it forever.

The following article was first published on July 14, 2004.

Dear Crucial Skills,

What do you do when you don’t know for sure what the problem is? All you know is that there is a problem between you and another person and it has never been good from the beginning. It isn’t like there is anything major that has happened; it’s just that there is tension in the air and neither of you can open up with the other. Every conversation is guarded and there is a lot of fake smiling and handshaking going on.

How can I get past this behavior and figure out what’s going on when the other person doesn’t seem to want to communicate at all?

Signed,
Left Wondering

Dear Wondering,

The key to unlocking this mystery is the condition called “safety.” When I don’t feel safe enough with someone to openly express my concerns or check out some of my fears, I start telling myself stories: “I don’t think she likes me,” or, “I wonder if he’s judging me,” or, “They think I’m stupid.” These are just three of the infinite number of stories, questions, or judgments that I could be coming up with about the other person—or vice versa. These stories create emotions ranging from concern and discomfort to anger and deep frustration. And of course if I don’t talk out or check out these stories, I will act them out in perhaps slight and subtle behaviors that could signal to the other person that I’m “guarded” or “uneasy.” This in turn could set off a new round of stories on his or her part that leads to feelings and actions that confirm I was right in suspecting a problem in the first place.

To put an end to this downward spiral, you need to make it safe for the other person to share concerns he or she might have but be afraid to bring up. Do this in the following ways:

1. Start with Heart. Ask yourself what you really want this relationship to be.

2. Master My Stories. Ask yourself why a reasonable, rational, and decent person would act the way the other person is acting (Hint: maybe he/she is just acting out his or her stories too). Remind yourself that there may be understandable reasons for the behavior.

3. Begin a crucial conversation at the “relationship level” by asking for permission. For example:
“Hey, Sarah, I wonder if I could talk with you about how we’re working together. Would that be alright with you? Is now a good time?”

Then tentatively share your own observations:

“It seems like when you and I get together it feels a bit awkward. I’ve noticed that I have a hard time feeling relaxed and being completely open. I feel somewhat guarded and I’m not even sure why. Have you felt this too, or is it just me?”

4. You may want to share your “Start with Heart” aspiration:

“I would like us to have a working relationship where we both feel comfortable talking with each other and where we can both be open. What kind of relationship makes most sense to you?”

5. Finally, be sure to be open to hearing the other person’s thoughts. Share your concerns in a tone that says “I sincerely want to resolve this issue and want to hear what it is that may be bothering you.” Don’t accuse. Then, use your best listening skills. Do your best to hear everything he or she may be concerned about.
By approaching the situation in this way, you are exploring a mutual purpose, being respectful, and thus building safety. This does not guarantee that you’ll get the outcome you desire, but it dramatically increases the likelihood that the issues will be disclosed and can then be worked out.

Best wishes in all your crucial conversations,
Ron

I miss strawberries. Despite the fact that my acquaintance with them started quite by accident, I still miss them. Here’s how it all started. One day when my best friend Bobby Kaiser and I were playing in the woods behind my house, we stumbled onto a small patch of wild strawberries. They didn’t appear all that promising. We had already gobbled down huckleberries and salmon berries and blackberries that day and figured that this modest offering wouldn’t amount to much. We were wrong. The berries were sweet and firm and juicy and delicious beyond description. As we gorged ourselves on the meat of this wild wonder, all other berries hung their heads in shame.

Change in direction, but not topic—Last night I tuned into a TV “make over” program quite by mistake. I thought it was the show where they bawl like babies while making over a deserving family’s home—all the while pitching a full line of Sears appliances. Instead, they made over a human being—a woman to be more precise. I tuned into the part of the program where the plastic surgeon bragged about the results. As he eagerly promoted his work, the show cut to “before” pictures—one of a fairly normal looking woman. The surgeon chided her for having had the nerve to have looked so plain. Then he bragged about the miraculous transformation he and a team of health-care professionals, trainers, silicone experts, and cosmetologists had performed. Apparently they held the belief that looking like Barbie should be the goal of all caring people. They couldn’t have been more pleased with their creation.

