I think the utility companies are misplaying their hand. See what you think.

Losing With an Unbeatable Hand

In early June, hundreds of thousands of residents of 20 West Virginia counties, three Virginia counties and two Maryland counties received a flyer in the mail from an entity called Valley Link Transmission. It was addressed “Dear Neighbor” and served as an invitation for the recipients to attend an “open house” to learn about “the proposed Valley Link North Transmission Line Project.”

This is the flyer Valley Link sent to all affected residents. It’s addressed “Dear Friend” I don’t think “friends” try to destroy their neighbor’s property. Also, the words “data center” appear nowhere in the flyer. An oversight, I’m sure.

To the credit of Valley Link’s PR team, they made a valiant effort to portray the project in the most favorable terms possible. A headline in the flyer said the proposed line would be “Meeting Historic Demand and Delivering Reliable Power.” They added, “The Valley Link North Project increases the electric grid’s capacity to deliver electricity across the region, reducing the risk of outages and improving reliability.”

In short, their carefully designed message was, “Valley Link is INDISPENSABLE.”

The orchestration of the public meeting part of their campaign was also tightly controlled. There were NO general presentations and NO open questions were accepted from attendees. The meeting rooms were staffed with several dozen company representatives, and citizens were told to wander around the room and ask their questions in a one-on-one format. The clear intent was to minimize the possibility of the company reps having to face an angry group of residents, with the inevitable disastrous social media fallout. Valley Link wanted quiet, boring meetings with the hard questions deflected and no opportunity for outrage.

I can only imagine how confident and certain the company’s PR army was with this approach: Drop the mailing at the last minute. Pretend the data center issue isn’t relevant. Structure the “public meetings” in a way to stifle any pushback. And move this process as quickly as possible to what they believe is the far safer world of regulatory review.

To bolster their confidence, the Valley Link team knew their parent organizations (Dominion Energy, FirstEnergy Transmission, Transource Energy, American Electric Power and Evergy) are as networked politically in the three affected states as any businesses can be. Governors, Members of Congress, State Legislators and federal and state regulators, and their staffs, have long-standing relationships with these companies and know them well.

And if that’s not enough, Valley Link has a seemingly unbeatable fallback option if things don’t work out as hoped - they can pursue eminent domain to acquire the properties they need to build the power line.

Ten weeks ago this seemed like an unbeatable hand. Today their plan appears to be on life support. What happened?

The short answer is they misread their audience and overplayed their hand. I’m sure the Valley Link team is made up of lots of very smart and experienced people. Most certainly they have scores of PR advisors, government relations strategists and regulatory lawyers. They must believe they have to operate this way to minimize community pushback and get the deal approved as fast as possible.

If I were on their team, I would have advised the opposite approach. The strategy Valley Link is employing violates every principle I’ve learned from 40 years of crisis counseling. It oozes arrogance and disrespect. It wallows in raw power. It obfuscates when candor is the far better option. It projects callousness and cluelessness. It’s guaranteed to engender passionate resentment and unbending opposition.

At the most basic level, no one can explain why West Virginia has to sacrifice so the data centers in Loudoun County, Virginia have more electricity. The farmers I’ve spoken with in Jefferson County, WV have a simple response to Valley Link’s plan: Loudoun County should build their own power plant, bulldoze their own farms and pay their own electric bills.

I don’t believe there’s a PR person alive who has a credible counter to this demand.

Valley Link also has the misfortune of being very unlucky. They dropped this proposal just as the national backlash against data centers was beginning to explode. In a matter of a few months, it has become virtually impossible for an elected official - anywhere in the country - to defend data centers. Politicians now realize that if they don’t publicly stand up against data centers, they will soon become former elected officials.

I have two cardinal rules in crisis management. The first is, crises occur at the intersection of bad luck and bad judgment. Second, organizations inevitably get the crisis they deserve. This is Valley Link in a nutshell.

Looking forward, the companies can hope I’m wrong. They can stay the course and count on their money and clout to push the deal through. I think this is unwise to say the least. Again, if I were in the Valley Link war room, I would be advising them to find a way to step back. This plan was ill-conceived, poorly developed and ineptly presented to the public. What they thought was INDISPENSABLE has now become INDEFENSIBLE. The only rational choice is to go back to the drawing board.

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As you may recall, when we last connected, I told you about the out-of-the-blue notice I received from an entity called “Valley Link Transmission LLC,” advising me of their plans to build a 260 mile, 765 Kilovolt, powerline from Southern West Virginia to Frederick County, Maryland. The preliminary pathway shows the massive powerline sweeping through Jefferson County and splitting our farm almost exactly down the middle.

Doesn’t Seem Like a Good Idea

Like my battle with cancer over the past year, this is not a fight I wanted or expected, but it’s one I have no choice but to confront. So, as with my cancer diagnosis, I’ve done the only thing I know to do: learn everything I can about the project and the public’s rights to stop or alter it.

Before telling you about the enlightening education I’ve received over the past two weeks - and the spectacular fee I was offered for taking on this fight - I have to first admit to a HUGE oversight I made in a prior post. In my June 26 Substack, titled “We Have to Prepare for AI as We Would For a Natural Disaster,” I thought I was being insightful about the potential for massive job destruction by the AI revolution.

In the post, I wrote, “If the economists and tech gurus are right, the AI revolution will trigger the biggest economic transformation in human history.” I added that I thought AI could bring about greater change than the development of railroads, the Industrial Revolution, and the creation of the internet. Then I went a step further. I suggested that “AI will have a bigger impact than all three…COMBINED.”

I wrote this as the flyer from Valley Link was landing in my mailbox. I didn’t see the connection between a new powerline and the burgeoning AI tsunami. I couldn’t have been more clueless. As I was issuing a warning about AI, and the need to rethink how we will help the displaced, I had no idea an economic hurricane was coming (once again) for West Virginia, my county and our farm.

So what’s the connection, you ask? The proposed powerline, the most powerful and highest voltage line allowed in the U.S., with towers that reach 140 to 180 feet, is a direct result of the explosion of Data Centers in neighboring Loudoun County, Virginia.

Over the last 20 years or so, Loudoun County officials have promoted the county as THE “Data Center Alley” for the world. It’s an apt title. With 200 Centers, totaling more than 50 million square feet of space, and 100 more Centers approved, Loudoun County has become the epicenter for the global industry.

This is impressive, but as more people are beginning to realize, Data Centers are hardly benign entities. Loudoun County’s interest in a 260-mile powerline is anything but causal. As it stands, their 200 Data Centers consume 5.33 gigawatts of power. That’s more energy than it takes to power ALL 3.4 MILLION homes in Virginia.

Loudoun Country has created an insatiable, energy-devouring behemoth, and now they have no choice but to go wherever they can, and do whatever it takes to get more power.

For West Virginia, the story is as old as the mountains. To fulfill Loudoun County’s unprecedented power needs, 260 miles of homes, farms, and forests will be mowed down. (To be fair, the industry and the power companies strongly object to the charge that the powerline is primarily for the Data Centers. They say the line is needed to meet the many growing needs of the region. Let’s just say, it’s not an argument I would want to have to make.)

To borrow a great British phrase, I’m GOBSMACKED by what I’ve learned over the last two weeks. Everything about the Data Center industry is borderline incomprehensible. Demand for these massive, energy guzzling, largely unmanned structures is moving at warp speed. Goldman Sachs says the energy requirements for Data Centers will double from 2025 to 2027.

This all sounds amazing and other worldly, and for those who’ve profited from the growth, it’s a fairytale. For lots of other folks, it’s a looming nightmare.

And the public is rising up in white-hot anger. In liberal states like New York, and MAGA strongholds such as Utah and West Virginia, a rare consensus has emerged: the rules for Data Centers must be rewritten. Think about it, in an age of deep, seemingly unbridgeable divisions, the Data Center industry, and the forces behind them, have done the impossible - they’ve united the nation.

Utah Approves a Data Center That’s TWICE the Size of Manhattan

In my career as a crisis counselor, I learned that the highest risk for an organization is to become the symbol of a larger national problem. This is what the Data Center industry has managed to do. Opposition now tops 70% and its growing.

The industry has lost the confidence of the American people, and no amount of slick ads or backroom lobbying will get it back for them. What’s required is a new set of rules. Less one-sided, more transparent, environmentally sound, and sensitive to those who are paying a price with no apparent tangible benefits.

And now let me tell you about my retainer and why it’s so meaningful to me. Soon after receiving the notice from Valley Link, I was invited to a neighborhood meeting to explore our options. A crowd of fifty or so squeezed into a neighbor’s living room. There was a lot of emotion as people started talking about their fears and anger at the prospect of having their homes and farms destroyed by a massive powerline.

I introduced myself and told the group of my decades of experience managing complex, high-profile controversies, and I volunteered my services to the cause. I promised to give them the same level of service I gave my Fortune 100 clients…but without the fee!

After the meeting, a farming couple thanked me and offered a token of compensation. I told them that wasn’t necessary, but they persisted and asked if I liked fresh vegetables. Minutes later I was holding two bags of zucchini, squash and red potatoes. They were still coated in dirt from the garden.

I confess, I shed a tear. This is a fight about honest, decent people with grounded values, who’ve always played by the rules. They see their lives being upended by a new economic order that’s inherently unfair. They know it’s not right. We all know it’s not right. My neighbors, like lots of good people all across the country, are crying out for respect. Over the years, I’ve learned that people who feel disrespected never forget and never give up. I’m honored to be on their side.

If you’re a regular reader of my Substack, you know I grew up in West Virginia. You probably also know about the Grandmother who helped raise me, the father who abandoned my family at birth, and my lifelong passion for history. The story I’m about to tell ties all of these threads together.

Sometime in the early 1990’s, I began a search for farmland along the Shenandoah River. It seemed like a logical endeavor. The small stretch of the Shenandoah that crosses the Eastern Panhandle of West Virginia is only 60 miles from my Arlington residence. The area is rich in pre-colonial, Revolutionary War and Civil War history. And I had dreams of fishing and kayaking on the river. I searched for more than 20 years.

