Toasting Kailey & Matt's Wedding

Dad and the Happy Couple

We all join this evening to congratulate Kailey and Matt and wish them all the best for a long and happy life together.

Kailey, you captured my heart the day I met you, and despite the fact that I am the person you are least likely to call to come to bail you out of jail, that love has only grown deeper as the years have passed. As I look at you today, this grown woman, my daughter, I am in awe of who you have become.  But no matter what your age, and no matter what you accomplish, you are, and will always be, “my little girl,” the girl who gave herself “time-outs” when she was mean to her brother, the girl who got so mad when I prevented her from being run over by a car, the girl who became my Christmas elf, the girl who gave me butterfly kisses from her top bunk…

Today, as you marry this wonderful man, I see that my beautiful butterfly has broken free from her chrysalis, and my awe is replaced with pride and respect. You and Matt are about to embark on a breathtaking journey filled with twists and turns, ups and downs, happiness and heartbreak, and all of the love that can only come as husband and wife. 

Matt, I want to welcome you, and your family, to our clan.  I won’t pretend that I don’t have tons of advice for you about joining this motley crew or about being Kailey’s partner, but I know that you will find joy by discovering those things together with her (and Kailey made me promise to be brief…).

What I will tell you both, from my experience and from my heart, is that the recipe for a great marriage requires one key ingredient: mutual respect.

You have chosen each other, so as you move forward in life together, respect each other, value your differences, appreciate your similarities, fight fair (when necessary), make up often, and honor each other. Then, and only then, will a long life of love follow.

I know this is supposed to be a toast and not another episode of “Dad’s life lessons,” so… since we are in my native land (Chicago) and since that always brings out the Irish in me, I’ll share with you the traditional Irish family blessing:

May you be poor in misfortune,
Rich in blessings,
Slow to make enemies,
Quick to make friends,
But rich or poor, quick or slow,
May you know nothing but
Happiness from this day forward.

Now if everyone will join me for one last Irish tradition, please raise your glasses and toast the bride and the groom…

Merry met, and merry part,
I drink to thee with all my heart!

Happy happy! Joy joy!!

Richard Fredrick Boeke, October 19, 1932 - May 23, 2020

"Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards."

                                                    ~ Søren Kierkegaard

It’s only now, looking back, that I begin to truly understand the depth and meaning behind the moments we shared, Dad. When I was younger, they felt simple—like when you took our Cub Scout den to the 1977 BSA Jamboree at Moraine State Park. At the time, it just seemed like a fun adventure — making rope with David and our friends, learning new skills, and laughing as we discovered a few "new" words you might not have planned on teaching us that day. As we grew older, the moments became more challenging. But now, with time and distance, I see them all differently. That particular memory wasn’t just a fun outing; it was a lesson in patience, leadership, resilience, and love — the kind of lessons that you taught not through lectures, but through living example.

Kierkegaard was right. We move forward through life, not always knowing the value of each experience, not always understanding the meaning behind the choices we make or the words we speak. But when I look back now, so much becomes clearer. I see how the way you led, the way you showed up, the way you handled both joy and difficulty—all of it shaped who I am today.

I am so grateful for every lesson you tried to teach me—both the ones I took to heart and the ones I only came to understand later. I know I didn’t always recognize your wisdom in the moment, but looking back, it’s everywhere. Your presence, your guidance, your values—they’re in the way I try to raise my own children, in the way I try to treat people, in the way I live.

I hope you saw that in me. I hope you recognized that the kind of father I strive to be is, in large part, because of the kind of father you were. Our relationship wasn’t perfect—whose is? But your love was always there, steady and strong, and mine never wavered either.

Thank you for everything, Dad. For the memories, the lessons, and the love. I am so thankful I got to spend those last hours with you — to simply be near you, to say goodbye, and to let you know how deeply I care.

I promise I will keep living forwards—with the understanding I carry from looking back. I will continue to strive to be the best person I can be, because that’s what you taught me, and that’s how I will honor you.

Love you forever.

