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The eulogy I gave for my beloved grandfather, Walter Brooks "Bud" Macky (1907-2010). I want to share some thoughts about Bud, my grandfather, my children's great-grandfather, and, I think we can all agree, a great, great person. Whenever I tell somebody about Bud, which I do a lot, their usual comment is that I have good genes, which of course I don't take for granted, but I think there's more to it than that. His life was not just long, it was rich, and he did a lot of amazing, interesting things, as long as he possibly could. The truth is that I think Bud had a few things figured out, things that I have learned from him, and that I want to pass on to you, because they are things we can all do in our own lives, starting today, really, and I truly can't think of a better way to honor him and his incredible, vital, radiant spirit. So let's call these Bud's rules for good, long living. OK, let's just get this out of the way: There's a right way and a wrong way to tie a knot. The wrong way, Bud called a granny knot. The right way is a square knot. It's pretty simple. I can show you later, if you want. Find a way to express yourself creatively. You don't need a lot of fancy equipment, or lessons, or any of those things. You just need a willingness to try things, and the discipline to actually do them, even if it's just a few minutes a day. I believe Bud was very creative and very talented, but what I really admire about him is how much he just did, whether it was carving ducks or building model ships or taking photographs or learning how to make pottery in his 90s or, of course, writing. If you do it from the heart, it has true value, even if you don't do it perfectly. Walk. This is not just so you, too, can be a Senior Olympic Racewalking Champion, although perhaps you could--why not?--but Bud was just not one to be sitting around watching TV. He liked to be out in the fresh air, walking, thinking, saying hello to people, observing the changes in the sky and the trees. You don't have to be in a hurry, and you don't have to go far. You don't even have to be going anywhere, actually. But walk when you can. Cultivate a sense of wonder. I think this is related to the walking, actually, but Bud had a real reverence for the beauty of nature, for the powers and forces that are beyond our ability to measure and comprehend. He appreciated the beauty of things, from tiny bugs and leaves to the vast canvas of constellations and galaxies. We live in a time when it seems to be getting harder and harder to be impressed, but I think Bud would say, there are a lot of things to be impressed about, if you just stop and think about it. Be impressed. It's ok to have half and half on your cereal. It tastes really, really good and, I think it's pretty obvious it won't kill you. It doesn't take a big, fancy house to make you happy. Bud and my grandmother Sally built their house on Kirk Lane just before they were married, and it was humble and creaky and sweet and absolutely packed with love and memories of parties, and music, and laughter, and fires in the fireplace, mint-chocolate-chip parfaits, and card games, and stories. It will always be one of my favorite places in the world. It was warm and loving. It was about family. That's what matters. Laugh! I think one of the best things about Bud was his sense of humor. He was a character, right? When we were small he would tie our socks together and tickle our ribs until we could barely stand it. He would spend hours raking leaves and then let us jump around in them, just because it was fun. He always loved jokes, and games, he was always fun, and he had this incredible, beaming smile that I will never forget. Just a few months ago, at his 103rd birthday celebration, my mom had the stroke of genius to rent one of those jitneys with the striped awnings, that all the tourists pedal around Rehoboth, and send Bud out for a spin with four of his grandchildren--my sisters, Julie and Cara, and my cousins, Allen and Annie. I wasn't there to see it but the report is that he was grinning ear to ear the whole time. Stay curious. Bud read and talked and thought and wrote, his whole life. When he said "That's interesting," which he did frequently, he actually meant it. He asked questions and debated and reflected and, in recent years, if he wanted to know about something, he and my dad would Google it. He never stopped wanting to know more, learn more, understand more deeply. Write it down. To me, this is probably the most important, and the most personal. I'm sure most of you know about his Woodshed Notes, the letters Bud typed and copied and mailed to a growing list of friends and family, every month, for decades. I consider these letters a family and cultural treasure because they tell us what it was like to sing in the Episcopal Boys' Choir in the early 1900s, and what it was like to have a boxing ring in your back yard--and a boxing nickname ("Bearcat"), and what it was like to ski in the moonlight on wooden skis. I am so glad he wrote all this down. This summer I discovered another treasure, which was a lovely leatherbound diary kept diligently by Honey, Bud's mother, who I never got to meet, but who now I feel like I know because she wrote