I never gave up, and I never questioned why I continued to search exclusively in this relatively small geographic area. Finally, in 2012 I stumbled across a beleaguered, ratty, overgrown mess of a farm. As the photos below show, I’m hardly exaggerating. The buildings were falling down (and full of asbestos). The fields had been abandoned and turned into a dumping ground for anyone with a need to dispose of appliances, couches or tractor trailer tires.

If anything the Farm was worse than these pictures depict

As I explored the land, I told my wife I thought it was speaking to me. She responded, “Is there any chance it could speak to someone else?” We purchased the farm and began a decade-long clean-up and restoration project. The fields were once again open and lush, and the 1740 house that came within a whisker of demolition, was fully restored. I thought this was the end of the story.

Then Covid hit, and like a lot of people, I began exploring my ancestry. I knew almost nothing about it. That prompted me to make a more complete review of the history of Highland Farm. I knew a little about the farm, but the deeper I dug the more remarkable the story became.

I won’t bore you with all the details except to say that a young George Washington first expressed interest in the farm in the winter of 1760. He had heard that a special oven to make iron had been built on the property and he longed to see it. In May of that year, he made a special trip from Mount Vernon to the farm and then wrote about it in his diary. He described the rich land, the abundant forest, the clear stream that crossed the property, and the Shenandoah River a hundred yards beyond. His description is so precise that I know exactly where he stood and what he saw. Astonishingly, the view hasn’t changed in 266 years.

George Washington’s Diary entry regarding his May 9, 1760 visit to Highland Farm

As for my personal ancestry, I went down a lot of dead ends, but I did find a number of connections to the Pennsylvania Dutch region and a few hints of possible ties to the Shenandoah Valley. But the leads all seemed to peter out and I finally put my genealogy research aside. I figured I’m a typical West Virginian of mixed Scottish and Irish heritage.

During my recent cancer battle, I picked up the trail again. With the aid of AI and some expanded search sites, I finally found the missing pieces. To my absolute amazement, my roots are deeply embedded in the Shenandoah Valley. I discovered that many of my ancestors lived within a few miles of Highland Farm, two centuries before we purchased it.

My research uncovered one ancestor after another. Their graves are spread up and down the Shenandoah Valley. Their stories trace the history of this country from the late 1600’s through the Civil War. They carved out communities, started churches that still stand today, and fought in our nation’s wars. Most importantly, they raised their families in the same area where I had long searched for a home.

I believe they were the voices I heard when I discovered Highland Farm.

Honoring one of my ancestors, John Blackburn

I wish the story ended here. But it doesn’t. Last week I received a flyer in the mail from a coalition of power companies advising me that they are developing a new, massive power line, running from Southern West Virginia to Maryland. Their preliminary plan places a line of 200-foot tall transmission towers directly through the heart of Highland Farm. I’m heartsick.

Hay season is my favorite time of year at Highland Farm

I’m writing this after returning from a public meeting hosted by the power companies. They flooded an assembly room at Shepherd College with more than 60 staffers, refused to have an open Q&A session (for fear of the meeting turning ugly) and reassured everyone that their opinions were valued. Then I learned that the company reps boycotted a County Commission meeting earlier in the day. In every way possible, the companies made it clear that this would be a bruising fight. I think you know what I have to do.

No Words Necessary

A special thanks to each of you for supporting my writing these last few months. Your comments have always been kind and encouraging. You may hear from me again, but for now, I have to devote my time to this battle.

Lastly, if this feels like a sad “Not In My Backyard” rant, I’m sorry. I understand that power lines have to be built, and it’s impossible to find a route that’s acceptable to all. But ignoring the rich history of Jefferson County and Highland Farm seems wrong to me. I don’t know if I can help stop this plan or cause it to be rerouted, but I have to try.

Happy July 4th

Bigger than the development of railroads.

Bigger than the transition from an agrarian economy to an industrial one.

Bigger than the internet revolution.

I believe AI will have a bigger impact than all three….. COMBINED.

Others can debate the merits and risks of Artificial Intelligence. My interest lies elsewhere. I want to address what we already know is coming: massive economic disruption. Specifically, what we can and should do about it.

Tip the scale however you like, but even in the most optimistic scenario, millions of hard working people are going to lose their jobs: truck drivers, factory workers, financial analysts, legal researchers, customer service representatives. Professions that have long been guaranteed pathways to prosperity are going to be transformed.

In my lifetime, we’ve experienced enough economic disruption to know what not to do. From 1950 through the early part of this century, the coal industry lost more than 350,000 jobs. Going back to the 1920s, the loss is closer to 800,000. The impact on West Virginia has been devastating. West Virginia is the ONLY state in the Union to have a smaller population today than in 1950. The economy has never recovered and the state has fallen further behind the rest of the country in education, healthcare and pretty much every other measurement that matters.

Abandoned West Virginia Coal Mine

In the auto industry, the story is similar. In 1950, Detroit had a population of 1,850,000. By 2020, it had fallen to less than 640,000. In the same period, Michigan - primarily the Detroit metro area - lost nearly 300,000 auto jobs.

From 2005 to 2015 one-third of all Detroit homes were foreclosed.

I’m not going to debate why the jobs were lost or who or what was to blame. The fact is these two critical industries faced extremely rough times and, by and large, the federal government’s response was to let nature take its course. As a result, a great American city nearly collapsed. And one of our 50 states slipped into a decades-long spiral of decline.

If we stick with this approach in the face of the looming AI tidal wave, everything we love about this country could be in peril.

So what’s the alternative?

I suggest we look at how we respond to natural disasters. When Katrina hit the Gulf Coast in August 2005, no one said, “It’s a tough blow, but New Orleans will just have to reinvent itself.” To the contrary, everyone assumed the government would do everything in its power to help the area recover. In fact, much of the criticism of the federal response was that it took “weeks” for emergency funds to arrive and “months” for housing and infrastructure grants to start flowing. Ultimately, Uncle Sam poured $120 billion into the region.

One-hundred-twenty billion.

No one questioned whether the federal government should respond with all its resources.

No one thought the region should dig out on its own.

It was all hands on deck. From the federal government to the Red Cross.

We did exactly the opposite in Detroit and West Virginia. Compassion and unlimited commitment were the order of the day for the Gulf. It was more a case of benign neglect and indifference for West Virginia and Michigan.

For added perspective, we spent $130 billion on the three hurricanes that hit Texas, Florida and the Caribbean in 2017. And another $50 billion for damages Hurricane Sandy inflicted on New York and New Jersey in 2012.

In the face of the AI revolution we have to adopt a new mindset that economic disasters deserve the same sense of urgency and resources that natural disasters receive. To continue with policies that the Federal Government should only rally to help people when nature is the destructive party is not just naive, it’s inexcusably negligent. And politically suicidal.

Detroit and West Virginia deserved better - not because of any special loyalty or affection for the areas or the affected industries - but because our national interests were at risk. Now we face the biggest economic disrupter of all time.

Hurricanes, tornados, forest fires and floods wreak havoc, destroy buildings and take lives. The images are dramatic and immediate, and we’re conditioned and prepared to respond. In some sectors of the economy, AI could be the equivalent of 10 or 20 Katrinas. It won’t create the same dramatic images, but it will destroy lives and communities just as viciously as any natural disaster, but with greater scale.

We need to prepare accordingly. We won’t get a second chance to get it right.

POSTSCRIPT

Despite my concerns, I’m not anti-AI. Science and technology must be allowed to advance. And there will clearly be endless benefits. But millions of people, hundreds of thousands of businesses and thousands of communities will be threatened. We have to be prepared and committed to help them. And we have to insist that the companies behind these forces of change do their part as well.

Call me nuts, but I love these ads.

In fact, they are the primary reason I watch the evening news. Heaven knows I don’t do it for the political fighting, natural disasters and economic meltdowns. I just want to see the next meaningless, nonsensical drug name that would never pass muster as a legitimate Scrabble word. And trying to guess what malady a new drug is supposed to treat is more fun than Jeopardy.

My interest in these ads is anything but casual. Over the last few years, I’ve made a habit of logging the name of every new drug in a file in the notes section of my iPad. At last count I have 192 names. One-hundred-ninety-two drug names. In a file. All alphabetized.

There are ten drugs that start with the letter A. Twelve with E. Nine with N, and twenty-eight have a Z somewhere in the name. Forty-nine have a V.

And you thought I was only mildly eccentric.

I’m pretty sure I have the formula for this art form down cold. A new drug name MUST include one or more of the following letters: K, Q, V, X or Z. The name has to sound important, but be totally meaningless. It can’t be a word anyone has ever heard, spoken or thought. It helps if it seems vaguely familiar, like something you should know if you had paid attention in biology class.

As time has passed I’ve become intrigued about the folks who come up with these names. When did we go from Aspirin and Tylenol to Airsupra and Trulicity? I wonder, is there a secret federal regulation that prohibits drug companies from using real words? Or did the industry just get together and decide they would have fun with the public by pummeling us with billions of dollars of ads promoting gibberish.

I’m sure we all have our favorite names but here are a few of mine: Biktarvy, Zeposia, Xiaflex, Nexlizit, Chantix, Quviviq, Darzalex, Vyepti, Ubrelvy, Sotyktu, and Tepezza. By the way, whatever you do, do NOT confuse Tepezza with Tezspire…results could be fatal.

But if you think this job is as easy as coming up with a silly name, you’ve vastly underestimated the task. I’ve figured out there are four “must haves” for every new drug ad.

First, each new drug needs its own color palette. We ALL know “The Purple Pill.” (Actually, I suspect very few people know what The Purple Pill is, but everybody knows there is a Purple Pill.) Viagra is “the little blue pill.” Zyrtec is bright green. The promotional material for Zepbound says its color profile is “slate blue with clean teals and a sterile white canvas.” Man, I wish I could write like that.