The Vanishing Center: What The Right Answer Still Gets Right

The Right Answer: How We Can Unify Our Divided Nation
by John K. Delaney

My rating: 3½ of 5 stars

In December 2019, a friend gave me The Right Answer by John K. Delaney as a holiday gift. At the time, I was vaguely aware of Delaney as the first Democrat to enter the 2020 presidential race, but I hadn’t paid him much attention. The field was crowded with louder voices, flashier platforms, and sharper ideological lines. The gift felt like a gesture of quiet hopefulness—offering not just a book, but an invitation to consider what politics might look like if we chose construction over conflict. By the time I sat down to write this, Delaney’s campaign had long since ended—he suspended his bid in January 2020, before a single vote was cast. And yet, the book lingers—not as campaign literature, but as a thoughtful reflection on what our politics might be if we made more space for decency, data, and the discipline of governing.

I read The Right Answer that winter, noting passages that spoke to the civic impulses I still believe in: common ground, mutual responsibility, the hard but necessary work of listening. Delaney’s vision, laid out in earnest and unvarnished prose, wasn’t revolutionary—and that was precisely the point.

Delaney, a former congressman from Maryland and successful entrepreneur, brought a rare combination of business acumen and policy pragmatism to the national stage. Before entering politics, he co-founded two publicly traded companies focused on healthcare finance and lending to underserved communities—ventures that reflected his interest in both innovation and equity. Elected to Congress in 2012, he represented Maryland’s 6th District for three terms, earning a reputation as a pro-business Democrat who valued bipartisanship and data-driven legislation. His 2020 presidential bid was an extension of that philosophy: a campaign rooted in optimism, civility, and practical solutions—what he called “facts over fury.” He stood, in many ways, as the last echo of a brand of politics that once thrived in both parties but now seems dangerously close to extinction.

None of Delaney’s campaign was designed to set Twitter ablaze. All of it was grounded in the belief that Americans still wanted their government to function.

But The Right Answer arrived—and was largely ignored—at a time when the political center was already disintegrating. In the 2020 Democratic primaries, Delaney's moderation felt out of sync with a party energized by sweeping structural reforms and ideological purity. His voice was steady, not soaring; his appeal was to voters’ practical instincts, not their tribal loyalties.

Looking back, it’s clear Delaney wasn’t just running for office—he was submitting a kind of civic preservation report. His book reads like a blueprint for a governing philosophy built on what used to be bedrock: compromise, incremental progress, mutual respect. It now feels like a dispatch from a version of American politics we are dangerously close to forgetting altogether.

The erosion of the political center isn’t just about polls or party labels—it’s a slow unthreading of the civic fabric. We trade in the deliberative processes of governance for the dopamine hits of outrage. What once lived in Rotary halls and town meetings now festers in comment threads and curated feeds. The incentives are all wrong: media algorithms reward extremity, primary systems punish moderation, and fundraising emails raise more when they vilify than when they unify.

This isn't a plea for false balance or nostalgic centrism—but a recognition that without a stable center, democracy cannot hold. The center is where the work gets done: where laws are negotiated, budgets are passed, and citizens feel heard rather than herded. It’s where humility still has a seat at the table, and where policy is shaped not by purity tests but by lived experience. When we lose that space, we don’t just lose consensus—we lose the conditions necessary for pluralism to survive.

And so The Right Answer stays with me—not as a relic of a failed campaign, but as a reminder of what we still risk losing: the belief that governance is possible without vilification, that policy can be more than theater, that democracy is slow, communal, and—if we’re lucky—boring. But if the center fades at the top, it still flickers below. It’s in church basements, PTA meetings, Rotary clubs, volunteer fire departments, and union halls—places where Americans still come together not as partisans, but as neighbors.

