Try a Little Kindness

I haven't blogged much recently, since, as many of you know, I've been recovering from pneumonia, and it has been taking a while for me to get my energy back. I'm grateful for so many good wishes from folks who reached out to me by email and on social media: on the days when I get frustrated, it's nice to hear some words of encouragement.

And that's what I wanted to write about -- the difference that kindness and encouragement can make. In my most recent blog post, I wrote about a couple of turning points in my life, both of which did not seem monumental at the time but turned out to be life-changing. This time, I'd like to tell you about some moments of unexpected kindness; and even years later, I still remember how much they meant to me at the time, and how much I recall them fondly even now. 

Let me take you back to October 7, 1971, at a venue in Boston called the Music Hall, where there was a live performance by Neil Diamond. But I wasn't there to watch the show. I was there to interview him, and to be honest, I was terrified. I had just graduated college not that long ago, and now I was working as a free-lance writer. I was involved with writing a segment for the ABC radio network, and thanks to a deejay friend of mine, I was able to talk to Neil backstage, before the show. I had my list of questions, and I knew what I was supposed to do; but there he was, and there I was, and I just blurted out that he was one of my favorite performers and I was really nervous. To my surprise, he was very understanding. Before the interview began, he asked me about myself, and I told him how all I wanted to do was be on the radio, but few stations were hiring female deejays. I don't recall word-for-word what he said to me, but I do remember that he gave me a hug and told me not to give up. And he told me that one day, I would succeed. I did my interview, and I hope I didn't make a fool of myself. And to this day, I have never forgotten that Neil Diamond took the time to encourage me-- something he did not have to do.   

Or fast forward to an evening in 1978-- I don't recall the date, but I do recall the event. I was working in radio in Washington DC, and there was a party for Bruce Springsteen, where local deejays and music directors and program directors could meet him and chat about his new record. Record companies held these sorts of meet-and-greet events often, and I always enjoyed them. But this one was a problem for me: I'm a non-drinker, and there was absolutely nothing for me to drink, except perhaps water. The local promotion man was quite dismissive of the fact that I didn't drink; in fact, when I asked him why there was nothing for non-drinkers, he suggested I go across the street to the 7-11 and buy myself something. So I did. I was sitting at the event, drinking some orange juice, and in walked Springsteen. Interestingly, he said he didn't want anything alcoholic either, and the promotion man pointed to me, sitting there drinking my orange juice, and suggested I'd be willing to share. Lucky for me, Bruce figured out that the environment wasn't exactly welcoming to non-drinkers, and he came over and sat with me. We had a wonderful conversation about the music industry, as well as about hosts who don't seem to understand how to make everyone feel welcome. I was so impressed with how friendly and down-to-earth he was. And at a time when others weren't so tolerant of those of us who didn't drink, Bruce was fine about it. (And it was fun sharing my orange juice with him!)

Over the years, I've met a lot of celebrities. Some were arrogant jerks who were rude and inconsiderate. Others were kind and generous (the members of Rush fall into this category, as you might expect). But let me conclude by telling you about someone who isn't famous, isn't a celebrity, but is certainly important to me: my husband. I've written about Jon before, but here's something that really impressed me about him: his compassion. Since 1984, I've been the advocate for an adult with autism; his name is Jeff, and I love him like a son. And whenever I would date anyone, I was always interested in how that person felt about Jeff. Some guys were resentful. Some put up with the volunteer work I did, but they failed to see why I did it. But Jon understood, and he embraced the idea. He helped me teach Jeff. He willingly spent time with Jeff. He took Jeff swimming, and hiking, and on nature walks. And Jeff, who was afraid of most folks he didn't know, really began to feel comfortable being around Jon. To this day, he loves Jon and enjoys being around him. And for me, the fact that Jon saw Jeff's possibilities, the fact that he showed Jeff love and kindness, was one of the reasons I knew Jon was the right person for me.  

So, if there's any message to this blog post, it's that I believe whenever we show compassion to someone else, it's time well-spent. It may not get an immediate result, it may not seem to make a difference, and it may not earn you praise. But I can assure you that in the greater scheme of things, how we treat others really matters. So, in times like these, when all we hear about are the people who are angry or polarized, let's not forget the people who are caring, the people who try their best to be kind. I know from experience that being empathetic isn't always easy, but it's worth the effort. In fact, the way I see it, being kind, being welcoming, being encouraging makes life a little better-- not only for others but also for ourselves.

Those Unexpected Turning Points (Rush Edition)

As many of you know, I've been sick with pneumonia. I don't recommend it, and I'm not having fun with it. I can't wait to start feeling better. But the only positive thing about being stuck at home taking my medicine (and wishing my voice didn't sound like a foghorn) is I had a lot of quiet time. And I found myself thinking about those little moments in our lives that at the time didn't seem very significant but ended up being life-changing.

My husband could probably speak about that. It was 1984, and he was going through a divorce. He had an opportunity to come north for a new job. One night, he went to a club in a suburb of Boston, to try to meet some folks in a city where he knew nobody. And who was at that club? A certain woman from a local radio station, there to help judge a dance contest (hint: it was me). I wasn't there to meet anyone. I planned to do my little judging thing and leave. He and I chatted, we danced a couple of times, but I didn't have any plan to stick around. Plus, while he seemed nice and I could relate to being lonely in a new city, he didn't seem like my type-- he smoked (I'm allergic), he was a social drinker (I never touch the stuff), and his politics seemed more conservative than mine. 

But at some point in the conversation, he mentioned that his daughter liked a certain rock band; he preferred country music, but his daughter was into this band called "Rush," and since I was a deejay, did I know who they were? Well, yes, you might say I did! And out of that unexpected meeting at the club, quite a few other events unfolded. For one thing, he and I started to date. And while our relationship had its ups and downs, eventually, we got married and we are still together. I'm grateful for that. As for his daughter, I was able to get her backstage to meet Rush in person (even Neil showed up). Several weeks from today, it will be four decades since the night my husband and I first met. It certainly didn't turn out the way I expected; and if you asked my husband, I doubt it turned out the way he expected either. As I said, you just never know when something could become a turning point in your life (and the role Rush might play in it).

And that brings back another memory from four decades ago-- the day I got that manila envelope from my friend Bob Roper, of A&M of Canada. It was in the early spring of 1974, and I was sitting in my office at WMMS in Cleveland, auditioning new songs, and the album was by a Canadian band named Rush. I didn't know much about them, but I trusted Roper to send me good Canadian imports, and I figured I'd see what was on the album. So I dropped the needle on one of the longer tracks, a song called "Working Man." It was a really good song. It was a perfect song for a factory town like Cleveland. 

But I had NO idea how that one song would change so many lives. I had no idea that fifty years later, millions of people all over the world would know the band, or that I would become friends with the members of Rush and be with them during key moments in their career. It started with Bob Roper sending me a record. I played it. Fans loved it. And the rest, as they say, is history. But to this day, I'm amazed by how it all turned out. If you had told me back in 1974 that my life would change because of one song by one Canadian band, I doubt I would have believed it. But here we are, nearly fifty years later, and I continue to marvel at how that song became a turning point in my life. Not what I expected. And yet it happened. And as I said, it goes to show there's no way to predict what the future holds, or the enduring power of a certain Canadian band.