in such beautiful detail about Bud's baby life: the first foods he ate, his babbling and cooing, when and how he had his bath, all those things that new mothers, myself included for sure, go so nuts about. Honey's diary even solved one mystery for me, which was how young Walter came to be known as Bud by nearly everybody--it turns out that she started calling him that when he was just a few months old. "It just seems to suit him," she wrote. I'm so glad she wrote this down. Earlier this year, Bud wrote down a list of all the songs and poems he could remember from his childhood, and I am so grateful that he did, because now I can surround myself with music and words that had meaning for him, that represents my family and my roots.Write it down. This doesn't mean you have to write a book, or a blog, or a two-page letter every month, but try writing down a few simple things--maybe the song you danced to at your wedding, or your favorite books, or a special holiday memory you have, things that are meaningful to you, and share them with someone you love. Our world runs at a pretty fast pace these days, and I believe capturing and passing on these kinds of simple things has tremendous value, and gives us a sense of connectedness and perspective, and even comfort. I want to read to you one passage from the November 1993 Woodshed Notes, when Bud was considering the question of human significance. "We have intelligence that can reach from the neuron to the farthest stars," he wrote. "And we have imagination that transcends all that is material and factual. We have within each of us a spirit that rises above the perishable and the corruptible." Intelligence, imagination, and imperishable spirit: Bud certainly had all of these things, and I feel indescribably lucky to have known him, to be his granddaughter, and to have all those things he wrote down. "We have intelligence that can reach from the neuron to the farthest stars. And we have imagination that transcends all that is material and factual. We have within each of us a spirit that rises above the perishable and the corruptible." So there you have it, nine things I hope to do to honor Bud's memory and to keep him present, part of who I am, part of how I live, as long as I can. And I hope that you will do the same. #inspiration #family #WoodshedNotes

This is a departure from my usual topics, but I just learned that someone I admired tremendously died earlier this week, and it feels important to express the huge impact that Leo Medisch had on me. Sometimes you don't realize such a thing until it comes sharply into focus--until that person has slipped away. Sometimes you don't realize such a thing until it comes sharply into focus--until that person has slipped away. Leo was the early founder and chef at The Back Porch Cafe, to this day one of my favorite restaurants in the world. Because my dad's brother had also been one of the original founders, they were kind (crazy?) enough to hire me for a series of summer jobs that I truly had no business doing. For two summers I worked in the Back Porch Store, a gourmet take-out shop that was a couple decades ahead of its time. And the summer after the shop closed, I waited tables in the exquisitely casual, sprawling, creaky, fabulous main restaurant. When I worked in the shop, Leo would come kind of sailing in, usually carrying an enormous bucket of enormous organic carrots that I had to chop or something. He had this wonderful, grand, floaty way of walking. He was usually humming or singing--my favorite was "Knock knock knockin' on heaven's door." He had a lovely, Cheshire cat sort of smile and a sly sense of humor. In my memory he kept this kind of composure, this presence, even in the outlandishly cramped, hot kitchen during dinner rush. I'd like to say that I keep my cool like this when things get crazy, but it is something I think about and aspire to. Really, Leo was the opposite of the "Hell's Kitchen" type of chef. He definitely wasn't pleased the time I left two lunch plates sitting under the hot lamp and reflexively dropped them, inches away from the table who'd been waiting far too long, in a crash of plates all over the back deck. But he didn't fire me, although I probably would have fired me. Most days, he would let me write out the day's lunch and dinner menu, which was always posted for people walking by on Rehoboth Avenue to see. When I started doing this I was 17 and I had decent handwriting, but was inordinately prone to stars and swoopy flourishes. He never criticized my style, but over time he taught me how to make it simpler, cleaner, and more elegant. (Years later when the Back Porch catered my wedding, he declared my look "simple elegance" which, coming from him, felt like the highest possible praise.)