Reviving the center doesn’t begin in think tanks or TV studios—it begins with regular people doing regular things with civic intent. Democrats and Republicans alike can help breathe life into the center by simply showing up: for school board elections, for community listening sessions, for city council public comment. We ask harder questions of our political leaders—about real solutions, not slogans—and support candidates who are willing to risk a primary loss to preserve their integrity. We reward bridge-building over brand-building and remember that pluralism isn’t a liability—it’s the heart of the American promise. The work ahead is ours. Civic strength doesn’t trickle down from elite circles; it bubbles up from participation, trust, and collective effort. The center doesn’t have to be mushy; it can be muscular—rooted in values, powered by engagement, and carried forward by people who understand that compromise is not capitulation, but courage.

I don’t know if John Delaney would have made a great president. But I do know he wrote a book full of humility and resolve, and I’m grateful someone thought to give it to me. Like reading real history or sorting laundry by hand, the work of democracy is quiet, deliberate, and unfashionable. But it’s still worth doing.

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This Year I am Thankful for an Empty Nest...and Zombieland

For the first time in my fifty-odd years, I celebrated Thanksgiving without my kids, without the comfort of my parents, or my siblings and their extended families. Here, at last, the dreaded empty nest... 

I won't be alone per se, but I also won't have what I have come to see as a "normal" Rockwell-esque Thanksgiving. But I did have some time to prepare for this eventuality...

Rockwell's Freedom from Want ©1943

My original plan, let's call it Plan A, for dealing with no one being home this year called for taking an extended Thanksgiving break from work, flying to the East Coast, and spending the holiday with my parents, sisters, and their families, and my son and his girlfriend. I'd have still missed my two girls who were off doing other things (one with her fiancé and the other with her mother), but still, I had hoped it would be one of those old-fashioned family get-togethers filled with great food, fun games, and the occasional family angst (that always comes when everyone is brought together in such close proximity).

You know, all the elements that make for cherished memories...

As is often the case, real life got in the way of my best-laid plans. The first SNAFU was financial. With my youngest a sophomore at a wonderful(ly expensive) private liberal arts college and my oldest getting married in the Spring, rubbing enough nickels together to pay for a transcontinental Thanksgiving flight would mean adding to my credit card debt. If I am being completely honest, I would have done it, but it wasn't the right thing. However, the second Horseman of the Apocalypse, work, reared its ugly head. Unexpectedly, my boss went on a lengthy medical leave. This meant cutting what I had planned to be a ten-day trip down to just four (and traveling on two of the busiest and most expensive days of the year). Before the last two horsemen appeared, as much as I longed for that Rockwell-esque holiday, I decided to reassess Plan A - it just wasn't in the cards this year.

I started to think of ways to spend my time differently this year; let's call this Plan B... Four days off work, no real responsibilities, and a very strong desire to avoid Black Friday at all costs. Meaning I could spend four days hiking around Southern California, footloose and fancy-free. Maybe my long-delayed hike of the La Jolla Canyon Loop in Ventura County or the Backbone Trail near Malibu. However, a quick peek showed that Southern California's last couple of fires and the follow-on rainy seasons had resulted in many trail closures in the Santa Monica Mountains.  Thinking less grandiose, living in the foothills means plenty of hikes much closer to home. My decision was made; I planned to strike out and hike the 'Glendale trifecta' (the Verdugo Mountain Peaks, Cherry Canyon-Cerro Negro Loop, and Mt. Lukens Loop). About twenty-five to thirty miles of mostly quiet hiking in my backyard. Ace the Wonder Dog and I were set for our very own Thanksgiving #optoutside adventure...

Alas, Plan B was dashed by Mother Nature. A series of Pacific storms decided to race down the California Coast, making this year's holiday one of the coldest and wettest Thanksgiving weekends in Los Angeles in the past 15 years. While the cold would have been manageable, washed-out and muddy trails (and a twenty-pound Scottish Terrier/Schnauzer), don't mix...

On to Plan C... a scaled-down, traditional Thanksgiving dinner, maybe a movie, and some much-needed rest. A wonderful lazy, long weekend...As those of you who have ever prepared a "traditional" family Thanksgiving know, just the food prep and cooking is an all-day affair (I even started the night before), not to mention the dreaded dishes! So much for relaxing!