With new drugs seemingly rolling out weekly, the color game has gotten very complicated. Blue, orange and purple can only go so far. Much more imagination is required now, so bring on magenta, saffron, persimmon, and chartreuse. The kinds of colors no one has ever chosen for their living room or their car.

Second, there is no ad without a witty jingle. The name of the drug must be referenced at least 12 times, preferably playing off a vowel or syllable in the name - “Oh, Oh, Oh Ozempic.” Patients, lots of patients (who aren’t too young or too pretty, nor too old or too infirm), must be dancing.

Third, the “celebration” of the drug must be staged in a public park or a small town city square. And all the participants and spectators have to act like it’s perfectly normal for strangers to dance and sing about a drug they’ve never heard of before.

There has to be a dog. And if you think there’s any chance I will create a campaign that doesn’t showcase Alice, you haven’t been reading my Substack.

Oh, I almost forgot the most important part of the ad - the litany of side effects we all know so well. Think how many hours you’ve spent listening to warnings like…

“Studies have shown that patients on “Miztakan” may experience suicidal tendencies, depression, dizziness, and diarrhea….Clinical trials show some patients may have severe allergic reactions, liver complications….an increased risk of stroke ….mental acuity issues. A small number of patients report blood clots and internal bleeding….”

Ok, Miztakan isn’t real but the warnings are.

And we treat them like white noise. No one says, “My God, SUICIDE, STROKE, INTERNAL BLEEDING….that’s worse than the ailment I’m trying to treat!”

I was excited about this job opportunity. I had my first name: Qivaliz. My color scheme was going to be persimmon. I can see Alice leading a dance at the Court House Metro stop. Everyone will be singing “Qivaliz (pronounced Key-Val-Is) is the KEY to health.” Or something like that.

On second thought, I’m probably not cut out for this job. The names are fun, but I know nothing about dancing and I really don’t want to spend my days thinking about stomach ailments and strokes. But I will keep watching the evening news so I can add more crazy drug names to my list.

In years past, as Father’s Day approached, I always felt a wave of sadness and regret. Sometime right before or right after I was born (the facts were never shared with me), my father abandoned me, my mother and my two sisters. I never met him. I’ve never seen a photograph of him. And with one exception, which I will explain later, I never spoke with him.

The other dynamic at play for me on Father’s Day is that my wife and I were not blessed with children. (As you can appreciate, Emma, Gracie and Alice take strong exception to this point)

So while I honor the day, and all that it represents, it has also served as an annual reminder of two disappointments: the father I never knew, and the children I never had.

Before telling you anything else about my story and my thoughts, I want to be clear: I’ve never viewed myself as a victim. Being abandoned by my father, and never knowing why, was deeply hurtful, particularly when I was young. But life hands each of us a mix of good and bad breaks, and I’ve had more than my share of blessings. When my father left, my grandmother entered my life and her unconditional love shaped and inspired me.

Another unexpected benefit of my father’s absence from my life is that it forced me to be extremely self-reliant. These instincts served me well when I started my business and were vitally important in my crisis work. So I guess you could say my absentee father helped me succeed in business.

I also realize my story is hardly unique. Nearly one in four children live in a home without a biological, step or adoptive father. That’s more than 18 million kids. Not all of these children have been abandoned by their dads, but they all are coping with a loss that will impact them for the rest of their lives.

Over the years, as I thought about sharing my story, I had hoped to use it as a means for encouraging fathers who’ve abandoned their children to find a way to reconnect. That sounds good, and in some cases it may be the right thing, but, unfortunately, in many cases it would be the worst possible outcome.

I’m sure there are some decent men who fell into impossible circumstances that led them to walk away from their kids. It’s inconceivable to me that someone could reach this point, but I’m certain it happens. Sadly, there are many more cases where the conduct and thought processes that led a man to leave are exactly why he shouldn’t return.

Which brings me to the one conversation I had with my father. Sometime in the fall of 1994, when I was 40 years old, I received a completely out-of-the-blue call at my home. I can’t explain how or why, but as soon as I heard his voice I knew it was him. Again, I had never spoken with my birth father before that call. I didn’t know where he lived. I didn’t even know if he was alive or not.

After an awkward introduction, he quickly got to the point of the call and asked me for money. And then he insulted my mother. As you would expect, I immediately ended the call. We never spoke again.

I was appalled by his conduct, but I wasn’t angry. In fact, I soon realized the call was a gift. Through his conduct on that call, he confirmed in absolute terms why I was better off without him in my life. I don’t pretend to know what led him to abandon his family, or to reach out in pitiful desperation decades later. All I know is it was the best thing that could have happened to me.

As I reflect on Father’s Day this year, my thoughts have evolved. I still feel the loss, but I’m more conscious than ever of the unique blessings I’ve been given. I wish I had had a great relationship with a loving father, but my mother and grandmother more than made up for the loss. I also wish my wife and I had had children, but we’ve filled the void with nieces, nephews and the kids and grandkids of our friends.

My message to children in a situation similar to mine is that you must not let this circumstance define your life. The loss of a father’s love can never be fully replaced, but there are ways to compensate for the loss if you keep your mind and heart open.

Happy Father’s Day to all the good men who’ve loved their children and given them someone to look up to. You deserve this day.

Abraham Lincoln II, known as Jack, born in 1873, was the only son of Robert Todd Lincoln and Mary Harlan Lincoln. His father was the first born of the Lincoln’s four sons, and the only one to survive past adolescence. Robert was a successful corporate lawyer in Chicago, Secretary of War for Presidents Garfield and Arthur, and Ambassador to Great Britain under President Harrison. It’s in Europe that the mystery of Jack’s life begins to unfold.

Jack Lincoln, Age 11

With the family living in London, it was decided that Jack should study French at a school in Paris as part of his preparation for the Harvard entrance exam. While at school, Jack scraped his arm, which developed a large abscess that was lanced in what was thought to be a minor surgical procedure. A severe infection followed, and that was not something the medical community at that time, even in Paris and London, knew how to address.

As the magnitude of the threat became apparent, his family scrambled to engage the best doctors. Ultimately they brought Jack back to London where Queen Victoria’s physicians were consulted. It was all for naught. After a hideous four month ordeal, Jack died. He was 16.

His parents were devastated. For Robert Todd Lincoln it was yet another crushing blow in a lifetime of tragic losses. He witnessed the deaths of his three younger brothers. He rushed to his father’s side when he was shot and was with him as he died. He had to commit his mother to a sanitarium. And through the twisted fate of history, he was standing but a few feet away when President Garfield was assassinated. He was also in Buffalo, New York on the day President McKinley was assassinated and rushed to his bedside, the third President to be shot down in his lifetime. And now Jack was gone.

As expected, Robert and Mary decided Jack should be buried with his grandfather in Springfield, Illinois. That would seem like the end of the story, but Jack’s tale of mystery and sadness was far from over.

When his tenure as Ambassador concluded, Robert moved easily back into the world of business, ultimately becoming President of the Pullman Company. In 1922, though frail and unsteady, he was able to attend the dedication of the Lincoln Memorial. It would be his last public appearance. Four years later, Robert passed away at the age of 82 at his Vermont estate, Hildene. And here the story takes another surprising turn.

Robert Todd Lincoln at the Dedication of the Lincoln Memorial - May 30, 1922

In his later life, Robert made it clear he expected to be buried with his father and son in Springfield. After he died, however, Mary had other ideas. She felt strongly that Robert, “…made his own history, independently of his great father, and should have his own ‘place in the sun’.“ So she had Robert’s body stored for two years while a suitable sarcophagus was designed and built in Arlington Cemetery.

In March 1928, Robert was interred in an imposing tomb at Arlington. Jack’s body was exhumed from the Lincoln crypt in Springfield, Illinois and moved to Arlington to rest with his father.

Thirty-eight years after his death, Jack was now resting with his devoted father. Nine years later Mary was buried with her husband and son. It appeared the circle was closed. But a big problem remained. As visitors trudged up the hill in Section 31 of Arlington Cemetery to the Lincoln tomb, they saw Robert’s name carved on one side and Mary’s name on the other, but no reference to Jack. For all practical purposes, Jack had disappeared.

Given Robert and Mary’s devotion to their son, how was this possible? As it turns out, the Lincoln name, with all its prestige and influence, proved no match for the U.S. Army. For reasons that defy explanation, at the time of Jack’s reinterment with his father, Army regulations prohibited the naming of minor children on Arlington Cemetery graves.

No matter what Mary Lincoln wanted, the Army could not be moved. So Jack was buried with his father, in virtual anonymity, his existence erased to all but his immediate family. For nearly six decades, visitors stood before the Lincoln family tomb without knowing Abraham Lincoln’s grandson and namesake rested there.

This was how things stood until Rev. Joseph Gallagher, a Roman Catholic priest from Baltimore discovered Jack’s fate while researching President Lincoln’s descendants. He undertook a lobbying campaign with Maryland Senator Paul Sarbanes, and the Army ultimately retreated.

On February 10, 1984, as winter winds whipped through Arlington, John Kinnaird, a stone cutter, added these words to the front of the tomb:

Their Son

Abraham Lincoln II

1873 1890

Ninety-four years after his passing, Jack Lincoln’s place in history was finally secure.

A final postscript on the remarkable twists and turns of history.

In April 1861, President Lincoln offered COLONEL Robert E. Lee command of the Union Army. Lee declined and resigns from his Army post. His home is seized and ultimately repurposed into a national military cemetery.

In April 1865, Robert Todd Lincoln was present at Appomattox Courthouse as Lee surrendered. Sixty-three years later, Robert and Abraham Lincoln II are buried less than 100 yards from Lee’s former home.

It’s crazy I know, but who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth? So let me explain. This all started with a very friendly - out of the blue - call from one Emily Carter with SMB Credit Issuance Team. Ms. Carter, whom I’ve never met or spoken with, left me a voicemail advising me that she had been “carefully reviewing my business profile” and “noticed” that my file shows I’m “eligible for a potential risk line of credit for $185,000.” Shazam.

