The Little Words Mean the Most

I Heart Small Libraries

I never feel more comfortable -- or, as they say in Nashville, "c'mfir'erbil" -- than in a small library. My child's brain and nervous system and values and sense of adventure and emotional excess and boundless curiosity and a hunger for wonder all grew up in my town's small library, in Holbrook, Massachusetts. Birthplace of no one remotely famous until Andy Card, my senior class president, became the 43rd-worst president's, George W. Bush's, chief of staff. He and his family were about the only Republicans in our town, this being Massachusetts; which if it wasn't in the back pocket of labor in 1965, our graduation year, was at least fingering labor's keys and change.

You are looking into the Hotchkiss Public Library, in Sharon, CT. Think Rodeo Drive in Los Angeles; now translate that to horse farms and rolling hills. That's Sharon. Stonehenges of wealth spring from the ground wherever you look. Except in this building. This is its library. Once wealthy as scandal. Widow Hotchkiss named it for her industrialist husband, who'd run away to Paris with his mistress; but then, thankfully, died. That's him, the bust in the back. Hotchkiss needs a million in renovations at least. Somebody there should just cough it up; there must be a couple of hundred who could afford it. "Josh?" Post your bust next to Philanderer Hotchkiss. Or maybe add a rich face to the Tiffany windows. The Hotchkiss hosted me from 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. on Sunday (closed), June 30. I worked away in an upstairs room, listening to movie soundtracks, while downstairs my wife, the estimable Simone, ran a board retreat in her usual distinguished, gales of laughter, not quite as strict as a nun way.

We ran off on a wonderful lost weekend. She worked Friday and Sunday. We played Friday night and all day Saturday. Did Chez Nous, restaurant in Lee. NWR -- not worth repeating; still as good as previous visits; but now only in spots. Too busy to keep itself honest; and trouble getting good help, I guess. From the kitchen, loud French anger: cue the temperamental chef. He was vaguely entertaining. More important to me: the specialty cocktail lacked personality and murdered its star, the elderflower liqueur St.-Germain, made in France; "lychee-like flavor...with a hint of pear," wrote Jeff Hoyt. A death by drowning, overcome by a bunch of bubbles; cheap champagne filled the bud glass. And the chairs: we were stuck on bar chairs. But bad bar chairs: with a rim that severed circulation across the back of the thigh. Yes, if you did not wish people to linger, these would be exactly the chairs to choose.

But Jacob's Pillow? I go to dance, hoping to be transported. Not mildly. I mean moved into some dimension I have never before visited. Dance does that; I love rhythm and bodies performing en masse. I believe it stems from my days in a marching band, part of a high-stepping group of newly hormonal teenagers. A few movies -- mostly documentaries -- can do that, too. And music? Music, praise all, does that for me every day. I LOVE my nervous system. I listen to movie soundtracks as I write stuff for clients. My iPod move playlist has 27 entries; all either sad, heroic, or heavenly. They drive me to write with flourishes. Late in the day, when I'm exhausted, those soundtracks drive me to drink. I like that part, too.

I was transported into the 7th or who knows what dimension by the Heddy Maalem Compagnie. African dancers from everywhere, performing against Igor Stravinsky's Consecration (Rite) of Spring, plus some sound-drops. The audience was maybe 60 years of age on average (me, too): those without muscle tone watching those with shocking muscle tone. The sexless viewing the recently sexual (top age, 30?). And collaborating! Performances need viewers! As it should be! You take your turn. You celebrate your role, wherever you happen to be chronologically. Being your age is your job.

In Millerton, NY (pop. under 800) we ran into a tasting by winemaker Peter Sloan, of Teatown Cellars (Napa), hosted by Little Gates & Co. Wine Merchants.You know how you walk into certain shops, and immediately fall in love? Little Gates is that kind of place. An obvious labor of love, very welcoming. It's just around the corner from Oblong Books (the perfect, lose-an-hour-browsing independent bookstore); a half-minute's walk from Harney's tea emporium, a national treasure all its own.

Peter Sloan was pouring his 2004 Merlot. He'd signed a few bottles with a grease pencil, too; nice, artisanal touch. He's been a wine buyer for a major NYC restaurant and was a wine wholesaler for years. He was well-acquainted with obscure wines from the Languedoc, our part of France.

Teatown is a "virtual winery." Sloan lives in New York and makes his wines through Napa producers. "Oak?" I asked with my first sip. He objected, and he was right. The oak faded; the fruit advanced. I'm no fan of Merlot; the ordinary stuff is a bit goofy for my tastes. But this offering was big and delicious. I ended up drinking the bottle over two days. A good thing, too: on the second day, it was even better, all its secrets fully revealed. Let it breathe a lot. Highly recommended; $24.50.