The woman they had transformed was an elementary school teacher. When they showed the obligatory segment where her students saw “the new her” for the first time, I was surprised by their reaction. I figured the kids would be startled and maybe even miss their old teacher just a little, but they liked the new one. One small boy said she was “hot.” The word made me flinch. Indoctrinated by dozens of Madison Avenue messages a day, the kids had already learned that only certain faces and bodies were beautiful—and their teacher now had the right ones. How lovely.

I thought my first-grade teacher was beautiful as well. I can remember the day I was most struck by her beauty. Tammy Ray Black had just completed an assignment for the very first time. She was the kid nobody liked. Learning came hard to her and, as is often the case with children who struggle, she was constantly misbehaving and whining and causing her classmates grief. Finishing anything was a breakthrough for her and our teacher, Miss McDonald, didn’t miss this chance to reward her efforts.

At first I couldn’t believe that Miss McDonald was praising Tammy Ray for something as common as completing a coloring assignment. And then I got it. She was trying to help my classmate, a child who sorely needed help. It was a lovely thing to do. At that moment I thought that Miss McDonald was as beautiful a person I had ever seen. Curiously enough, she didn’t look a bit like Barbie. Of course, Barbie hadn’t been invented yet, so how was I to know what was beautiful and what wasn’t?

Back to the wild strawberries—“So you liked the strawberries,” my grandfather remarked as I told him about the ones we had eaten. “They aren’t just tasty,” he went on to explain, they’re also honest.” I didn’t catch his drift, so he quickly clarified his point. “You see, most fruits and berries employ trickery. They hide their seeds. You bite into a luscious cherry and learn that it has a rock-hard pit inside. Peaches are genuine liars—certain varieties possess a pit that is almost impossible to remove. And avocadoes, well you’ve seen them. They’re the biggest liars of all. The strawberry, in contrast, wears its seeds on the outside. I like that. It’s straight-forward and honest.”

As the make-over show continued its love affair with plastic, it finally broke for a series of commercials. The first one proclaimed that love is a beautiful thing and if you really love someone you’ll buy her a large, glittery and expensive diamond. Truth be known, if you don’t go into debt up to your eyebrows purchasing a diamond, how could you ever profess your love? Okay, the ad didn’t actually say this last part, but it was clearly implied.

Tiring of the TV ads I thumbed through a weekly news magazine where I learned that the only way to really get to know somebody is by the watch they wear. The writers of this particular promotional piece made this unabashed claim in a glossy, full-page spread. It seemed so sincere. Ah yes, it was all becoming clear to me. Expensive watches and diamonds are the true measure of deep feelings and lasting character. How could I have been so blind?

Leap to a still different time and place—The summer before I started junior high school, I entered the workforce for the first time. Each morning I would wait on the corner just north of my home where a berry bus would pick me up at seven a.m. sharp. It would then haul me and my twelve-year-old buddies into the country where we picked—you guessed it—strawberries. The honest fruit.

As it turns out, strawberries are also the user-unfriendly fruit. They offer no relief from the blazing sun as they lay low to the dirt, demanding that you either stoop or crawl if you want to harvest them. Now, these commercial strawberries weren’t anything like the wild ones Bobby and I had discovered. They had been transformed through the miracle of horticulture into larger and prettier berries. But at a cost. One bite and I learned that they weren’t nearly as sweet or flavorful as their wild ancestors. But that was okay with me because I was getting paid by the flat—twelve full boxes earned fifty cents. Bigger berries filled the boxes faster.

“Just look at her!” the plastic surgeon exclaimed as the make-over program continued. Everyone appeared so happy. Her family and friends cheered. Her team of experts cheered. They had completely eradicated the plain person and replaced her with a genuine beauty—a firmer and “rounder-in-the-right-places” beauty. Behold Barbie. The crowd roared. I doubt that when DNA was first discovered the celebration was as boisterous and heart-felt as this one.

Back to the farm—In my fifth summer of picking strawberries I was selected along with two other kids to harvest a new, experimental field. The small patch sported the latest variety of strawberry. The new breed was huge and deep red and beautiful. Horticulture experts had outdone themselves. And here was the really good news. Because they were so large, I could fill a box in half the time.