Three days later, she called back to tell me more good news. She said she only needs “to verify a couple of details” and the funds “could be available to access in 24-48 hours.” She left her number and urged me to move quickly on this rare opportunity.

It gets better. The next day, Maria Kennedy, from the “Business Lending and Credit Department of Asset Management and Business Lending and Credit,” (a mouthful of a title) contacted me regarding an even better offer. She said my business “was recently moved into priority review status” and I have been “pre-approved for $329,000.” As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I don’t know Maria either. Who cares, my ship has come in!

Or maybe not. Despite Emily and Maria’s carefully crafted pitches, and many more I’ve received in recent weeks, I know, as you do, that the only way any money is going to be exchanged in the transactions they propose is if I pay them. Amazingly, this kind of scam, and its many derivatives, do work - exceedingly well. This week The New York Times reported that cybercrime losses topped $21 billion in 2025, up 25% in one year and an astronomical 500% in five years. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

Looking at the broad scope of financial crime, which comes in many forms, and factoring in the likely number of cases that go unreported, the government estimates total annual losses for Americans is approaching $120 billion. That’s $10 billion per month, or $328 million per day. Some banking experts believe this number wildly understates the scale of the problem.

On a global basis, the Global Anti-Scam Alliance (I’ve never heard of them before either) estimate the total loss to scammers is in excess of $1 trillion and 1 in 4 adults are targeted weekly. I guess I’m not so special after all.

I discussed this problem with a former FBI agent and he made two points that hit home with me. First, he says the reason there isn’t more outrage is most people assume the bulk of all losses are simply absorbed by banks and credit card companies. In other words, it’s a loss that the average consumer is never going to see or feel.

It’s true, financial institutions do cover the losses. But they don’t do so out of the goodness of their hearts. Consumers ultimately pick up the tab, which totaled roughly $3,000 per adult in the U.S. last year.

His second point is that “human nature favors the criminals.” I asked how and he made a point that caused me to wince. He said, “everybody assumes they would be too smart to be fooled by a scammer.” It’s human nature to see folly, naïveté and poor judgment as something that only affects others. The scammers know this and THRIVE on it. It causes people to lower their guards - the dream scenario for a skillful crook.

The sad fact is we all need to take this sort of crime much more seriously. The fraudsters are well-resourced, highly motivated, backed by crime syndicates and rogue countries in some cases, and thrilled by what AI can do for their schemes.

I confess I’m one of those who believed I was too experienced to be fooled. After all, I’ve been helping executives navigate crises for 40 years. Surely I can protect myself. I realize now I was the one being fooled. This is an exploding arena of crime. No one is immune from the reach of motivated, sophisticated fraudsters. I’ve had a complete shift in my mindset.

My advice to everyone reading this is not to be afraid to admit you are vulnerable and concerned. This is the first step in protecting yourself.

P.S. As I was finishing this draft, my new friends called yet again. This time the caller didn’t identity herself. She just left this message:

“The good news is most of the heavy lifting has already been completed. At this point, we just need to verify a couple remaining items on our side before issuing the final approval and releasing the funds…”

If this is a trillion dollar business today, at the start of AI, what will it be in another five years?? Heaven help us.

Exactly what type of selfies am I talking about, you may ask? It’s easy. It’s the guy in Arizona who goes on a hike, crosses paths with a rattlesnake, and decides this is a great opportunity for a photograph that will shock and amuse his friends. You think I’m kidding? There haven’t been lots of reported cases, but it does happen.

In one instance, a guy grabbed the unwilling and unhappy rattler, posed for the shot, and found a set of fangs embedded in his arm faster than his finger could hit the camera icon on his iPhone. He was medevacked to a hospital where a team of doctors and nurses, armed with who knows how many vials of anti-venom, managed to save his life.

In the online chatter that developed after this story became public, there was considerable shock and dismay at the $153,000 medical bill the fellow received. One person lamented that this experience proves that “healthcare is broken.” I don’t know about you, but when I hear about a guy who nearly died while taking a selfie with a rattlesnake, my first thought is not to bemoan the cost of medical care in America. All I can think is, “What in God’s name was this guy thinking?”

If you think the universe of people dumb enough to attempt a rattlesnake selfie is too small in number to worry about, let’s expand our horizons a little bit. Consider bison, bears, and alligators. If you’re a park ranger in Yellowstone, you have to have mixed feelings about the summer vacation season.

Tourists flock to the Park and a shockingly large number of them think that taking a selfie with a bison or a grizzly is an essential part of the experience. Despite countless prominently posted warning signs, repeated, explicit admonitions by Rangers, and endless media stories about visitors being chased, attacked, or worse, it keeps happening. Fred and Mary from Maryland (and their three kids) are bound and determined to get a close-up with a 2,000 lb. bison or a 700 lb. grizzly bear - both of which can reach top speeds of 35-40 miles per hour.

The idiotic/tourist problem is so significant and - sadly - so endlessly entertaining, that there is a word for it: “Tourons,” a contraction of Tourists and Morons. Google ‘Tourons of Yellowstone’ for a quick tutorial on how not to behave in a national park. Every day, Rangers have to deal not just with idiotic selfie adventures but with tourists who taunt animals, get between mothers and cubs, and think it’s a good idea to feed wild animals.

If this isn’t crazy enough, some of these folks also like to wander off the wooden walkways in order to “explore” the hydrothermal amenities of the Park. The fact that the temperature of the springs typically reach 200 degrees Fahrenheit, hot enough to cause lethal burns, doesn’t deter their inquisitive instincts.

On the gator front, it’s golfers I want to highlight. Over the last 30 years, the alligator population in the southeast has soared to somewhere between 5-8 million. It’s no longer a novel thing to see any number of 8-12 feet long alligators on golf courses from Hilton Head to Naples to New Orleans.

And you know what happens. There’s always that guy, who’s usually had one too many, who thinks it’s a good idea to crown his day by teasing a gator. All I can say is, the guys who do this haven’t spent any time watching videos of adult alligators scaling six-feet chain link fences like professional jewel thieves (I’m serious). When they see a chubby golfer in yellow pants, they don’t see a threat, they see dinner.

Every time I hear one of these stories, my first thought is, “And we let these people vote.” As one who wouldn’t consider limiting voting based on race, gender, religion, sexual preference, political persuasion, etc., I confess I think it may be an option we consider for someone who takes a selfie with a rattlesnake or a grizzly, or taunts an alligator.

As I was writing this draft, my wife told me she had just had a conversation with a friend who had recently gone on an extended hike with her husband. At one point they nearly ran into a bear family. She and her husband quickly and carefully retreated and headed back up the trail. They soon encountered a young couple with a baby and warned them about the bears. The response from the mother was, “Oh great, we were hoping to see bears.”

Ben Franklin was right. We are all born ignorant. Remaining stupid…at this level, as an adult…takes real work.

The friend accepted but, unfortunately, later that evening he was involved in a car accident and had to go to the hospital to have a broken thumb treated. As soon as he was released, however, he headed for his friend’s apartment. Between the pain pills, the beer, and whatever else, the good times rolled. Around midnight, the couple told their guest about a half-baked idea they had for a song and sang the first verse. He loved it. They spent the rest of the night finishing what they were sure was a hit.

They had written “Take Me Home Country Roads.”

The evening after they finished the song, the trio decided to perform it for a small crowd at a local club. They didn’t know the words, so they taped the lyrics to the microphone. By the second chorus, the crowd was singing along. Convinced they had something, the writers pitched the song to a record company. Reluctantly, the company agreed to record it, but when initial sales fell flat the company wanted to pull the plug. The artists fought for the song, and you know what happened.

There’s something else you should know. None of the three writers had ever been to West Virginia. All they knew is the words sounded like “songwriter words,” as they described it, so they went with it.

Every West Virginian believes to their core that the magic of this song is that it captures the beauty and majesty of their home state.

Almost heaven, West Virginia

Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River

Life is old there, older than the trees

Younger than the mountains, growing like a breeze

Country roads, take me home.

The writers considered making it about Massachusetts, but the rhyming scheme didn’t work. They opted for West Virginia, but the song was never about a single place. That’s why it’s beloved.

Here’s why I’m telling you a story about a 51-year-old song. If you were to go to any beer hall in Bavaria tonight, the Oompah band would be playing “Take Me Home Country Roads,” and every patron would be standing and singing with gusto. Google ‘NFL games in Germany and Country Roads’, and be prepared for 80,000 fans in a stadium doing the same thing. In Japan, the story is identical. The song was featured in a mega-successful Japanese movie decades ago and now it’s taught in every Japanese primary school. It’s played non-stop in karaoke clubs across Asia, with teary-eyed guests singing along.

All across Africa, it’s labeled a “massive unifying hit.” The Czechs love it because it reminds them of their rustic, camping/tramping culture. The Romanians and Poles think of it as their home country song. In Russia it has become a staple of wedding receptions. The people of New Guinea are devoted to the song because it connects them with the migration experiences of their ancestors. In Mongolia the song is used as a tool for teaching English. My wife reminds me she has been serenaded with “Country Roads” in Myanmar and Bhutan.

This is a song that every human being understands at a visceral level. We all want to be loved. We all want to be safe. And we all want a place we can call home.

I have my own unexpected connection to the song. My farm in West Virginia borders the Shenandoah, with the Blue Ridge Mountains in the background. I searched for decades for this property, and every time I hear the song I’m just like everybody else - I think it was written just for me.

My farm on the Shenandoah

John Denver, and his friends Bill Danoff and Taffy Nivert stumbled into the ultimate global anthem. Everyone believes Country Roads was written for - and about - their home. As long as people sing, and as long as people have hearts, “Take Me Home Country Roads” will remain the anthem that takes everyone…home.

My topic for this post is friendship….more specifically, why we should take action to address the growing friendship deficit.