But slave away in the kitchen, I did (but I got to watch Zombieland while cooking). The menu was mostly my Mom's traditional recipes, with a couple of my own additions. Everything was delicious, if I do say so myself. But even with my efforts to cut all the recipes in half, there were still tons of leftovers - but I'll return to food later... I can hear you, gentle reader asking a question... "Zombieland, why on earth watch Zombieland as a Thanksgiving movie?!" My answer was, "Why not?"

But really, I generally avoid horror movies, almost like I would a zombie-inducing plague. That said, a few days before, I stumbled upon a really well-written (and positive) review of the Zombieland sequel Zombieland: Double Tap. The author raved about how funny the sequel was (and how much they enjoyed the parody-esque original). The review was so gushing I decided to see the new movie over my newly freed-up long weekend. But before going to see Double Tap, I naturally decided I needed to watch the original movie first...hence my cooking companion for the day.

Review

Zombieland directed by Ruben Fleischer
My rating: 3½ of 5 stars

Let me say what a treat this 2009 movie was to watch. Clearly, my disdain for horror movies has been misplaced, at least for comedy/horror/romance movies. Like most really good movies, everything starts with the script. Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick's story is wry, witty, and has snappy dialog (the kind I narrate in my head during "real" conversations!). The story here is coupled with quick pacing, and interesting visual overlays, including the '31 Rules' and Zombie Kill of the Week cuts by director Ruben Fleischer (in his feature directorial debut). His direction seamlessly ties excellent performances by the cast (Jesse Eisenberg, Emma Stone, Woody Harrelson, and Abigail Breslin) into one funny (not-so-scary) little (81-minute) horror/comedy film that one professional reviewer called a "balls out the entertaining movie." The blood and gore are there, but not so overwhelming, and certainly not just for blood and gore's sake (which is probably why I like this movie - did I mention it was entertaining?).

The comedic timing of the actors and human relationship story elements make up for some questionable decisions the characters make (seriously, in a world infested with fast-moving, light and noise-sensitive, flesh-eating zombies, why would you turn on all the lights and music at an amusement park?!). But this is a horror/comedy, after all... I thoroughly enjoyed the production, the "surprise" cameo in the middle of the movie, and the slow-mo gory scenes, which ended up being really fun.

Completely not what I had expected..with a name like Zombieland!! It changed my mind completely about this sub-genre of honor films, and I'd rank it up there with some of my other favorite screwball comedies like Kelly's Heroes, Big Trouble in Little China, The Great Race, and Dr. Strangelove. So, bring on Shaun of the Dead and Warm Bodies!

I know, I know, this probably sounds like a terrible Thanksgiving to the more extroverted personality types in my family, the ones who thrive on social activity (you know who you are!), but an excellent dinner, a funny movie, and time to myself, really worked for me..but next year I will finish those hikes, or at least head back East for a Plan A vacation!

To that end, this year, I am grateful not only for my family and the blessings of years of special holiday memories but also for some serious time to decompress and hang out alone (with some canine companionship). No real expectations, no responsibilities, and no worries (well, at least not many). I'm also thankful for Zombieland and the broadening of my movie genre palate.

Epilogue - 'Twas the Night After Thanksgiving...

I mentioned the food earlier; despite dropping from a 23/24 pound turkey to a 15-pound bird this year, there were still plenty of leftovers. But most importantly, the turkey carcass. With extra time on my hands (with few family obligations), I decided to try my hand at one of my Mom's old favorites, Turkey Carcass Soup. All of (or perhaps any of) my culinary skills are largely due to my Mom (thank you, I love you), so in an effort to get as many family recipes documented as possible, here is my take on her original recipe:

Turkey Carcass and Vegetable Soup

Ingredients

1 turkey carcass
4 quarts water
2lbs little (baby) potatoes (halved or quartered)
16oz baby carrots, diced
4-6 stalks of celery, chopped
2 14.5oz cans of diced tomatoes (I prefer the ones seasoned with basil, garlic, & oregano)
1 10oz bag of frozen peas
1 10oz bag of frozen corn
48oz turkey bone broth (chicken stock can be substituted in a pinch) - optional
1 tablespoon of garlic salt
1½ tablespoons of onion powder (you can substitute 1 large diced onion)