= He never criticized my style, but over time he taught me how to make it simpler, cleaner, and more elegant. Whenever I walked past the Porch, I always stopped to read the day's menu—not just to contemplate the inventive offerings but to appreciate Leo's round, stylish handwriting. Would it have been faster to just print the menus? Of course. But to me, those handwritten menus were always a soulful reminder that good things take time--quintessential Back Porch. Those handwritten menus were always a soulful reminder that good things take time. It also has to be said that Leo inspired me to love food and to cook. When I started working at the shop, it was like learning a foreign language. Mascarpone. Shirred eggs. Terrine. I can still remember exactly how some of the dishes tasted, and I still try to recreate them--roasted green bean salad with walnuts and lemon zest, the absurdly tasty Thai chicken curry (inspired by collaborator Siri Svasti who, I learned from reading Leo's obituary, has since become a celebrity chef in Thailand). I also learned that Leo wasn't a trained chef. This surprised me, but it made me appreciate him even more (not least because I have taken a decidedly nontraditional career path in my own field). Passion counts. It made me appreciate him even more (not least because I have taken a decidedly nontraditional career path in my own field). Passion counts. In the big scheme of things, my summers with Leo and the Back Porch crew were a tiny slice of my life, but an incredibly vivid and formative one. They taught me about care and craft and authenticity and community. Leo, I'll miss you, but I'll never forget you. I hope you're knockin' on heaven's door. #inspiration #worklife

Over the past year I have had the excellent good fortune to get to know Rod Brooks, VP and CMO of PEMCO, through various word-of-mouth marketing events. It's difficult to imagine a warmer, more authentic, more visionary leader for such a warm, authentic, visionary brand. I have heard Rod speak 3 or 4 times now, and each time, I feel more compelled to stand up and cheer and clap and say "YES! This is how it should BE!" I am continually inspired by the bold, consumer-focused marketing he and his team are doing at PEMCO. Here are five things that PEMCO has nailed, from my perspective. 1. THEY KNOW THEIR AUDIENCE They had the excellent sense to realize that their customers really don't want to talk about insurance. After all, as Rod points out, insurance is odd in that you spend a lot of money on something you hope to never use. But when PEMCO invested time in really listening to their customers, they discovered that they did want to talk about their homes, their habits, their neighbors, and what makes them unique. This critical insight helped PEMCO carve out both a competitive niche and a creative point of view, celebrating the quirky facets of local life through its Northwest Profiles campaign, which immortalizes local characters like "Ponytailed Software Geek" and "First Snowflake Freakout Lady" and proclaims "We're a lot like you. A little different." They had the excellent sense to realize that their customers really don't want to talk about insurance. 2. THEY DON'T FIX WHAT ISN'T BROKEN PEMCO has had the courage to stick with this memorable, extensible campaign for several years. They introduce new profiles as needed to keep things fresh and support their expansion into new Northwest markets (most recently, "Flawless Firewood Stacker" and "Portland Food Cartlandian"), but they haven't succumbed to the temptation to break out some flashy new campaign once or twice a year like so many brands do. As a result, the campaign itself has become a local touchstone with meaningful roots and street cred. PEMCO fans can create their own profiles, suggest new ones, and even make trading cards. 3. THEY LISTEN They are truly committed to hearing and being led by the voice of the customer. Rod’s last presentation opened with a quote from a customer that said simply, "PEMCO gets it!" I frequently pull consumer quotes for inspiration in my work, and this one is a gem--crisp, memorable, and broadly applicable. Rod told me that they begin every executive meeting at PEMCO with a real customer story. I can't think of any business that wouldn't benefit from such a simple, focusing practice. Rod told me that they begin every executive meeting at PEMCO with a real customer story. 4. MOTIVATING MISSION They have one of the most elegant and inspiring mission statements I've ever heard: "We enable and protect the dreams of responsible Northwest people." Early on, they made the strategic decision to focus on "preferred-risk" policyholders in the Pacific Northwest--and this clarity about both their audience and their offering helps them stand out from the competition with a local angle and a distinctive voice. They have one of the most elegant and inspiring mission statements I've ever heard: "We enable and protect the dreams of responsible Northwest people." 5. THEY WALK THE WALK They don't just say they are local; they live and breathe it, supporting and participating in the Northwest community in enthusiastic and fun ways. They host a running pre-game foosball tournament at Sounders FC games. They hand out soup and coffee at the Polar Plunge in Eugene and show up at the Northwest Center with their WALLY (short for "We're A Lot Like You") van stuffed with 920 pounds of clothing donated by PEMCO employees. If PEMCO can make insurance this fun and talkable, really, there's an angle in for any product, category, or brand. If PEMCO can make insurance this fun and talkable, really, there's an angle in for any product, category, or brand. #wordofmouthmarketing #brandactivation #companyculture #causemarketing #PEMCO #brandstrategy #storytelling