For a dream-like two hours in 1962 I filled each flat in fifteen minutes, not the half hour the other smaller berries took. I loved those new berries. Of course, as I bit into one I discovered the rest of the story. It was neither firm nor juicy. It was pithy. And not only wasn’t it sweet, it was actually bitter. Worst of all, gone was the taste of strawberry. Imagine that—a strawberry that didn’t taste like a strawberry. Of course, those berries that I picked that summer day over forty years ago are the same huge, deep red, tasteless berries you can buy at the grocery store today.

Putting it all together—It’s the beginning of a new year and if you’re like many of us, you’ve vowed to exercise more. I know I have. So far I’m doing pretty well. But let me be clear about one thing. I’m exercising and, yes, trying to lose weight, for my health. I want more energy. I don’t want to drop dead from a heart attack. With me, thinning down is not so much a looks thing as a health thing. That’s because I pretty much like who I am and I’m glad that my wife and children seem perfectly satisfied as well. Like a strawberry, I mostly wear my seeds on the outside. I know I look like a cross between Tom Cruise and Danny DeVito—only without the Tom Cruise part. And you know what? I don’t give a hoot.

I don’t believe it when ads and TV programs tell me I need to transform myself into someone else’s view of how I need to appear. I never want my wife or children to feel that they too are somehow unfinished until someone makes them over into the word’s view of the perfect prototype. I love them just the way they are. I love them for who they are. And like the wild strawberry, I love them for what’s inside. I know this sounds corny. It is corny. I don’t care. Maybe I’m not thinking clearly because, when I look out the window of my office and see big-lipped, silicon enhanced, be-diamonded, sculpted, and curiously look-alike “beauties” jog by, I have an overwhelming feeling of nostalgia. I miss strawberries.

The following article was first published on July 28, 2004.

Dear Crucial Skills,

What if you know you blew it in a crucial conversation, know you should go back and clean up the mess, but you don’t want to? What if you are too angry/hurt to say you’re sorry without feeling like a hypocrite for saying it because how you really feel is angry and hurt—and that’s what you’d really like to express?

Signed,
Not Sorry

Dear Not Sorry,
I love honest people. Thanks for the disarming genuineness of your question.

I’ve got a couple of thoughts that I hope are helpful to you. The first may help change the “story” that is causing you to feel angry/hurt. The second is a modest suggestion that can sometimes help you improve a crucial conversation even when you do feel upset. Here goes.

First, my personal experience is that the more invested I am in convincing myself that my feelings of anger or hurt are “right,” the more likely it is that I am wrong. Here’s a trivial example of the important point I’m trying to make. Perhaps you’ve been in the situation I was in the other day. I was attempting to merge into the right hand lane so I could make it to a freeway on-ramp. There was a car in my blind spot that honked to let me know of his existence when I began to make the merge. I quickly steered back into my lane and slowed down to get behind him. But he slowed down, too—just enough that he was still in my blind spot. So I attempted to accelerate. He accelerated and stayed in the same spot. So I tried slowing again. Finally, he punched his accelerator, roared past me and flashed me a one-finger salute as he sped away.

Now, here’s the interesting part. Can you imagine what was going on in my head when he drove off? Without conscious effort on my part, I immediately began describing to myself all the things I had done to try to be considerate of this goon. In addition, I created an image of him in my mind that was wonderfully despicable. Trust me, it went way beyond “goon.” Why did I do that? Why did I care so much that I had to both find a way to make myself out as innocent and cast him as a creep? I’d never see him again. He was gone. And yet for more of the ride to a distant city than I’d like to admit, he was still on my mind. I was vigorously shaping a story about him and me and what had happened.

Then it all changed. At one point many miles later I changed my story. The new one acknowledged my fault—and even helped explain some of the dingbat’s behavior as a reaction to my own. Here it is: “I’ll bet he thinks I was trying to cut him off, then was slowing down and speeding up in sync with him just to spite him.” In an instant I felt embarrassed rather than self-righteous. When my story changed, my emotions did, too.
So, here’s comment number one. Master your story. If you’re feeling angry or hurt, it could be that you are so invested in being right and not admitting fault that you are exaggerating the other person’s weaknesses while covering up or minimizing your own.