Simmering the carcass

1 tablespoon of Worcestershire sauce
1½ teaspoons of kosher salt
1 teaspoon of dried parsley flakes
1 teaspoon of dried basil
1 bay leaf
½ teaspoon of granulated garlic
¼ teaspoon of cracked black pepper
¼ teaspoon of paprika
¼ teaspoon of poultry seasoning
1 pinch of dried thyme

Directions

1. Place the turkey carcass (I also included the turkey wings) in a large stock pot and add the water; bring to a boil, reduce heat to simmer, cover the pot, and cook the turkey frame until the remaining meat falls off the bones (at least 1 hour, but even better if it can simmer overnight).
2. Use a wire strainer to remove the turkey carcass bones and separate the meat. 
3. Chop the meat (and look for small bones, especially ribs).
4. Strain the broth through a mesh strainer into a clean soup pot and add the chopped turkey (sans bones) back into the broth. Depending on the length of time you simmered the carcass (and your personal preference for the liquidity of your soup, you may want to add the turkey bone broth at this time. Bring the mix to a boil, then reduce the heat to a simmer.
5. Stir in the potatoes, carrots, celery, tomatoes, Worcestershire sauce, and dry seasonings and simmer for an additional 30 minutes.
6. Add in the frozen corn and peas and simmer for a final 30 minutes (until all the vegetables are tender),
7. Remove the bay leaf, and the soup is ready to serve.

The Sweet Tradition: Five Years of Donuts and the Unexpected Power of Showing Up

Sometimes the smallest gestures create the most lasting traditions.

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It started with a box of donuts and a team that needed to remember they weren't alone.

A "standard" Friday box.

June 6th, 2014 was National Donut Day, and our CRM conversion team was drowning. These were the "back of the shop" folks—the ones who kept our systems running while the rest of us went about our daily work, blissfully unaware of the digital architecture holding everything together. They'd been pulling long hours on what felt like an impossible project, dealing with frustrated internal clients, and facing technical challenges that seemed to multiply faster than they could solve them.

The mood in those basement offices was heavy. You could feel it when you walked by—the weight of stress, the quiet frustration, the sense that they were fighting a losing battle. I'd worked with some of these people for years. I knew how good they were, how much they cared about getting things right. But here they were, toiling away on critical infrastructure that everyone depended on, yet somehow invisible to the broader organization. The irony wasn't lost on me: the people keeping our entire operation running were the ones feeling most forgotten.

That morning, I made a decision that would unknowingly become part of our office DNA for the next five years. I stopped by Foster's Family Donuts in La Crescenta—a small neighborhood shop that had become a regular stop along my commute to work. These weren't mass-produced donuts from a chain; they were the kind of fresh, made-that-morning pastries that only a true family bakery can produce. I brought in a few dozen for the team.

It wasn't a grand gesture or a calculated management strategy—it was simply a recognition that these people deserved to know their work mattered, that someone saw the long hours and appreciated the sacrifice. And if I was going to make that gesture, it should be with donuts that were as thoughtful as the intention behind them.

The History Behind the Gesture

National Donut Day has roots that run deeper than most realize. Created in 1938 by the Chicago Salvation Army, the holiday honored the "Donut Lassies"—brave women who served donuts and coffee to soldiers during World War I. These volunteers worked close to the front lines, often in dangerous conditions, bringing comfort food to troops who were far from home and facing unimaginable challenges.

The parallel wasn't lost on me. Here was our own team, working in their own kind of trenches, dealing with the pressure of a massive system overhaul while everyone else depended on them to keep things running. Those Salvation Army volunteers understood something fundamental about leadership that transcends military conflict: sometimes the most powerful support comes not in grand gestures, but in simple acts of recognition. A warm donut. A moment of connection. The acknowledgment that someone sees your struggle and values your contribution enough to show up for you.

