Perfect!

This morning I was remembering a section of Malcomb Gladwell’s The Tipping Point about group dynamics. Honestly, I am not sufficiently motivated to look it up, so I am going from memory here. But I remember that the number seven was very significant.

He talked about the fact that phone numbers were seven digits. Seems that people can memorize up to seven digits (or seven of anything else) without grouping or using mnemonics. Beyond seven, they have to have acronymns, mnemonic devices, visualization tricks, or groupings of sets containing seven or fewer. Seems to be a hardwired thing in our brains. It’s almost universal.

Seems that families with more than five children (plus two parents) tend to break into multiples. For example, a family with nine children will typically have primary group relationships among the eldest five and the two parents, and among the younger four, the parents, and one of the older children (often remembered as a “second mom”). Sets of seven.

Quaker meetings (or was it shaker…or was it mennonite?…or was it Amish?) are permitted to grow to fifty people (seven times seven, plus one), before splitting and forming two meetings. Very organic! Works like this…seven primary groups…the “leaders” of each forming a group of seven…with one extra (they probably don’t really like the extra that much, but who wants to be legalistic?).

Gore Corporation (the people who brought us Goretex, and a bunch of other cool stuff) was famous for dividing itself into autonomous, entrepreneurial groups of fifty or less. Each group had access to all of the technology the company owned (including new technologies the company was developing). Each group was responsible for using that technology to develop products and create strategies for those products. Each group was expected to “live” on the proceeds from the products it developed.

We have seven days in a week. Always have as far as I know. This is ancient, and consistent across cultures. The first six, God worked. The seventh He rested. It’s the number of perfection.

Last week we went over to Pittsboro Christian Village to shoot photographs for some brochures and a website. It’s a pretty amazing place. The average age of the residents there is 85.

We started the adventure with shots of a group of ladies grading Bible correspondence courses from inmates at prisons around North Carolina. They were in a room with windows on three sides, around a folding table, which was covered with test booklets, paper, pens, and, of course, Bibles. One lady was fresh off the mission field (after something like 60 years). They had Bibles with the covers worn thin…pages softened and grayed with use…margins covered with notes…Bibles that looked like they were older than I am. They moved through the pages like a gardener moves through his garden…fluid from plant to plant.

Their conversation was light, sweet, and soft. A little giggle over an answer that was almost right…a shared smile at an insight from an inmate as his hard life was softened by his new-found savior…a word of genuine concern over a response that indicated that “this one isn’t there…this one needs prayer.”

Later, we photographed a blind man as he worked his vegetable garden, feeling his way along. He harvested two cucumbers for us to take home. “I garden because I enjoy it, and I like to give away my harvest,” he said. Then, we took his dog, Gabby, over to visit the care home, where the residents enjoyed the company and affection.

We got a photograph of three generations of women…mother, daughter, granddaughter…sitting in the sun in the courtyard—a little picture of faithfulness. And we finished a long day with a romantic shot of a couple, married for 60 years, holding hands in candle light beside the pool in the magic light just past sunset.

The photographer wrote us a really nice note afterward. He said that he had a hard time keeping his emotions in check as he went back through the pictures…and that the experience had changed him. I know it changed me.

VIvian and I went over to Easley yesterday, to call on a prospective client. Can’t say who the prospect is, but I can tell you that it was great to be in Easley. There’s just something about Easley.

Back in the last century, when I moved here, I was under the impression that South Carolina was made up of the 60 sophisticates that worked with me at Henderson Advertising, and about 1.1 million toothless bubbas. But the longer I stayed, the more I realized that much of South Carolina was sophisticated (and perhaps that I was the bubba). Out of this learning came the concept I call, “The Easley Syndrome”.

For some reason, Easley, South Carolina is a watershed of world-class wonderfulness, sometimes disguised as ordinary folks (maybe even a little bit country). Easley is the birthplace of the world’s most successful kayak manufacturer. Easley is the home of one of Southern Gospel Music’s finest pianists. Easley has a world-class web printer. Easley is the hometown of one of the biggest club acts of the late 70s and early 80s (second only to Leon Russel), a CCM band called The Rob Cassels Band. At one time, the strongest woman in the world was a 16-year-old girl from Easley. Easley has more Congressional Medal of Honor winners per capita than any other town or city in America. Also, Easley is the home of one of the best kept secrets in the healthcare industry (nuff said).

Some places are just like that, I guess. Jackson, Mississippi has more than its share of great writers, for example. And Pittsburgh turns out more than its share of NFL quarterbacks. But Easley, SC ought to be a wide spot next to a railroad track. And somehow…it’s a full fledged syndrome. Who would have thought it?

