my first boss.

This weekend, I'm headed to Charleston to celebrate the 30th anniversary of my dad's company, Gallman Personnel Services.  I hope you'll indulge me by sharing my feelings on the occasion, which is also what I wrote about him in a surprise book his staff will present to him tomorrow night.  

Don't worry that I'm ruining the surprise.  If he reads this blog - and let's be honest, that's a big if - it'll be months from now.  

When I was little, whenever anyone would ask me what my dad did for a living, I always answered the same way, "He helps people get jobs."

I really didn't know what I was saying or what that meant, I just thought it was so cool that he was the boss. He had his own leather chair that spun all the way around and pencils with our last name on them. I was proud. He also had a paper shredder that he let my brother Jeff and me "play" with, which I'm pretty sure put him in violation of most child labor laws and all parenting handbooks.

My understanding of what Gallman Personnel Services does and what it means to the people who work there has evolved over time. After all, it's where I earned my own first paycheck, stuffing envelopes, copying applications and yes, shredding boxes of documents that needed shredding. At GPS, I learned the importance of a firm handshakes, solid relationships, and about the pride that comes from a hard day's work.

I don't know that I'll ever truly understand the courage it took for my dad to start his own business 30 years ago. And I'll never fully comprehend the sacrifices he and my mom made over the years to create and sustain a successful business and a loving family, ensuring that Jeff and I never wanted for anything.

But I do know how fortunate I am that my first boss has - so far - been my greatest boss - my own amazing Dad.

Thirty years of helping people get jobs - not too shabby. Congratulations on this tremendous accomplishment. I am so proud to be your daughter.

fare thee well, good eyes.

Back in March, when I took my parents to the Fleetwood Mac concert in Charlotte, Jacob and I found ourselves half horrified, half amused when soon after taking our seats, my dad reached into my mom's purse and produced a pair of binoculars.   

He immediately put them to his eyes and began scanning first the crowd, then the stage, his arms at a perfect 90 degree angle.  For several minutes, while Jacob and I chuckled about how this was our first "concert with binoculars" experience, we'd hear my dad randomly shouting out all the things he could see.

When he was done, he handed them over to me and I reluctantly and embarrassingly took a turn, pointing the lenses directly at the stage.  There, in crystal-clear vision, was my love, my hero Stevie Nicks.  I could see the sparkle on her dress as she twirled and could tell what shade of red lipstick she was wearing.  Our seats were pretty good - but this view was magical. 

Then Jacob, likely resigning to a "can't beat them, join them" mentality, also had a look.

"In all my years of concert-going and obsession with good seats," he admitted, "I can't believe I've never thought to bring binoculars."

And it wasn't just us - just like other "enhancements" often passed around at shows - we passed my dad's binoculars around to our seatmates and quickly made friends.  They were a hit.

So for an early semi-ironic-but-actually-I'm-sincerely-excited-to-have-them birthday present, I bought Jacob a pair of his very own binoculars.  Actually I've had to buy him two pair since the first pair I bought were the size equivalent of two telescopes fused together and hardly appropriate for concert viewing.  That pair had to be returned.  Whoops.

Since the purchase, we've taken these new set of eyes to see the Rolling Stones at Bobby Dodd Stadium in Atlanta and to see the Grateful Dead kick off their Fare Thee Well tour in Santa Clara, California.

None of these bands needed any kind of enhancements - especially not binoculars - and describing these events as simply concerts feels like a gross injustice.  Nostalgia-evoking, tear-producing, life-altering musical experiences more accurately represents my feelings about seeing, possibly for the last time, the bands that helped lay the foundation of my music education.

And a reunion of old friends.

And also middle-aged people wearing bear costumes.

 

There's nothing quite like showing up to a concert's farewell tour with binoculars to let everyone, "I'm old, folks and I've pretty much given up."

Thankfully, though, there's also nothing quite like the perspective of getting older to help us stop caring what everyone else thinks.  I may be going to hell in a bucket, but at least I'm enjoying the ride, with my binoculars in hand.

charleston.

I've been ruminating for a week and a half on how I feel about Charleston and what happened there last Wednesday.  I have started writing this post several times, only to be overcome by complicated feelings so intense, I had to literally get up and walk away from my computer. 

As a journalist and proud South Carolinian, my emotions have truly been all over the place.

After getting the call Wednesday and the instruction to drive all night to be ready to report Thursday morning, I thought only of the editorial job I had to do, the logistics of where to park and making sure the correspondent I was producing for was prepped and ready to be on television.  For the first few hours of the day, I thought only about getting the story and all of its horrible details.

But when the sun came up on Calhoun Street in a city I love so dearly, I couldn't help but notice that the stately and gorgeous Emanuel AME church looked different.  Or, I wondered, was it I that was different, knowing that I'd have to add "church" to a list of other places (elementary school, movie theater, grocery store) where our safety from evil is no longer guaranteed? 

To the families of the Charleston 9 - There are no words to express the grief I feel for your extraordinary loss.  The stories I've heard about your loved ones who lost their lives will stay with me forever and I remain profoundly disappointed that the world will no longer benefit from their exceptional gifts.  May you find peace and feel love from a nation that grieves with you.

To Charleston - I'll never stop singing your praises and you have made me so very proud to have lived there and to be from South Carolina.  Thank you for showing your compassion and your hospitality and for showing America how a community grieving can come together in ways that have made my heart swell at least a thousand times.  I'll never stop lobbying to become CNN's first and only Lowcountry Bureau Chief, but I hope the next time I'm in town covering a story, it's one highlighting your beautiful spirit.  

To the rest of the world looking at South Carolina - This state is special.  The people here are special.  We are not perfect, and there are a few bad apples that still remain walking our streets, but that's no more or less than any other place on earth.  We've made some mistakes in our past that thankfully we seem to be on the path to correcting.  We'd love for you to come visit and we'll show you a real good time, but spare us your lectures or the assumption that we're lesser than you.

Have a great, peaceful weekend.  Choose love, my friends.