This wasn't about the food itself—it was about visibility. About making the invisible work visible, even if just for a moment.

What Happened Next

The response surprised me. What I'd intended as a simple morale boost became something more—a moment of genuine recognition in the middle of chaos. People lingered in the break room longer than usual. Conversations started flowing between team members who'd been heads-down at their keyboards for weeks. Someone cracked a joke. Someone else shared a breakthrough they'd had the night before.

For the first time in months, the team felt seen. And feeling seen, they began to feel like a team again.

The database conversion was still challenging. The technical hurdles remained formidable. The internal clients were still impatient. But something fundamental had shifted. There was a sense of camaraderie that hadn't been there before—and more importantly, a recognition that their work mattered not just to the project, but to the people around them. They weren't just fixing systems; they were the guardians of our institutional memory, the architects of our future efficiency.

When One Day Became Every Friday

Foster's on Foothill Boulevard
in La Crescenta, CA

The following Friday, I found myself back at Foster's. Not because it was a holiday this time, but because I'd seen what a small gesture could do. The team's response was immediate and enthusiastic—and they specifically commented on how good these donuts were compared to the usual office fare. Word began to spread beyond our database group to other departments. People started asking if I'd be going to Foster's again for "donut Friday"—it had become "a thing."

What began as a one-time act of support for a struggling team evolved into a weekly tradition that started defining our Development and Institute Relations (DIR) office culture. Foster's Family Donuts became our unofficial bakery partner, though they never knew it. Fridays became something people looked forward to. New employees learned about "donut Friday" during their first week—and quickly developed preferences for Foster's glazed old-fashioned or their surprisingly perfect raised chocolate donuts. The tradition grew beyond the original database team—now staff from multiple floors and different departments within DIR make their way to our break room for their Friday morning "fix."

I kept bringing the donuts, week after week, because I could see what it meant. Not just the sugar and caffeine—though those helped—but the ritual of gathering, the informal conversations that happened over glazed and chocolate frosted, the way it created space for connection in the middle of busy workdays. And yes, the quality mattered. Foster's donuts had that fresh, made-with-care taste that reminded everyone this wasn't just about convenience—it was about doing something thoughtfully.

The Ripple Effect

Over the years, I've watched this simple tradition create ripples far beyond what I ever expected. Team members from different departments began mixing during Friday morning donut breaks, leading to cross-functional collaborations that might never have happened otherwise. New hires found their footing faster, welcomed into conversations and inside jokes over coffee and pastries.

The tradition has morphed in wonderful ways. We've expanded beyond just donuts to include bagels some weeks, accommodating different tastes and dietary preferences. People have gotten comfortable making special requests—someone might mention they're craving an apple fritter, or ask if I could pick up those cinnamon sugar ones that Foster's makes so well. These little requests have become my informal barometer for reading the team's mood and stress levels. When someone specifically asks for comfort food, I know they're dealing with something challenging. When the requests get more adventurous—"Could you get some of those maple bacon ones Foster's had last week?"—I can sense the team is feeling confident and playful.

Foster's became such a fixture in our office culture that when well-meaning colleagues would occasionally bring donuts from Winchell's or Krispy Kreme, people would politely partake but inevitably comment on how much they missed "the Foster's quality." It became a running joke—and a testament to how even small details matter when you're trying to show people they're valued.

The tradition has become so embedded in our DIR culture that when I'm out of the office—vacation, travel, whatever—someone else automatically steps up to make the donut run. It's not assigned or mandated; it just happens. People understand instinctively that Friday morning isn't quite right without that gathering, that moment of sweetness and connection to start the weekend. The tradition has become bigger than any one person because the principle behind it—recognizing and valuing each other's contributions—has become part of who we are.

The CRM conversion project? We completed it successfully, though not without its struggles. That team that had been drowning found their rhythm, supported not just by technical expertise but by a sense of belonging and appreciation. Many of those team members are still with Caltech today, and they often reference those difficult months not just as a professional challenge overcome, but as the time when our department culture really took shape around the idea that everyone's work matters, especially the work that often goes unnoticed.