Introducing the Lemonuila: Margarita taste, as quick as water from a tap

If you said, "Lemon Eeah," you have it. It's the lazy man's margarita. And at cocktail time, especially on a light-bulb-hot and mud-sticky day, I'm lazy as a matter of honor. Here's the recipe:

Pour any kind of lemonade you have into a tumbler, 2/3rds full. Eyeball it. (See? Easy already.) I use premixed lemonade from Munroe Dairy, a home delivery service in Rhode Island. Munroe mixes its lemonade (delivered in thick, glass bottles) dry and adult; no floating bits, but not sweet either. Minutemaid frozen lemonade also works.

Add 2 oz. of a nice tequila: 100% blue agave. Eyeball this, too, if you want.

Couple of ice cubes. You're done. You could stir in two or three drops of vanilla extract, just to add a mystery note. But it should be almost undetectable.

This is a good summer drink (solstice was a few days back), and it has a kick. After a couple of practice runs, you'll throw a Lemonuila together in seconds.

How to make your billion dollar goal? Deans approve nothing

My desk, as I'm presenting a webinar. Timer, notes on who's attending, printout of my PPT, Made to Stick, and the Michelin Man, carrying a wine basket bearing my pens. He is why I'm working.

TOTAL INCOMING RANT: I write case statements for part of my comfortable six-figure income. I teach how to write case statements for another part. And for the unmatched excitement of receiving a small royalty check every quarter, I've even written a book about case statements (out soon; one of my four titles on donor communications).

I didn't guess at any of it. I read every major textbook on capital campaigns. I snagged training from two of America's leading capital campaign consulting firms; and continue to work as a contract writer of cases for one (the better-paying one). And I seek out and interview top fundraisers, people who commonly raise millions. Why? Fundraisers use case statements in face-to-face solicitations. I need to know how.

As I mentioned, I teach this topic, mostly at fundraisers' conferences, more than a dozen times this year alone. Today, for instance, I gave a webinar. Listening and watching online were development staff from 70 or so education, health care, and other organizations, many of them brand names; with 30 North American universities among them.

And here's what comes up at every workshop I do, without exception, without fail -- including today: "Well, that's fine, Tom; and I agree with you. But my dean/president/boss will never approve. He/she thinks more verbiage is better; and that jargon and lofty language are the best."

Look, we all know what we know. But sometimes people in unassailable positions (think tenured) fall into an eerie intellectual trance. They start to assume they know everything; and that what they don't know, they can easily guess at, using the mighty instrument of a big brain stamped Ph.D. Common human failing? Absolutely. Tolerable human failing in a capital campaign attempting to raise $1 billion? Please.

A case statement is a sales document. As a sales document, its success depends on many things: an understanding of applied psychology, eye-motion studies, best practices in advertising, journalistic training. To name just the cream.

A case hopes to sell a generalist, not a specialist. The University of Toronto's $1 billion campaign convinced more than 112,000 to make gifts; about half were first-time donors; 95,000 gave less than $1,000, 217 gave $1 million or more. A vast throng; most were not specialists.

Jargon-crusted, lofty-leaning, and tedious writing does not impress this crowd. It fatigues this crowd. It frustrates this crowd. It confuses this crowd. And pity the poor solicitor in a face-to-face solicitation (97% of the money is raised from 3% of the donors) who ends up blurting, "Look, I know; it's kind of vague. Here's what they're trying to say."

A competent, professional approval loop for case statements includes no one but (1) solicitors; (2) their designated writers; and (3) content experts.

Content experts check facts; that's all. They do not rewrite for style. That's not their job. That's not their expertise. A case statement is nothing like a grant proposal or a peer-reviewed article, the things a dean might in fact know how to write. Those items share no common ground with a case statement. They do not share similar target audiences.

Specialists vs. generalists, remember?

There's hope

The Local Government Association in Britain has banned a list of 100 "non-words." These include popular jargon-crap like "synergy," "stakeholders," and "sustainable communities." Also scratched: "empowerment." The association's chairman, Simon Milton, said officials should not "hide behind impenetrable jargon and phrases." Thank goodness. And please: no more.

Pizza night in Valros: Every Wed.

L to R: (1) Wednesday is pizza night; a truck comes to town. A minute away from our front door. Dozens are sold. Simone contemplates her options. I like the one with the chorizo and bacon. She likes the one with the creme fraiche. We go home with two. (2) That's our village hideaway, with the blue shutters, to the left of the car. This tiny street where we live follows the curve of the old ramparts.

Friends in France: Amen

L to R: Walking the new "lotissement" (housing development) at sunset; the Lamamoops and Simone under our limestone arches; the backyard, reading while waiting for the laundry to dry in the Mediterranean sun.

CO: Big cloud country

Greetings from room 1006 in the Westminster Westin, between Boulder and Denver. On spur of the moment tornado watch.