The Little Words Mean the Most

Is Flesch-Kincaid still relevant, Dawn asks a decade later

Dawn! HELLO!!!

Yes, the tool is still relevant ... more than ever ... I teach it all the time. It's called the Flesch-Kincaid calculator (after its co-founders).

Here's the URL:   https://goodcalculators.com/flesch-kincaid-calculator/

As I probably harped on back then, grade level is NOT about getting 6th-graders to make donations.

Grade level is exclusively about how fast and easily I (an adult who might make a gift) can comprehend what you're trying to tell me: a 6th-grade level is faster than an 8th-grade level is WAY faster than a 10th-grade level ... and if you're trying to shove 12th-grade writing down my throat, you better be buying me a hot-fudge sundae with 3 cherries on top. And a day in rehab.

12th-grade writing ceases to be of any use after the 12th grade (unless you want to be a peer-reviewed scientist or college professor). For the general public, it's an insult to our attention spans.

Flesch-Kincaid standards ripple through the User's Manuals on our sub fleet, where sailors with high-school diplomas tend nuclear reactors and drive the boats. The people at the wheel are 18 and 19 years old (under senior supervision, of course). Thank you, Flesch-Kincaid.
 
Without Flesch-Kincaid, what a mess we'd be in.

 

 

Assumption, presumption; waiting for Larry, Simone's favorite septic-tank emptier

Sim One bounced a check off Larry Torti, the gregarious septic-system emptying guy. The bounce wasn't for lack of money. It was because of in-attention to her balances; easily remedied: there was plenty of money swashbuckling around. But maybe a sign, if you were accumulating signs.

Different story, for fundraisers (and their finger-drumming bosses):

You don’t raise money from 100% of the people you approach ... unless maybe you’re passing a plate in church ... and social scrutiny is Big Brother irresistible.

You raise lama-lama-beyond-measure money from those few, true believers who share your vision, your hope, your anger, your desire, your fear, your beliefs. These are the ones who “get” you (goal, mission, vision, charisma).

Even then, dear insider, they don't always "get" you the way YOU get you.

Maybe they just have this feeling you're definitely singing the right song for the times ... strumming chords they like loud and repeatedly. And so they trust you enough to risk their support....

Nonprofits, patience. Keep your hands on the controls. Settle your expectations. Respect the numbers. New donors may be 1% of the people you approach initially.

 

August 3: Marci and Simone

 

I met Marci first. She'd been in Cambodia, in the Peace Corps, building dams. In the earliest years of charter schools in America, she invited me to a Cambodian restaurant in Lowell, MA; to discuss something about fundraising.

 

I wore my best Irish tie: hand-woven linen. Brand new, too. I looked down to see that narrow tie pointing at Marci, as it floated across my Cambodian soup bowl. Final chapter: Good-linen Irish ties dry-clean nicely.

 

Then Marci met Simone ... and our world shifted on its axis.

 

We became family. CLOSE family.

 

August 3 is our wedding anniversary, Seepy and me. My birthday, too. We purposely married on my birthday so I'd never forget our wedding anniversary. She was so wise.

 

Simone arrives on earth: July 23, 1948 ~ Happy birthday, you

 

June 6, 1944: The Allies force a massive landing across the cold-water beaches of Normandy against heavy German resistance and unfavorable weather.

         World War 2 was entering its final year in Europe.

         There was supposed to be a simultaneous invasion of southern France the same day. It would drive an irresistible anti-Fascist bulldozer north up the Rhône valley, from the Mediterranean to Switzerland. It would pinch German divisions between two well-supplied opposing forces.

         Sounded good on paper.

         But in the end there just weren't enough Allied troops and landing ships to strike France top and bottom at the same time. The southern invasion was postponed. It finally began on August 14, with a massive demonstration of Allied naval and aerial firepower. Troop landings came the next day.

------

Before then, that same August, an intelligent and fit young man was riding his bicycle in a southern French city.

         His name: Georges Joyaux. He'd grown up in "Beautiful Nice," on the French Riviera. Not a child of privilege; far from it. But smart; like his brother, Fernand. Family lore says they'd been a handful in school. Now Georges was himself a teacher in the small Mediterranean port of Menton.

         And now he spotted a checkpoint ahead.

         Germans and French police were stopping everyone, examining papers; fishing for fugitive Jews (this far edge of France harbored many). Fishing, too, for fit, troublemaking-inclined young men on bicycles who might be in the Resistance.

------

The Germans were understandably jumpy.

         Up north, Allied forces rampaged.

         They'd broken out of Normandy. Every battle now went their way. Generals like Patton and Eisenhower and Montgomery were fast becoming legends. The Allies pushed hard to liberate Paris, a huge symbol on the world stage. As long as their war machines were fueled (something of a problem, thanks to clogged northern ports), Allied motorized divisions were unstoppable. Allied pilots owned the skies. Allied troops owned the ground and enjoyed total freedom to maneuver. German forces up north were collapsing fast ... a broken umbrella pelted by exploding hail ... and everyone in southern France knew it. The Allies' amazing propaganda offensive (some of the best war reporters and psych warriors on earth) saw to that.