More Than Sugar and Caffeine

Looking back, National Donut Day 2014 taught me something important about leadership and recognition. Sometimes the most powerful gestures are the simplest ones—not because they're easy, but because they cut straight to what people need most: to know that their contributions are seen and valued.

In any organization, there are people doing essential work that rarely gets acknowledged. The folks who keep the lights on, who maintain the systems, who solve the problems that others don't even know exist. They're often the most competent and least recognized members of any team. The lesson of that struggling CRM conversion team wasn't about donuts or morale boosting—it was about learning to see the invisible work and finding ways to make those contributions visible.

The Salvation Army's Donut Lassies understood this during World War I. They knew that acknowledgment and comfort could provide hope in the darkest times. In our own small way, our Friday tradition carried forward that same spirit—using food as a vehicle for recognition, connection, and community.

I think about those World War I volunteers often when I'm standing in line at Foster's on Friday mornings. Their work was obviously more dangerous, more consequential than mine. But the impulse was the same: the recognition that people doing hard work need to know they're not alone, that their efforts are seen and valued, and that someone is willing to show up for them, consistently, with the best you can offer—not just the most convenient.

A Sweet Legacy

As I write this on National Donut Day 2019, the tradition continues. Five years and hundreds of Fridays later, those weekly donut runs have become part of who we are as a department. New team members quickly learn that around here, we believe in marking small victories, supporting each other through challenges, and never underestimating the power of showing up with something sweet to share.

What strikes me most is how the tradition has become self-sustaining. It's no longer dependent on my initiative alone—it's become part of our collective identity. When I return from time away, people eagerly fill me in on who covered the donut run, what varieties they chose, and which new person got initiated into our Friday morning ritual.

The database conversion team that started it all has long since moved on to new projects and new challenges. But the culture they helped create—one donut at a time—remains. It serves as a reminder that building strong teams isn't always about formal programs or grand initiatives. Sometimes it's as simple as showing up with a box of donuts and saying, "I see the hard work you're doing, and I appreciate it."

Every National Donut Day, I'm reminded of how a single moment of thoughtfulness can grow into something lasting. And every Friday, as I watch colleagues from across DIR gather in our break room, sharing stories and sugar in equal measure, I'm grateful for that struggling database team from 2014 who taught me that sometimes the smallest gestures create the biggest impact.

The tradition started with a team that needed to know they weren't forgotten. It continues because we've learned that recognition—real recognition—isn't something you save for annual reviews or formal ceremonies. It's something you practice weekly, with intention and consistency, especially for the people whose work makes everyone else's possible.

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What started as support for an overlooked team became a cornerstone of our company culture. Sometimes the best leadership lessons come not from business books, but from the simple recognition that everyone deserves to feel valued—especially those whose contributions often go unnoticed.

Wanting to Be Snoopy, Feeling Like Charlie Brown

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about Peanuts. Not just the Sunday comics or the TV specials we all grew up with, but the deeper psychology behind Charles Schulz's simple genius. It's amazing how much truth he packed into those four-panel strips—truth about human nature, loneliness, imagination, and the quiet struggle to keep showing up.

If I'm honest, most days I feel like Charlie Brown.

There's something so painfully relatable about Charlie Brown—the kid who tries and fails, who organizes the baseball game no one wants to play in, who never kicks the football but always runs toward it anyway. He's the eternal optimist living under a rain cloud, and I think that's why so many of us see ourselves in him. But the genius of Peanuts lies in its cast of characters who don't just support Charlie Brown, but actively challenge him. Lucy, for instance, is more of an antagonist than a friend. She's confident and outspoken—with a streak of bully in her personality—and she delights in pulling the football away just as Charlie Brown is about to kick it. Her actions aren't meant to help or encourage; they're meant to knock him down, test his limits, and sometimes mock his persistence. Yet, what makes Charlie Brown so endearing is that he keeps running toward that football anyway. His perseverance isn't because of Lucy's encouragement—it's despite her attempts to trip him up. Lucy embodies those voices in our lives that push back, that doubt us, or that challenge our optimism. Charlie Brown's struggle against her reminds me that resilience often means standing strong not with the help of others, but in defiance of those trying to hold us back.