What are they called? The ones that get way up in the air, point their beaks strait down, tuck their wings, and dive like spears into the water, smash through the surface, and spear fish like six or eight feet under water. Not sure what they’re called. But they sure are daredevils.

The amazing thing to me is that they’re diving into dark water, yet, they come up with fish more than half the time. How does that work? Amazing.

I’ve been feeling sort of that way on the new business front. Point your beak at something, get up insane amount of speed. Crash into the dark, when it’s too late to pull up. Hope a fish sticks to the beak. I gotta say, those birds are much better at it than I am. But maybe this time, I’ll get the fish. Sure hope so. This water crashing is starting to give me a headache.

So, what do you call those fish again?

I don’t know why this story came to mind. Maybe it’s to remind me that tough people have feelings too.

Back when I was in college, one of my roommates was from Cincinnati. His little brother was a tackle for Cincinnati Princeton (or one of those elite Cincinnati football high schools you always read about in Sports Illustrated). Big Du was like 6’5” and 250, mostly muscle, as a 17-year-old. He was massive!

There was also this girl who hung out at our apartment. Can’t remember her name…we called her “Rabbit.” She was about 4’10” and skinny. So she couldn’t have weighed more than like 85 pounds.

Anyhow, Rabbit got it into her mind that Big Du was so big and strong that he couldn’t be hurt. So, whenever she saw him, she would run up to him and punch him in the arm as hard as she could. He would protest, “ouch, that hurts; stop it!” And she would cackle. And do it again.

Eventually, he would get so frustrated he would tear up…bless his heart…and look over at his older brother for direction. What could he do? If he lifted even a finger to defend himself, he knew that he would look like a bully who pushed girls around (Du could have squashed the Rabbit with one finger). But…it hurt. Really.

Nobody took it all that seriously, until Du came over to the apartment one day in a muscle shirt. His entire left upper arm was one big bruise.

His brother said, “What happened to your arm?”

Du, exasperated, replied with one word, “Rabbit!”

I don’t remember any more of the story. I do recall that Rabbit stopped hitting Du. So somebody must have said something.

I’ve been thinking about the special challenge of being tough. People think they can say and do whatever they want. Like it will just bounce off. We need tough people…to do hard things…to tell us what we don’t want to hear…to look at the numbers and come up with the right answer…to make things happen. We should remember that they have feelings too.

Friday was a half-day, and we made the most of it. We ran some errands and then we popped over to the Delellos to borrow Anne of Green Gables (the quintessential Canadian chick flick/arty-right-brained epic). We took a break in the late afternoon, and we ran into our neighbor who told us (in a calm, but serious tone) that there was a tornado warning and that we should get inside. Sky was a little green. We headed home.

About the time we were back in the house, ensconced in the den with Anne Shirley and her adopted family, wind started whipping, buckets of rain started falling, lights flickered, and the power backup started clicking. It was pretty nasty for about 15-20 minutes and then calmed down. We wrapped up our marathon around 11:00. Didn’t think much more about it.

Saturday, I went on a walk over toward Faris Road, about a half mile from the house. There, I saw the tops of trees that had been twisted off about twenty feet up the trunk. A swath of downed trees about fifty feet wide and several hundred feet long. Full-grown evergreens uprooted. A merge sign lifted out of the ground and laid flat where it had stood. Miraculously, I did not see a single building damaged by a tree.

In the midst of all this, I found a stick—a bruised reed. It was about an inch thick and about 30 inches long. It had been snapped out of the middle of a larger branch, evidenced by the clean breaks at both ends. It had apparently been struck by lightning, loosening the bark, and then stripped cleanly of its bark from top to bottom (leaving just a little bit of bark on a twig that forked off). I found it laying in green-green grass, among the rubble.

There was no report of a tornado, by the way. Zufall, our resident weather geek says it was probably a microburst—sort of down-firing wind thing. I don’t know. But what an amazing picture of condensed, sovereign, creatorial power—in reverse!

We got a thank you note today. Without going into a lot of details about why we received it, I just think thank you notes, when done right, really make an impression.

This note acknowledged our gesture. And then, the writer went on to tell us how our gesture fits so nicely with other parts of his life. Having tied these things together, the gentleman expressed thoughts about how our gesture, when combined with related parts of his life, would actually enhance his life.

Then, he complimented us on our work. And he said that he had appreciated our work for some time. And he thanked us again.