It seems like every other week there is a new public opinion poll on the state of loneliness in America. The American Psychological Association says 54% of us feel isolated. According to the Institute for Family Studies, young people are only spending five hours a week with friends, a decline of 60% in 15 years. The most common type of household in the U.S. today is someone living alone - 30%. (In the Washington D.C. area, it’s nearly 50%.)

As I started reading more about this topic, I was surprised to learn that many social scientists dispute the idea that we are becoming more lonely. They say that concerns about growing isolation have been trumpeted for at least the last 75 years, but the science is far more nuanced. One trend that social scientists do agree on, however, is that young people are reporting dramatically higher rates of loneliness and social disconnection.

I’m not a social scientist, but my instincts tell me that we need to rethink the definition of loneliness. I’m convinced that the combined forces of a K-shaped economy, unrelenting social media pressures, a growing addiction to smart phones and devices, along with declining birth rates and the virtual disappearance of civic clubs, have left a large sector of our society in a totally new state of isolation and despair. Add to this already immensely difficult environment the AI tsunami that’s about to sweep over us, and I think we need an urgent examination of how we can help each other build and sustain more friendships.

One of the more interesting aspects of friendship is how many different types of friends we can have. For example, there is a person in my life who frequently tells me what good friends we are. I like and admire this person, and I appreciate the sentiment, but I’ve never thought of us as friends. We’ve never visited each other’s homes. We’ve only shared a few meals. We speak at least a couple times a month, sometimes more, but it’s almost always strictly business related. Our phone calls are affable, mutually respectful, even warm, but they’re seldom personal.

I would characterize us as “friendly” rather than friends. But that’s ok. The relationship is still meaningful and enjoyable. It’s just that I would never consider calling this person just to talk. Nor would I reach out to this person if I needed help of some kind.

On the other end of the spectrum, I have a circle of friends I connect with on a regular basis. The degree of friendship varies, but I have a number of buddies (male and female) who care about me and know that the feeling is mutual. We talk just to talk. We know each other’s hobbies, food preferences, kids, spouses. We’re invested in each other’s well-being. I wish I had done even more to develop and nurture friendships of this type, but I’m exceedingly grateful for the ones I have.

This leads me to a question prompted by my friend Joan. Last week, as she was walking in Central Park, she called to tell me about the unexpected death of a long-time, close friend. She and I are similar in age, so we commiserated about the increasing frequency with which we are losing friends. As I often do, I injected the lyrics of a country music song into the conversation. I told her that when I lose someone close to me I invariably think of the Dolly Parton-Kenny Rogers song, You Can’t Make Old Friends…

What will I do when you’re gone?

Who’s gonna tell me the truth?

Who’s gonna finish the stories I start

The way you always do?

When somebody knocks at the door

Someone new walks in

I will smile and shake their hands

But you can’t make old friends.

When I hung up from our call, I started thinking it’s not just impossible (at my age) to make old friends, it’s also hard to make ANY new friends at this age. And then the hard reality hit me - it’s becoming increasingly difficult for all of us, at every age, to make new friends.

So here’s my idea….I know it’s a non-starter, but I think we need programs in primary and secondary schools to help young people build friendships. Many of you are probably saying this is a silly idea. Or worse. I’m sure you’re thinking friendships have to develop naturally. I understand, but the forces that prevent friendships from developing naturally are overwhelming us. We need to foster the process.

Here’s what I know for sure: we do not want to live in a world where people feel increasingly isolated - where our primary contact is an AI being of some sort. As unpleasant as the current state of our divisiveness and unpleasantness may seem, it will only get worse if we raise an entire generation of kids who have no meaningful human relationships. We can and must help our children overcome the forces that are leaving them feeling isolated.

To my friends who are reading this post - some of whom go back more than 50 years - I’m grateful more than you know.

Best Friend Alice

Yesterday marked four months since my successful cancer surgery at Duke, and while I hadn’t planned on writing further about my experience, I concluded I should acknowledge that as difficult as a bout with cancer can be, there are some surprising benefits as well.

Before I tell you what I gained from cancer, however, I want to make sure there’s no misunderstanding about my overall perspective - cancer is a nightmare. And when cancer takes a loved one away from you, it’s hard to see any light. For the 19 million cancer survivors, the story is more complicated.

No matter who you are, when your doctor tells you that you have cancer, your life changes. The tests are unpleasant…or worse. The information is unclear…at best. The internet becomes your best friend…and a trap you can’t escape. You fear the worst…but you have no choice except to move forward.

If you’re lucky, you have health insurance and access to competent medical professionals. I can’t imagine how folks manage with little or no insurance and limited professional care. It’s not something anyone should have to experience.

I realize I am very lucky. I have Medicare and supplemental insurance. I also had access to a number of excellent facilities, surgeons, pathologists and oncologists. Even with these advantages, I struggled to get a sound diagnosis and proper care. But I found my way, and my prospects are good, so it’s time to review what I’ve gained from cancer.

I’VE BEEN HUMBLED

Being humbled doesn’t exactly sound like a benefit, but, all in all, it’s been good for me. Everything about advanced prostate cancer is humbling. The exam, the tests, the biopsies, the surgery, the side effects, even the therapy. You get knocked down, and you learn two important lessons: lots of people have it far worse, and you can get through it. Previously I wrote about the embarrassing side effects every prostate patient experiences after surgery. It’s a daily struggle, but count me solidly in the Deion Sanders camp. There’s nothing to hide, and there’s no reason to let it keep you down. A little dose of humility can be good for all of us.

MY FRIENDS HAVE BEEN FABULOUS

When the news of my spiraling problems with cancer became known to my friends, I was inundated with expressions of concern and promises of prayer. I was always appreciative, but as time went on, I realized how deeply committed many of my friends were to enlisting a higher power to help me. It touched me to see their concerns and it moved me to witness their faith.

Three friends who deserve mentioning are my colleague and friend of 50 years, Theresa, Country Music Hall of Fame Member, Connie Smith, and the incredible Sue Paterno. I believe everyone can have a link to a higher authority, but it sure seems like a few people have a better connection than the rest of us. These three great ladies fall in that exalted class. They included me in their daily prayers, surrounded me with love and called me frequently to share their confidence in my recovery. Many others did the same, and I was genuinely touched and moved by everyone who joined my battle.

A second, unexpected, Nashville contingent rallied to my support as well. Through Theresa and Connie (unbeknownst to each other) I have connections to the Nuns at the Dominican Sisters of Saint Cecilia. Theresa reached out to them with news of my diagnosis and they formed what Theresa, Deb and I called a “Dominicans for Dan” prayer group. I was amused, amazed and deeply touched by their love and concern.

To all my friends who put in a good word for me, I’m more appreciative than you know. It makes me want to be a better friend.

Connie Smith and the Dominican Sisters of Saint Cecilia

I RELEARNED THE HARD TRUTH: THERE ARE NO THROW-AWAY DAYS

The great philosopher, Earl Weaver, was adamant that the worst sin in baseball is to give away an out. (For the non-baseball readers, Earl was the famously feisty and crafty Manager of the Baltimore Orioles.) His view was the game gives you only 27 outs and you have a sacred obligation to treat each one like the precious jewel that it is.

I’ve tried to approach my life this way, but perhaps not as fervently as Earl protected his outs. Cancer, however, has brought a new sense of urgency. I try hard to savor every day, and I refuse to let a sour, rude person steal happiness from me, or the latest political firestorm or stock market implosion shape my mood.

I often ask my friends to tell me what they spent time on over the last year that brought them the most joy. Sometimes it’s big things like a fabulous trip or a new or remodeled house, but usually it’s more mundane things like concerts, gardening, or cookouts with family and friends. My plan for not throwing away any day is more in this second category. More live music, time with Alice and Deb, casual time with good friends and great drives are all on my list.

My message to each of you is not to wait for cancer to focus on what brings you joy. We should all do what we can to carve out more time for the things that replenish our spirit and soul.

IT WAS A PRIVILEGE TO BE TREATED BY BRILLIANT SURGEONS

One of the unexpected benefits of having doctors who misdiagnosed my situation is that I was ultimately steered to two brilliant surgeons who literally saved my life. Dr. Viraj Master, at Emory, is precisely what his name implies, a MASTER. He’s a spectacular surgeon, and the friend and advisor everyone longs for in a medical crisis. He was the one who told me my diagnosis was completely wrong and I needed immediate surgery. It was based on his recommendation that I ended up being treated by Dr. Reza Nabavizadeh at Duke.

Reza is the surgeon from central casting. He’s unquestionably brilliant and highly skilled, of course. But he’s also charming, kind and a great communicator. He took a lot out of me - literally and figuratively - but my surgery was the work of a genius. We are unbelievably fortunate in this country to have extraordinary health centers such as Emory and Duke and doctors of the caliber of Viraj and Reza.

A Happy Reunion with Doctors Viraj Master and Reza Nabavizadeh

I’M MORE AWARE OF THE POWER OF KINDNESS

Heaven knows we all need and want more kindness in our lives. We live in a sea of negativity and nastiness. Our daily news flow is crushingly depressing. Anger is ever present - in media, public meetings, parking lots, checkout lines, you name it. So when we hear a kind word, or someone smiles at us, or a door is held open, we feel a fleeting second of joy and relief. We crave it and we all have the capacity to extend it. Cancer has caused me to be more conscious of the opportunities I have to spread kindness.

Perhaps I could have learned these lessons or had these experiences without going through cancer. I doubt it. Some of life’s toughest and most important lessons are learned through pain, loss and sacrifice. I will always hate cancer, but I’m very aware that the experience has also been enriching. I feel blessed.

Below is the text I received from Dr. Reza Nabavizadeh after my most recent blood test. I feel nothing but gratitude.

So when the note-sized, cream colored envelope, with the Lincoln Cottage logo embossed on the flap, arrived in the mail, I assumed it was a fund-raising pitch for this often overlooked, historic jewel.

But it was hand-addressed, with penmanship that looked familiar, so I knew it was something of a more personal nature. Inside was the note you see below.