Second suggestion: Sometimes even after examining and revising your story, you still feel hurt or upset. But you don’t want to feel that way. You want the relationship to be better. You want things to improve—but you don’t want to fake good feelings in order to get there. If this is the case, you’re in luck. If your motives are right, you can actually build safety and open up a crucial conversation even though you’re still upset. Rather than pretending to have good feelings, you can show your positive intentions by sharing your desire for good feelings. For example:

“You know, I left our last conversation kind of upset. And I haven’t been able to resolve it in my mind since we talked. I really don’t want to feel this way. I’d like to have good and positive feelings between us, and wonder if we could talk about what happened as a way of figuring things out. I’m hoping not just to tell you what’s not working for me, but to find out what I’m doing that’s not working for you.”

Can you see how this might work? People can feel okay about you having less than positive feelings toward them so long as they know you are committed enough to the relationship to want to get back to those feelings.

I hope these suggestions are helpful. The emotional honesty I read in your question makes me optimistic that you’ll know how to make use of these ideas.

Warm regards,
Joseph

The following article was first published on March 30, 2005.

  Dear Crucial Skills,
I work in a cubicle environment and sit next to a man who has a personal hygiene problem that is very hard to ignore.

He’s a peer of mine—should I address this issue? And if so, how do I do it appropriately? He’s infamous in the office—everyone knows it seems, except him!

Signed,
Suffering in Silence

Dear Suffering,

Often when I conduct training across the country someone brings up the “personal hygiene” question. Nobody wants to say anything to those concerned, and yet everyone suffers. People typically feel uncertain about bringing up issues with this topic for two obvious reasons. One, it’s not as if hygiene is an insurmountable issue—more of a convenience issue. Two, the other person just might be hurt, humiliated, or offended. We look at the balance between cost and benefit and often choose to continue to suffer.

In fact, the fear of humiliating the other person can be so great that some people absolutely refuse to broach the topic. My first job as a Coast Guard officer some thirty-four years ago put this problem in perspective when the head accountant who reported to me asked me to talk to her direct report (they also shared a small space) who had offensive body odor. I suggested that, one, she had the problem, two, she was the boss, and three, it was her job to talk directly to the person. She then told me that she would retire early rather than say a word. And she wasn’t kidding.

So I held the conversation. In retrospect, I just remember it was hard and that I didn’t do very well. The person cried and I felt bad.

So, let me share a couple of things I’ve learned since then about what to do and what not to do when discussing what could be a humiliating topic.

First and foremost, you want to keep the scope of this problem small and the tone breezy and relaxed. Don’t even think about mentioning that everyone knows about the problem but him. This is an important data point for why you should say something (and you should)—but it would be far too insulting to actually say aloud.

Second, be very careful in your use of terms. While there is no word that doesn’t carry with it a bit of a stigma, words like “Stink” or “offend,” certainly don’t work. Similarly, don’t go for political or cute language such as “hygiene impaired.” This isn’t a laughing matter.

Third, I would start the conversation by both Contrasting and sharing your good intentions. “I wonder if I could talk about something that would help me out at work a bit. It’s not a huge deal, but it’s worth mentioning.”

Fourth, I would limit the scope of the problem. Once again, don’t say it’s been going on forever or it’s causing you huge grief or that everyone else has talked over this issue. Don’t unnecessarily add to the pain this conversation could cause. Since it’s the first time you’ve brought it up, treat it as something that has only recently become an issue. Keep the discussion private—during and after your conversation. This will help the other person feel safe remedying the problem. If it’s feasible, try to give the other person an out or excuse. For example, “Recently I get the feeling that maybe you’ve been exercising before work or something. (Smile) In any case, we work so close together that I’m wondering if we can talk about a change that’s affecting our working environment.”

At this point, you’ve delicately placed the problem in the open and the quicker you finish the discussion the better. Accept any excuse they might come up with—bogus or otherwise. This is all about helping the other person save face. Once again, keep the tone easy and relaxed.

Perhaps the most important thing to remember as you approach such a highly sensitive topic is that you care about the other person and want to help him both address the issue and not feel humiliated in the process. Keeping this in mind will go a long way toward setting the tone and helping an awkward discussion go quickly and smoothly.

Best of luck,
Kerry