         Wondering who these "Allies" were?

         D-Day beach swarmers included (in some sort of order) the UK, France, Poland, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, the US, Belgium, Czechoslovakia, Greece, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Norway, South Africa, Southern Rhodesia.

         Vs. Germany and Italy.

         It was the biggest industrialized middle-finger ever built.

------

So Georges is on his bike: no sign yet of the Allies in Southern France. Rumors fly. Insiders know General de Gaulle has argued hard for the capture of major southern ports like Marseilles and Toulon. The French Resistance has been on high alert for months. Relief is in the air.

         And Georges is approaching an inescapable checkpoint, carrying a concealed pistol, which in German eyes was an automatic death sentence.

         As, Andrée, one of Simone's five siblings recounts:

         "I always heard the story as dad saw the Germans and knew he’d get arrested with the pistol. So he faked a spill on his bike near a street drain and threw the pistol down the drain. But of course I may be completely wrong about that!" Sounds successful to my ears.

------

Georges told me the same story. He told me a little bit more.

         When he was stopped, Georges had a quick, frank talk with the French policeman clutching his elbow. In essence: "In a few weeks this will all be over. You know it. I know it. And you will be on the wrong side. So let me go. I'll vouch for you."

         The policeman released his grip. Georges dashed off down a side street.

         And so Simone-of-the-future's semen escaped certain death. She and five fascinating siblings would follow.

         Enter Jane.

------

Life is serendipitous: those you meet; mostly those hoards you don't meet. How many could you meet, after all ... with 8+ billion humans and counting (2023).

         In 1947, what's today called Michigan State University was named Michigan State College of Agriculture and Applied Science. It had been an early pioneer in co-education and integration. It was the first year of the Cold War.

         After the Second World War, Michigan State expanded rapidly. Its visionary president John A. Hannah flooded the campus with ex-serviceman pursuing a college degree on the G.I. Bill. Also included: Allies from European countries. Georges, who'd joined the French army after the invasion, was one.

------

In East Lansing, Michigan, Jane Peckham, artsy and tart; milk-fed and attractive; an accomplished equestrian; finds herself sitting next to a handsome Frenchman with a big laugh: Georges Joyaux.

         Georges pays attention to the lecturer. But she sees he's not taking many notes. She leans over and asks why. "I just write down what I don't know," he replies. Repeat that in your head, with abrupt honesty; spoken with a thick-as-sheep's wool French accent and a shrug. You get the picture.

------

So Jane and Georges met in class. As fairy tales say: Jane and Georges eventually ran up a hill, to get a pail of water.

         To summarize Darwin: What is life really about? Reproduction of the species. Knickers flew the coop. Sim One was conceived. Jane and Georges wed before her birth at Sparrow Hospital in Lansing, Michigan. Simone was intensely proud of being their "love child": the child who sealed the marriage of Georges and Jane.

         Over two decades, another five children would emerge. The last were twins, Andrée and Paul. At which point, Jane turned a flame-thrower on the nearest doc in the delivery room and insisted, "Fix it. No more kids. Do it! Enough. " Her primary care physician was there and nodded: "Do it."

         And so it was done: no more kids. Jane retired her womb.

------

         Or so the family story goes, according to Simone.

 

 

Road warriors swap tales: Carol Weisman, MSW, CSP and Tom

I think my personal best was flying out of a dinky airport in NY state (with an incredible snack selection, though; kudos), to speak in Green Bay, WI the next day and the Twin Cities the day after that. Keynote speaker at 3 National Philanthropy Days in 3 days. I don't remember much except running, dragging, buying snacks, speaking; repeat in reverse.

Not to mention the time my flight for Denver from Pittsburgh left 8 hours late due to a PA blizzard. The pilots bought pizza for every passenger who hadn't given up and gone home. They promised we'd leave; the final flight was a quarter full. Landed at dawn, got an invite to Denver's best Ethiopian restaurant from my cabbie, checked into the conference hotel for 1 hour's sleep, did the gig, checked out, went home; probably crashed for 24 hours.

Or how about that time my plane taxied for takeoff in Odessa, TX (which smells of oil ... literally; it's the "drill, baby, drill" capital of the world). The pilot suddenly got a bad dashboard light. He taxied back to the gate (I'd moved about 400 yards in total by that time, none of them in the air). And, lo, there wasn't a room to be had in town. The oil boom was so hot they were scouring the jails for employees. The airline was as helpful as could be. I think I slept that night alongside some hotel's vending machines.

Or, hey, that time in Winnipeg, when Simone forgot her passport ... and I had to present for both of us. Having spent years rebuffing her: "You know what you know. I know what I know. I don't have to know what you know, too. Just tell me what to do."