I was amused and intrigued. Over the years, I’ve seen enough Lincoln notes and letters to recognize his handwriting. The penmanship was definitely his, or a very good imitation. I figured it was just a clever invite to a book party or a lecture of some kind. As there was no rsvp information, I called the Cottage to inquire. They said they had no idea what I was talking about.

I wondered, is this a hoax? Or perhaps an elaborate - and creative - way to generate interest for an event. I put the invitation aside and tried not to think about it. But as the date approached, my curiosity got the better of me. For reasons I can’t explain even to myself, I drove to Lincoln Cottage last Friday night, admittedly feeling foolish about what I was doing.

Lincoln’s Cottage - Previously Known as Soldier’s Home

I parked as close to the house as I could get, and walked by the statue of the President with his horse that stands near the front entrance. I proceeded down the brick walkway and self-consciously knocked on the door. Seconds later the door opened and suddenly I was standing face-to-face with the 16th President, or a pretty fabulous impersonator.

This is my story of my dinner with Abraham Lincoln.

I was shocked and confused. It certainly looked like him, but that’s too crazy to be real, right? I even wondered if I was being videotaped for an embarrassing “Candid Camera” moment. At the same time, something had prompted me to drive to his house. So somewhere in my brain I had to think it was at least possible he would be there. Now he’s standing in the doorway, with a mischievous grin on his face, inviting me inside.

He looked just like his photos: the beard, of course - hiding a gaunt, craggy face, thick black hair, thin frame, long limbs and big, gnarled hands. He was wearing slippers and an old sweater, and was clearly amused by my shock and confusion. “Come in,” he said. “I’ll explain everything, we’re going to have a fine evening.”

I stepped into the house expecting it to be the way I’ve known it since it was restored in 2007. The Lincoln Cottage I’ve come to know is sparsely furnished. There are no re-created settings, and few authentic pieces from President Lincoln’s time because the house never had a permanent collection of family furnishings. Each summer the Lincoln’s brought their furniture with them from the Executive Mansion (as it was called in his day), and in the fall they took the items back with them.

Now, however, the house was fully furnished with old, dark, tufted chairs, a couple of severe looking couches and a heavy table with a marble top. The lighting was dim and flickering. As I scanned the room, I realized there were no electric lights and no sign of any outlets. The room had a sepia tone that made me feel like I was on the set of the movie, Lincoln.

We walked into the dining room where the table was set for two. As he graciously directed me to my chair, all I could think about was what if this really is Abraham Lincoln. But wait a minute, that’s ridiculous. This has to be a show, a performance. Right? I’m thinking my wife must be in on this. Maybe this a gift from her to honor my love of history. But as great as she is, this would not be her thing.

As I sat down, I decided I had to play along. If somehow President Lincoln has come back for the night, and I’m the one who gets to have dinner with him, I’d be a fool to squander the evening by trying to figure out the forces that made it possible. And if someone has gone to this much trouble to stage a performance, the least I can do is play my part as well as I can. I stopped trying to figure out what was happening and started thinking of questions I should ask.

Before I could say anything, he posed the first question. “Where are you from,” he asked. I said, “Mr...ah..President, I was about to ask you the same thing.” He laughed. And then I told him I was born in West Virginia and I have a farm in Charles Town. His face lit up. “Oh my, that’s marvelous,” he said. “Carving out West Virginia, and making it the 35th state, was one of the happiest moments of my Presidency. I know it twisted Jeff Davis into a bow knot,” he exclaimed. Then he added, “I have a lot of interest in Charles Town and the area around it. I know we will have some good stories to swap.”

35 Star Flag Honoring West Virginia’s Statehood

Given the historic accuracy of everything else about the night, I guessed the food would reflect his habits as well. I was right. Lincoln was known to have simple, consistent eating habits and tonight was no different. He offered wine, but I knew he rarely drank so I was comfortable declining. He had a glass of milk and I had water. And then he smiled as we were served his favorite dish, Chicken Fricassee and biscuits, with a side of sweet potatoes. We finished with apple pie.

As the evening progressed, the President went out of his way to make me feel comfortable. It almost seemed normal. So I asked the question that had to be asked, “Sir, please forgive my impertinence,” I blurted, “but who are you, and why am I here?” The hesitation in my voice betrayed my nervousness, but at least I had been direct.

“I was wondering when you were going to ask me that,” he said. “You deserve an explanation.” He first thanked me for accepting his invitation and then he told me why and how we were brought together. He explained that he had a “long-time friendship” with a fellow at the National Trust who had helped lead the effort to restore the Cottage. He said no one else at the Trust was aware of their relationship, which went back to the beginning of the restoration process.

He said the Cottage had always held a special place in his heart so he was thrilled when he learned it was going to be saved. As he explained it, he essentially served as a confidential resource for determining how the rooms should look and verifying events that occurred in the house.

He explained further that the Cottage is a modest endeavor as he spends most of his time commiserating (his word) with veterans of the war. He said he was the one who raised the idea of having dinner in the house with a selected guest. He told his “friend” he had no interest in meeting with politicians or journalists. His only requirements, he said, were for someone with a love of history and a record of supporting the Cottage. His friend told him about me and Mr. Lincoln said I sounded ideal. At least that’s what he told me.

I told him I was honored and flattered, but I had to know, “Why didn’t you have dinner with a noted historian, such as Doris Kearns Goodwin? Or the brilliant documentarian, Ken Burns? Or Steven Spielberg?” He smiled and said, “They’ve been my good friends for years. A closer look at their work might give you a hint of my contributions.” “By the way,” he added, “I thought Daniel Day-Lewis made a better Lincoln than I did.” And he chuckled.

Daniel Day-Lewis as Lincoln

At this point my head was spinning, but I knew the time was limited so I requested permission to ask more questions. He told me to ask anything I wanted.

“I know you wrote the Emancipation Proclamation here in this house,” I said. “What do you remember about drafting it and what are your thoughts about Antietam.”

“You know your history,” he said. “Come with me and I’ll show you where I wrote the Proclamation.” We walked into the adjacent room and he pointed to the writing desk where he drafted one of the most important documents in American history. (In fact, the desk is an exact replica. The actual desk was moved to the White House.) I’ve been in this room many times, but I got chills as he explained how he decided to emancipate the slaves in confederate states and why he had to wait for a military victory to announce it. “The importance of Antietam can’t be overstated,” he said.

An Exact Replica of the Desk where Lincoln Wrote the Emancipation Proclamation

“As I’m sure you know, the first two years of the war didn’t go well. I struggled to find the right Generals and our overall strategy was, I’m sorry to say, fairly inept,” he confessed.” “Those were dark days,” he added. He further explained that he knew it would be foolhardy to announce the Emancipation while the Confederate Army was seen as having the upper hand. “We needed a great victory,” he explained. “Antietam was a major victory, as you know, but it galls me to this day that General McClellan failed to finish the fight. I think his reticence to pursue Lee added at least a year, and maybe two, to the war. As you probably know, I went to Sharpsburg soon after the battle and had a frank conversation with General McClellan about my severe disappointment. He may have listened but he didn’t hear me,” he lamented.

Lincoln Meeting with McClellan in Sharpsburg, MD - October 2, 1862

“I try not to be a prideful man,” he said, “but I can’t help but feel enormous pride in the Emancipation Proclamation. I think it stands with the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution and the Bill of Rights as a foundational document of American history,” he claimed. “If I did nothing else, I ended America’s deal with the devil on slavery. I suppose if a man is going to be prideful, that’s about the best reason possible,” he added.

The Emancipation Proclamation - Located at the National Archives

And then he offered his views on a few leading figures of his day. Of General McClellan, who ended up running against Lincoln in 1864, he added to his criticism. “He looked like a General, and planned and talked like a General. He just didn’t fight like a General. Or a competent one at least,” he groused.

On the other hand, he said Grant was the ideal General. “General Grant is one of the greatest figures in American history. He loathed the war, but he knew how to prosecute it. He didn’t dress like a General. And his alleged drinking bothered a lot of folks. I didn’t pay any attention to that, in fact, I offered to send him a case of his favorite drink. More than any one man, he deserves credit for our victory,” he asserted.

General Ulysses Grant - Lincoln’s Favorite General

The person he criticized most sharply was his second Vice President, Andrew Johnson. He said, “Hannibal Hamlin was my first Vice President, and he was a good man. He had only one fault - and it was political - he was from Maine! In 64 it was thought that I needed a Southern Vice President, so Johnson was tagged. It was sheer political expediency and it was a god-awful mistake.”

Andrew Johnson - Lincoln’s Unfortunate Successor

I asked him about Robert E. Lee, and he hesitated before responding. He finally said, “I liked Bobby Lee. He was an excellent military officer. You know he was the one the Army called on to put down the John Brown rebellion near your farm in West Virginia.” Then he added, “I offered him command of the Union Army, but he turned me down and it changed the course of our history. I will say, however, his former plantation sure makes a fine resting place for our heroes,” he said with a grin.

I knew our time was running out. My mind raced with questions, but I sensed he was ready to retire. I thanked him for a remarkable evening, but told him I was still confused about what I had seen and heard. He laughed. He said, “The world is full of many mysteries. We all make a mistake when we think we know the borders of our world and the limits of what’s possible.”

He concluded with what he was careful to call a piece of advice from a common citizen. He said, “I never comment on current affairs. And I offer no advice on political matters. But I love this country and I always worry about our future. As I told you, I spend most of my time with veterans who gave their lives to save this democracy. To a man, they are proud of their service and honored to have made the ultimate sacrifice for such a great cause. They are also unanimous in their view that one civil war is enough. God knows that’s true,” he declared.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” he said. “But I will remind you, as Americans, we are all connected and we all have a responsibility to protect our precious democracy. You are the 20th generation of Americans. All the generations who came before you, and all that will follow are counting on you to do your part to protect this country. I’m confident you have the strength and wisdom to do it. I wish you Godspeed,” he concluded. And he was gone.