What a wonderful note. Based entirely on facts. Yet, expressing sincere feelings. Without sentimentality.

By the way, it was hand written. But you knew that.

Okay, so it’s been years, maybe decades, since the movement began to gentrify the west end. Probably started when they built The Peace Center, which was completed in 1991 (which means the sinister plot was being hatched all the way back in the 80s—along with technopop and glitter country…and Madonna 1.0). They drove out the hookers. Reclaimed the “West End Market.” Pulled some political magic to get The Governor’s School for the Arts down there. Schmizzled the park and put in the bridge. Gave Billy Mitchel’s house to the Hughes brothers. Changed a couple blocks of Pendleton Street to (South) South Main Street. Put in some mega expensive condos. Built West End Field.

By now, the gentrification process has gained critical mass, and there will be no stopping it. We will have Volvos in the West End. But beyond the West end, by a couple of miles, on out the part of Pendleton Street that is still Pendleton Street…down past Academy…is a part of town that’s still a little scarey…in a good way (I think). The part of town I propose to call… The Wild West End.

That’s where our friend Diane Kilgore Condon pioneered to put in The Art Bomb. And that served as ground zero for what has exploded into a bonafide, tattooed, pierced, and henna-dyed bohemian arts district. And that is where our dear friends, the Stephensons, have decided to open what promises to be the coolest coffee shop ever…in Greenville, or anywhere.

Coffee to a Tea is opening tonight in what used to be Tuckers Soda Shop. Now, judging from past history, the place will be very well run, serve superb coffee (prepared by masterful baristas), tea from strange and wonderful places, and delectable goodies. Because Jessie and the Stephensons (sounds like a folk band from Nova Scotia, doesn’t it) are the perfect storm of baking ability, management ability, and coolness. You gonna have to try it to believe it.

To get there, from downtown, stay on Pendleton Street, all the way through the ghetto, across Academy, until you come to Lois Street (at the beginning of the arts district). Turn right, go under the trestle. And it’ll be like the second or third building on your right. Check it out.

I have high hopes that this will turn out to be a destination of coolness for the people I like to hang with. Even as I hope the Volvos stay away for a while. But that’s just me.

When it comes to evaluating social networking apps, I cannot be trusted. So, as I’ve been thinking that Twitter was much ado about nothing, I’ve also been thinking, “but how would I know?” But yesterday, I got testimony from an expert witness, a 14-year-old girl who texts instead of speaking!

So, I’m sitting at The Peace Center, the world’s greatest performing arts venue, at intermission of a pretty good performance of To Kill a Mocking Bird, when I look over at the kid next to me, and notice that she is texting at about the speed I type. Never one to pass up a learning opportunity, I ask her, “So, how many texts do you sent in a week?”

“Well, I send about 75 a day, so 75 times 7 is, well, I guess a lot.”

“I’m an old guy, so I probably don’t send 75 a year.”

“Yeah, I guess not.”

“So, do you send all these texts to a lot of people, or do you sent a lot of texts to a few people.”

“Mostly, like, five to seven people. Sometimes others.” I need to note that she said seven, without my prompting. I think that’s significant. But that’s another post for another time.

“So, like you and your seven friends just text each other all the time.”

“Yeah.”

“So, do you change your Facebook status by phone?”

“No, I have a Blackberry.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah.”

“But I have friends who change their Facebook status, like, every minute. I’m like, ‘you need to live your life.’ Like, how do they find time to do anything but change their Facebook status?”

“Yeah, really. So, do you Twitter?”

Wrinkles cute little teeny-bopper nose. “No. I don’t get Twitter. What’s the big deal?”

So, I rest my case.

Twitter. Schmitter.

That’s the average age of the folks we spent the weekend with. It was awesome. We’re working on some branding for Pittsboro Christian Village. This weekend, we went over for a visit. Spent Saturday evening there. Went to services there on Sunday morning. Shot off to lunch with Uncle Ducky. Back at Pittsboro for dinner and evening service. Spent the day there on Monday. What an amazing group of people!

We met missionaries from Congo and Zambia. We met folks who knew Anne’s parents before they were married (which would be, like, sixty years ago). We met retired executives.

The place is run by a retired Lt. Colonel, Gerald. He lives on the grounds with his family. So, you have this community in which the average age is 85. And then you have these four teenagers hanging around, with their friends. And everybody loves everybody. What a brand!

I gotta say, I have never done a series of one-on-one interviews in which every interview included prayer and more than half included tears. Can’t wait to write this one!