But then... there's Snoopy.

Snoopy is everything we want to be. Confident. Cool. Imaginative. Unbothered. He reinvents himself daily: Joe Cool, World War I Flying Ace, bestselling novelist. While Charlie Brown is down in the mud, Snoopy's dancing on the doghouse. He doesn't worry about fitting in or getting it right—he just is. And isn't that the dream?We all want to be Snoopy. But most of us walk around feeling like Charlie Brown.

I've noticed this theme popping up in my own writing more than I realized. In The Unfinished Work, I stood on the battlefield at Gettysburg, grappling with Lincoln's call to continue the work of democracy—wrestling with whether we're living up to the sacrifices made there, whether our civic understanding is strong enough to sustain what so many died to preserve. That kind of deep reckoning—questioning whether I'm doing enough as a citizen, whether we're all worthy of what we've inherited—feels very Charlie Brown to me. It's earnest. A little anxious. Overwhelmed by the weight of history and responsibility. But it's also rooted in hope, in the belief that showing up matters even when the task feels impossibly large.

Still, there's a part of me that longs for Snoopy's spirit. His creative energy. His ability to turn a boring afternoon into a full-blown saga. As I look back at older posts—from travel reflections to musings on leadership or family—I see flashes of that spirit. Those are the moments when I'm trying to channel Snoopy. When I let my imagination run, when I let humor or curiosity lead, when I step out of the box long enough to ask bigger questions.

But inevitably, I come back to Charlie Brown. I come back to doubt, to duty, to the desire to do better even when the odds aren't great. And maybe that's okay. Maybe the goal isn't to be Snoopy, but to let his spirit visit us when we need it most—to balance the worry with a little wonder, the failure with some flair.

This tension... surfaced deeply in my Christmas reflections from 2010. I admitted to dreading a certain kind of Christmas—the one filled with "lasts." Last Christmas with all the kids at home. Last Christmas with a true believer before the Elf era began. That felt very much like a Charlie Brown moment: the melancholy, the ache of change, the worry that the magic might fade.

But then came the Snoopy side of that Christmas—the passing of the torch. Inviting my youngest into the quiet fraternity of Christmas elves, just as my mom once did for me. That difficult but hopeful conversation wasn't a moment of loss, but of legacy. We talked about belief—not just in Santa, but in something deeper: the enduring magic of generosity, wonder, and love passed down through generations. That's pure Snoopy—the imaginative spark that turns endings into new beginnings, that celebrates mystery and keeps the magic alive.

And it's the same dynamic in Trains, Presidents, and Baseball, my account of a cross-country road trip with my daughter. What started as a practical move to Philadelphia for medical school became a journey of reconnection. We shared national parks, presidential history, and ballgames, but it was the quiet, in-between moments—the misfires, the museum closures, the unexpected laughs—that brought us back to each other. That felt like Charlie Brown's honest longing for connection paired with Snoopy's joyful improvisation. It reminded me that relationships, like life, don't come wrapped up perfectly—they unfold in fits and starts, with hope and humor intertwined.

All of these reflections—ranging from solemn civic duty to family celebrations and travel adventures—trace the emotional arc between Charlie Brown and Snoopy that runs through my life and writing. They remind me that we don't live fully at either extreme, but somewhere in between. We ache, we aspire, we stumble, we imagine. That's what makes the journey real.

What Schulz understood—and what I'm starting to accept—is that we contain both: the melancholy and the magic. We are Charlie Brown with a little bit of Snoopy inside, trying to break free.

So I'll keep chasing the football. I'll keep pitching no matter the score. I'll keep showing up. And maybe, just maybe, I'll dance on top of the doghouse every once in a while too.