I was dazed for a few seconds, and then the lights came on. The old furniture suddenly disappeared. Everything in the cottage was back to what I remembered.

I’m as confused about this experience as you are. But it does give me a lot to think about. I hope you feel the same.

Happy Memorial Day.

God bless you, Rod Serling, wherever you are. If you’d only had AI when you wrote The Twilight Zone. Then again, maybe you did.

Prior to the outbreak of World War I, the area that’s now Nitro was sparsely populated farmland. In 1917, as the war was expanding, Army officials undertook an urgent search for a large tract of land with rail and river access on which to build a massive explosives factory. They found what they were looking for in the Kanawha Valley, and quickly acquired 1,800 acres along the river to build a gunpowder factory and a BRAND NEW TOWN complete with a hospital, churches, stores, civic buildings and thousands of homes.

Wanted Ad for Construction Workers

In a matter of weeks, more than 120,000 construction workers descended on the area and work began at an astonishing pace. In October of 1917 - just 11 months after the project started - the factory and town were all but completed. A month later the war ended.

The State of the Munitions Factory as the War Ended

I guess you could say Nitro quite literally went from Boom to Bust…overnight.

The 120,000 construction workers picked up and left. The 35,000 residents started looking elsewhere for work. The federal government, with no need for a munitions factory, much less a town, put everything up for auction. A group of businessmen from Charleston bought the place, lock, stock and barrel, for $8.5 million and repurposed the factory into a chemical manufacturing center. Monsanto, FMC and other major chemical companies bought in and the town was relaunched.

Nitro as a Chemical Center

As I was growing up, Nitro had leveled off at about 8,000 people with a solid working-class economy. All the men in my neighborhood worked in one of the local chemical factories. They were all World War II vets. They were union members. They voted democratic. And they were 100% white.

At the time, this didn’t seem odd to me because it was the only world I knew. I was about to write something about how segregated my world was, but that’s not exactly true. Segregation assumes the separation of communities. In Nitro there were no communities to separate. We were all white, Anglo Saxon, Protestant. There was no “black” part of town. There were no Jews, Hispanics, or Asians. As a boy I not only didn’t know anyone different than me, I never remember speaking with anyone who didn’t look like me. I thought diversity was someone who was Catholic.

In case you are thinking I grew up in a backward, hard-scrabble town, it wasn’t the case. The 1950’s and 60’s were prosperous years for Nitro. I attended a new elementary school and a new junior high school. The interstate came through town in the early 60’s. The factories were humming (making lots of chemicals for the Vietnam War I learned later) and most people could afford a decent life. Coming out of the Depression and World War II, folks from my parent’s generation were extremely grateful to have a job, decent food and a home.

My exposure to a diverse world was limited to sports, music and television. I loved Muhammad Ali, Wilt Chamberlain, Jim Brown, Hank Aaron and anything Motown.

I loved listening to Rev. King, but my understanding of the Civil Rights movement was limited to what I saw on the evening news - which was only 15 minutes long until CBS went to 30 minutes in 1963.

The 1st 30 Minute News Broadcast. CBS. September 2, 1963

My first face-to-face, meaningful exposure to a non-white person occurred quite unexpectedly in junior high school. In the fall of 1968, I entered the 8th grade and was more than a little surprised to find that my gym teacher was a black man, Coach Turner. The funny thing is I DON’T remember being shocked. Nor do I remember ever having any conversations with my friends or other teachers about our new teacher. He was on the faculty, and in my 14-year-old world, it seemed novel but somehow not shocking.

For those of you too young to remember, 1968 was a dark year in American history. The Vietnam War was raging, Dr. King and Bobby Kennedy were assassinated, and riots broke out in major cities across the country. It felt like the nation was being ripped apart.

And this is the time Coach Turner shows up to teach in an all-white school, in an all-white town. Looking back, I can only imagine the anxiety he must have felt. I think about what must have been on his mind as he commuted to work that first day. I wonder why he came there at that time. I doubt it was his choice, but I don’t know. I understood he drove about 50 miles each way to work, which makes me think this was the only position in the school system he could find.

I have no knowledge that he was mistreated. Maybe he was welcomed. Maybe he made friends in the time he was there. But he was absolutely alone. I’m sure he had to be anxious about stopping for gas or going into a store. He had to worry about being stopped by the police. At 14, these thoughts never crossed my mind. I wish I could say I got to know him well, but I didn’t. We had brief interactions during class and I remember thinking he was a good guy. Friendly, pleasant, professional. When I moved to high school I never saw him again.

Four years later I was living in Washington D.C. and working on Capitol Hill as a Congressional Page. I was not much more enlightened or experienced at 17 than I was at 14, and I don’t remember ever giving a thought to the idea that I would be leaving my white, sheltered world for one of diversity. All I thought about was how excited I was to be in the center of national politics and history.

I love the Washington area. It’s been my home for 54 years and it’s given me everything I could have dreamed of and more. But the greatest gift this town has given me is exposure to people of every description, nationality, color, race, religion, viewpoint, sexual orientation, walk of life, political affinity and more.

As a kid from the most homogeneous community possible, the most important lesson I’ve learned is that diversity - in the truest sense of the word - is the richest blessing this planet has to offer. The fact that we aren’t all the same is something to celebrate, not fear. It’s our endless differences that make the United States the most creative, dynamic, exciting place on earth.

Nitro has experienced hard times since the 70’s. The chemical industry largely left town, and the businesses that replaced the factories generally pay less. The town is no longer all white, but diversity in Nitro, as with the rest of the state, is still modest. I’ve always taken pride in my home state and my hometown. I was given a great education and strong values, and I give Nitro a lot of credit for the blessed life I’ve had.

I hope Coach Turner went on to a great teaching career and a wonderful life. He thought he was teaching me about physical fitness. In fact, he was the first person to show me that there was a larger world I needed to know and embrace. Thank you, Coach. You were an even better teacher than you realized.

PS

Among the tens of thousands of laborers who flocked to Nitro was a 17-year-old, Hollywood-handsome kid from Ohio by the name of Clark Gable. He had a pretty good career after leaving Nitro.

The numbers for women and young adults are even more dramatic. Only 51% of women say they drink. For young adults it’s 50%.

Initially I was surprised by these numbers, but, on reflection, there are a lot of forces at play that explain why drinking is in decline. But before I review the reasons why we’re drinking less, I want to tell you a story about my own drinking habits.

I’m nearly 72 years old and I’ve never had an alcoholic beverage. No beer, no wine, no liquor. Not in high school. Not in college. Not in business settings. Ever. This is not a boast, and believe me, I have NO feelings of self-righteousness. In case you’re wondering, my avoidance of alcohol is not guided by religion. I also don’t recall ever having a conversation with my mother or stepfather about alcohol. I simply don’t drink and for most of my life I never gave it much thought. Recently I finally acknowledged the reason and it led me to a touching reunion in Arlington Cemetery.

In September of 1963 I was nine years old and already in love with cars, baseball and history. On a Saturday morning that month my mother received a phone call that sent her screaming down the street to a neighbor’s house. I have no idea who called her, but what shocked her into grief was the news that her older brother, Charles, was dead. My understanding is that he passed out in a drunken stupor while smoking a cigarette and accidentally set himself on fire.

Beyond the scene of my mother screaming, I remember very little else about that tragedy. I think I remember my parents packing for a funeral, but I can’t be sure. What I can be sure about is that my mother and I never spoke of my uncle or his death again. I also don’t remember ever hearing my grandmother speak of him. He was simply erased from my life.

Fast forward eight years and I’m now living in Washington D.C. while I work as a Congressional Page. My parents would come to visit me occasionally and we would always make a point of visiting the usual tourist stops. In the back of my mind I think I recall my uncle being buried at Arlington Cemetery, but it’s never mentioned and I don’t ask. We never visit the cemetery.

Finally, last year I decided it was time to sort out the facts. Here’s what I learned. My uncle, Charles Guthrie, died on September 28, 1963. He was 38 years old. I was unable to find anything about the circumstances of his death, but I didn’t need to know more. I was able to confirm that he is buried in Arlington Cemetery, Section 43, Site 1507.

Ironically enough, in the summer months I often take walks in Arlington Cemetery. I find it an inspiring and soothing place. Without knowing it, I’ve been within a few feet of my uncle’s grave many times. With the information I had gathered, I decided to visit my uncle. His grave is in a lovely location, convenient to one of the driveways and surrounded by beautiful trees. As I stood in front of his marker I wondered when was the last time anyone visited? Did my parents come when they visited me? Did my grandmother ever see his grave? I don’t know.

But I had a brief talk with him. I introduced myself and told him I was sorry for the disease that ultimately took his life. And then I told him that his life had more meaning than he knew. For the first time, I acknowledged it’s because of him I don’t drink. I thanked him, saluted him for his military service and promised to visit again.

You may think it’s strange I took so long to accept that my uncle’s death profoundly impacted my life. I’m sure a good psychiatrist could sort this out for me. All I know is I’ve never consumed alcohol and I’ve never regretted it or worried about it. I admit there are times when I think a cold beer looks very appealing. And I’m embarrassed that I know nothing about wine. But all in all, it’s been the right course for me.

As to why drinking is in decline, the experts list multiple reasons. Economic pressures. The availability of legal marijuana. A growing health movement. Greater awareness of health risks. I’m sure there are other factors.

Will the decline continue? I don’t know, but I’m pretty certain we’re not going back to previous levels of alcohol consumption. I guess I was a trendsetter.

My heart goes out to those who are battling alcoholism. I cannot imagine how difficult it must be - for you and your loved ones. And to those who’ve triumphed over the disease, I can only say, God bless you for your strength and courage.

RIP Uncle Charles. Bless you and thank you.

HOW WE HELPED SENIORS

Beginning with Franklin Roosevelt and the New Deal, the federal government has poured trillions of dollars into an all-out assault on elderly poverty. The list of pro-senior programs, tax incentives, and policies that have been enacted in the last nine decades is extensive and impressive. And the results, while far from perfect, have been astonishingly effective.

