I watched one of my favorite movies last night, “Coal Miner’s Daughter”, the story of Loretta – and Doolittle – Lynn. As many times as I’ve seen it, last night was the first time I realized it was not HER story, but THEIR story.
Loretta had the talent. But Doo recognized there was so much more within her. He gave her that first guitar and encouraged her to learn to play it, with four little kiddos cheering her along. He praised and pushed, until she was on her first stage. He realized that small rural stage wasn’t big enough for her talent, so he became a one-man guerrilla marketing team from their kitchen table. He produced her first record – with publicity photos he shot in their living room – and he didn’t stop until she was standing on the stage of the Grand Old Opry.
It got me to thinking about all the many ways spouses cheer each other along in our careers. Most of us don’t make it to the Grand Old Opry, but I believe we often go a lot farther together than we might have travelled on our own. I’ve been blessed with the strongest of husbandly cheering sections over my 62 years. They each impacted who I am today, not just personally, but professionally.
From age 23 to age 36, Jim completed my raising. He helped me learn the skills I needed to succeed in television production. Jim was the best director I’d ever seen. Calm, unflappable, funny, that man could operate any piece of TV equipment that came his way. He encouraged me to keep on pushing against the male prejudice that “women can’t direct”, and he made sure I had every possible opportunity to show off what I could do. When I had to change careers due to limited opportunities in Houston TV, Jim urged me to find joy in building a whole new set of skills in advertising and media. He convinced me to see that my new career was merely an extension of my first love – not an abandonment of it.
I couldn’t have children. Jim and I were both completely shocked when I became pregnant at age 30. He calmed me, took over a full half (and often more!) of the child-rearing, and made me as confident as I would ever get as a parent. The adventures, trials and joys of parenthood cemented us for the rest of our lives. Even though we elected not to stay married, we remained parents and best friends until Jim died.
Al took the next 20 years. We met when I was just starting my career in public radio development. Al was our head volunteer, doing everything from keeping our pledge drives running to taking out the trash at the end of the shift. In his real life, Al was an award-winning professor at UT Medical School in Houston and a reproductive endocrinologist, specializing in IVF. He did cancer research, ran clinical trials – to say he was brilliant is an understatement. And, he was hysterically funny.
As my career progressed, I had more opportunities for public speaking. I was passable at it. Al asked me one evening to let him hear my speech. I delivered it to him, so proud of my work. At the end, he looked up at me. “Is your objective to put them to sleep? Because if it is, you’ve accomplished it!”
Al worked and worked with me until my delivery style was natural and funny. He taught me how to rehearse, how to engage an audience, how to deliver my points succinctly. Even in his nursing home bed, he still asked me to present every speech to him. I was never as good as he was – but his coaching got me to the national stage and dozens of conference presentations and training sessions. He supported my decision to open my own consulting firm – “If anyone can do it, you can.” His praise made me so strong.
I learned all I needed to know about Michael Powell in one early telephone conversation. He’d spent the day on the farm, up under a big piece of road equipment, covered in grease and oil, hammering and tweaking and cussing it back into working order. I’d spent the day trying to work out the kinks on a generational differences presentation that I was giving at a national business conference.
As we talked about our day, he asked me what the presentation was about – he really wanted details. He said, “You know, I think I have something in one of my old PowerPoints I used on the Slope that might help you. I’ll find it and send it along.” It was precisely what I needed to complete my work – and it ended up being one of my best sessions. That was the first time I really saw the scope of Mike’s vast and varied body of knowledge. I never found anything he couldn’t do.
Mike realized from the beginning that I run on praise. He got me to stretch so far out of my city comfort zone by encouraging me every step of the way when I was outdoors in our country world. It tickled him to see me learning new things, and he tossed something new my way on a daily – sometimes hourly – basis. I’d never had someone brag on me to others – praise was always just “between us”. Mike was open and generous with his praise, and I blossomed under it.
I sing when I’m happy, and I’m usually happily off-key. Mike got such a tickle out of that, and he was astounded that I knew all the words to any song I’d ever heard. One morning in Alaska, he called me to come out to the porch. Our carpenter looked up at me from his chair and said – “Mr. Mike here says you sing like an angel.” I looked at Mike, kind of in shock. Mike asked me to please sing for them – to sing “Amazing Grace”.
After a minute, I did. I stood there in the sunshine on that front porch of our cabin in Alaska, my hand on Mike’s shoulder, feeling his strength. I lifted my voice in a slow ballad version of Mike’s favorite hymn. He asked for another, and I sang a bluesy version of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” that I used to sing for my dad. When I finished, Mike squeezed my hand, said “Thank you, darlin”, and we all went about our day.
Our courage and our talent come from deep within ourselves. It’s the coaching and the encouragement and the coaxing we receive from those who love us, who see In us more than we see in ourselves, that lights the spark and burnishes the steel. Their pride in us allows us to shine.
I will never feel off-key again…at 62 – and beyond.
At 62 