Or then there's O'Hare. O'Hare's special. It's in the middle of a continent. A super-hub. Weather conditions across North America effect O'Hare's arrivals and departures. What road warrior doesn't have a great O'Hare story? Like the time all flights were grounded ... and I snuggled into a dim hallway cot beneath a thin blanket at 3 AM. There were thousands of other passengers on cots under thin blankets stuffed in the halls, as far as the eye could see. O'Hare looked like the London Tube during the Blitz.

 

Reply to a congressional candidate seeking to pick my pocket

First: My name's not THOMAS. It's TOM.

I would never give a penny to any fundraising robot that doesn't get that right. And you can thank ActBlue for that persistent mistake. They go by my credit card name, not my common name. And never asked my preference.

I can't vote in the first district, anyway; so I'm really not your target audience. I have, however, given serious money to candidate Aaron, because I like a flaming progressive; I think he has fire power. Spoken with candidate Sabina, too; be happy with her. There are what? 33 other candidates as well? Oh, my.

And Walter, who are you again? I know what you're not (your paragraph 4).

How was the opening rate on your subject line? Not exactly a barn burner declaration.

And starting with a statistic in your email is how you lose the "3-second test." (I can explain; it comes from neuroscience.)

All this must sound like criticism. Honestly, may the best candidate win. David C. did RI proud, especially during the worst of the Trump years. Little Rhody can punch well above its weight ... with the right people in office (Whitehouse, Jack Reed).

And, yes, I know no one's listening. Hi, robot!

~ tom (not thomas)

 

 

If you can spread this sad/hopeful tale, then thank you....

 

[above, live from Kyiv]

I'm trying to help pitch an urgent story about Ukrainian kids diagnosed with cancer who are still in-country. But don't know anyone in the media...

Story points:
1. Ukrainian kids diagnosed with pediatric cancer. Recovery rate can be 80+% with the right, advanced care.
2. Same kids, served by a gov't-managed health-care system that's less than perfect ... and distracted by Putin's war. Often, expensive medicines and other cancer treatments come out of parents' pockets. Those same pockets are mostly not deep. A charity named Tabletochki ("little pill"), established more than a decade ago, covers the costs through fundraising. They are "amazing," according to a top Canadian consultant who worked closely with them for several years. I've had a Zoom with them this past week (volunteered to help with their case development). It was an inspiring, wonderful, joyful meeting (except maybe for the part where I realized they speak and write better colloquial English than I do).
3. Tabletochki enjoyed heavy support from average Ukrainians; their compassionate gifts annually covered 90% of the treatment costs.
4. Then Putin invaded.
5. Then pretty quickly 16 million+ Ukrainians hit the road or the trenches. Tabletochki's reliable donor base disappeared, the biggest European refugee crisis since World War 2. Donors turned into refugees living from suitcases.
6. The Tabletochki foundation still ensures first-world cancer treatment for Ukrainian cancer kids (they're involved with 600+ families right now) ... but there's a hole in the charity's annual budget, thanks to Putin's war. This year, Tabletochki needs to go global ... at least until Putin's atrocity ends. The goal isn't all that high, as campaigns go: about $2 million in outside compassion to cover the country's pediatric cancer-care costs through the next 12 months should do the trick.

Advice, my friends?

And thank you ... your noodling helps!!! They're working on their plan. And, as I said before, they are "amazing."

 

The witch and I: Grief therapy is complicated, turns out

This is a Sheela na gig, defined as a "naked woman displaying an exaggerated vulva."

My witch brought Sheela up today, for loads of healthy reasons that said nothing good about the Roman Catholic church (my upbringing) and its focus on original sin. (As noted: therapy is complicated.) Sheela was a good thing. Every Irish door had one ... until the priests arrived and ripped her away.

I mentioned to our nephew Dave that I had 2 psychotherapists ... and a witch.

"Witch?"

"You know: broomstick."

I learned about Kat from a Ph.D. psychologist whom she'd helped get through an assortment of crises. She calls herself the "helpful witch." That and more. In our hour-long chats, as she flips through her designer Tarot cards, revelation after revelation waft ... and I feel my heart softly padding toward a real future eventually, both with Simone Internal/Eternal and without her physically by me in bed and across so many tables. And yes there will be pain. A fucking lot of it. Thank you, Hillary C.: it does take a village. The lucky ones have a good witch.

 

Spoke in Romania; trying to help in Ukraine with kids' cancer care

Tabletochki was kind enough to send a photo of a how-to book they use to help train their new fundraising hires.

Look: this is a very useful charity, raising money for state-of-the-art cancer treatments for Ukrainian kids, bolstering 6 hospitals in-country.

And then a fork-tailed demon in human form (driver's license name: Vladimir Putin) invaded without provocation, threatening the survival of these cancer kids.

Tabletochki WAS donor supported. Now? More than 16 million potential donors have fled the country or are displaced, living out of suitcases. For now: the outside world has to support these kids.

Help? Will you? Thank you!!!

 

I have mermaids in my family tree

 

true

 

true

 

sad story, that

 

Not caught in trees: breeding me and my family, down the branches