In the 1930s, with the Great Depression raging, it’s estimated that as many as 90% of America’s senior citizens were living in poverty. To be old at that time (which was anyone over 50) meant living in a cramped space (often with children and grandchildren), with little or no income, no medical care, no central heat, primitive plumbing, and rarely enough to eat.

On August 14, 1935, President Franklin Roosevelt signed the Social Security Act, which “established a system of Federal old-age benefits.” The budget for its first year of operation was $49,750,000, of which $250,000 was set aside for administration. For perspective, this year we will spend nearly $1.7 trillion on Social Security payments and close to $15 billion on administrative costs. That’s more than 20% of the Federal budget.

In 1965, after a decades-long battle in Congress, Medicare was enacted. The original program provided hospital insurance (Part A) and medical insurance (Part B) for everyone over age 65. The budget for its first year of operation was $3 billion. This year, it will top $1.6 trillion.

As I wrote in my post on the magic of grandparent love, my grandmother’s only independent income was her $50 Social Security, and the enactment of Medicare gave her health insurance for the first time, at age 76.

Not all expenditures for Social Security and Medicare go to seniors, but the Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania estimates that 62%, or $2.7 trillion, of all “age-assignable benefits” paid by the Federal Government will go to individuals over 65.

The success of this massive, sustained investment is impossible to argue with:

• Poverty among seniors is estimated at less than 10% today.

• The average lifespan has increased from under 60 in 1935 to nearly 80 today.

• Virtually no seniors had health insurance before 1965 — today 95% of elderly health care costs are covered by Medicare.

SUPPORTING VETERANS

In 1944, as World War II was coming to an end, there was a heated debate in Washington about what the government should do to help the 16 million men and women who had served in the conflict. Fresh in the minds of many was the shameful way the government had treated the returning doughboys from World War I.

Benefits for WW I vets were little more than a slow boat home, an invitation to participate in an occasional parade, and a $60 discharge allowance. There was no precedent for any kind of ongoing programs for non-wounded veterans and little thought about trying to help them with their education, careers, or home purchases.

In 1926, seven years after World War I ended, Congress finally passed legislation to provide Veterans with additional pay based on service time. Unfortunately, the payments were structured as “deferred certificates” payable in 1945. As the Great Depression dragged on, thousands of desperate, angry Veterans, dubbed the Bonus Expeditionary Force (BEF), flocked to Washington to demand immediate help. Congress debated a plan of aid, but to the shock and dismay of the veterans, soundly voted it down.

Confronted with an army — literally — of heartbroken and destitute veterans, President Herbert Hoover ordered the U.S. Army, under the command of General Douglas MacArthur, to forcibly remove the protesters. In a footnote to history, MacArthur’s aide was Major Dwight Eisenhower, who strongly opposed the action.

MacArthur persisted and promised to break the BEF's back. He ordered tanks into the streets of D.C. and ultimately set fire to the veterans’ main camp on the banks of the Anacostia River. It was one of the darkest, most shameful days in U.S. history.

Flash forward to the end of WWII, and many government leaders, still mindful of the BEF fiasco, were determined to take a better course. The outcome was the Servicemen’s Readjustment Act of 1944, or, as it’s now known, the G.I. Bill. Economists, social scientists, and historians all agree that this legislation was one of the most consequential in American history.

The GI Bill, modified and expanded multiple times over the last 80 years, has educated millions of veterans, financed tens of millions of homes, built the world’s largest health care system, paid billions in unemployment compensation and financed small businesses in nearly every community in the nation. More than any other single piece of legislation, the GI Bill built America’s middle class.

As with Medicare and Social Security, the bottom line for the various Veterans’ benefit programs has totaled in the trillions.

YOUNG PEOPLE NEED OUR HELP

In the long list of concerns about our country, the one that worries me most is the unprecedented pessimism among young people about their future prospects. Consider these facts:

• In 1975, the average age of first-time homebuyers was 29. Today it’s 40.

• Saving for a down payment on a first home in 1975 took about eight months. Today it takes more than eight years.

• Average student loan debt in 1975 was less than $1,500. Today it’s more than $41,000.

• Sixty-three percent of women aged 25-29 are childless.

• Nine out of recent college grads believe AI will sharply reduce the availability of entry-level jobs.

An astounding (and depressing) 60 percent of young people believe the American dream is no longer attainable. Kyla Scanlon, a Gen Z financial commentator, says we’ve reached “the end of predictable progress”. As a society, we can’t accept this as our new norm. We have the time, resources, and knowledge to build a re-energized future for future generations, but we need to act quickly and decisively.

Here are five ideas I offer for your consideration:

1. Education

We need to make education more affordable, more relevant and more accessible. And NOT just four-year college degrees. One idea would be to create a $10,000 to $20,000 tax credit, spread over three to five years for anyone who completes a college degree or a certified technical school program. We should also revisit how to help the millions of people who are struggling with student loans.

2. Child support

The sharply declining birth rate in the developed world is a mega-crisis. It’s the norm all across Europe, much of Asia, and here in the U.S. There is no magic solution for this problem, but if we want to have a hope of making a difference, we should start with a national commitment to make day care affordable. The current average annual cost of day care is $15-18,000. That’s an unmanageable number for millions of parents or would-be parents. We need a national and state partnership to split the cost 50/50 with parents. It can be with a combination of direct payments or tax credits, but this is the least we can do to help parents and build a stronger national future.

3. Housing

As the numbers I cited above show, young people feel increasingly shut out of the housing market. This is a threat to the basic economic and social framework of our society. Homeownership builds the economy, strengthens neighborhoods, funds municipal services, underwrites schools, and engenders pride and confidence.

Housing experts say we have been under-building homes for years and currently face a deficit of 4 to 7 million housing units. A trend like this is a wave of devastation that will reverberate through our society for years to come.

We should have a bipartisan emergency program to make up our housing deficit and help millions buy their first home. We can and should be very creative. Offer help with down payments. Help subsidize interest rates for the first 5 years of ownership. Give targeted state and federal tax relief. We must do whatever it takes to stimulate homebuilding and help first-time buyers.

4. Internships

Young people who are entering the workforce are facing challenges no prior generation has faced. AI isn’t just a threat to obtaining jobs; it’s the new alternative to face-to-face interviews. Talk to anyone who’s applied for a job recently, and the first thing they tell you is they never have any human contact. NEVER. Not only is this a depressing experience, but it’s also eliminating a critically important part of the educational experience of finding a job. Young people need to know how to dress, how to present themselves, how to answer questions, how to interact with potential partners and colleagues. This can’t happen in an algorithmic process.

We should initiate the largest summer program in history. And we should make the data center folks pay much of the costs. Young people need the confidence, education, and fulfillment of a meaningful first job. If we can create a national program to help 2 million young people find quality summer jobs, the benefits across our society would be profound

5. National Service

I’m reprising this idea from my posts on How to Make Washington Less Toxic.

If we want young people to have confidence in the future of the country, we need to help them advance economically, and we should insist they invest in America as well. A year of national service for every 18-19-year-old citizen would turbocharge this country.

OBVIOUS QUESTION: HOW DO WE PAY FOR THIS?

I have three answers.

First, we can’t afford NOT to do this.

Second, if we do it right, I’m confident the net costs will be far less than anyone expects.

Third, for the real dollars, I would look at two sources:

Go after unpaid taxes: The IRS estimates we lose upwards of $500 billion annually from people, commonly high-income individuals, who don’t pay the taxes they owe. Think whatever you want about the IRS — a problem of this magnitude is untenable. We need a special group of financial sleuths, overseen by a bipartisan commission, whose mission it is to stop this massive tax scam. Most Americans pay exactly what they owe. The scammers should be forced to do the same. If we could reduce the fraud by even 25%. we would gain an additional $125 billion for the kinds of programs I’m suggesting.

Impose an “Invest in America” tax: I would require those who’ve benefited the most from our system to pay a little more to help younger people advance. I suggest a special tax of about 5% on incomes above $1 million, with half the proceeds going toward deficit reduction and half toward the kinds of programs I’ve outlined. I wouldn’t be opposed to a targeted tax on the AI industry as well. With trillions being spent on the AI revolution, it’s not unreasonable to ask those remaking the economy to contribute a little more to the transition.

As I’ve indicated in prior posts, I’m a person with many hobbies and passions: Alice, cars, baseball, reading, music, my farm in West Virginia, to name a few. And I’m obsessed with American history, especially 20th century history. I’m also an avid collector - of folk art, political memorabilia, trade signs, and more.

(After reading this, Deb suggested I add the following: In case you haven’t figured it out, I have a very understanding wife.)

My interests led me to wanting to fill a barn with old signs, cars and some cool mementos of other 20th century cultural and economic forces. I knew a vintage airplane was out of the question, but a caboose seemed like a good idea. I said “seemed” like a good idea.

After spending a few weekends driving to old rail yards, and searching online for cabooses, I stumbled onto a used train auction website. I learned there is an entire industry devoted to buying and selling used rail cars. Who knew? I enthusiastically reviewed several cabooses and settled on a 50-year-old Union Pacific caboose that seemed to be in reasonably good shape (as if I would have any idea what constitutes a well-preserved caboose).

After a few back-and-forth offers and counter offers, I was the proud owner of a retired, battered, solid steel caboose.

As I’m sure you’ve figured out, buying a caboose is the easy part of the deal. Moving it is the hard part. Let’s start with a quick quiz:

1. How much does a caboose weigh? I had NO idea.

The answer is 65,000 lbs. That’s about 13 Ford F-150s. So we know Fed Ex is out of the question.

2. How is a caboose moved? Most people would guess a caboose would be hooked to a train and transported by rail. I certainly did. Wrong.

Federal regulations require all operating rail cars to meet stringent safety standards. The only option, therefore, is by flatbed truck. Or to be more precise, 2 flatbeds, as it takes one for the body and another one for the wheels (called trucks). Which explains why a caboose costs pennies per pound.

Now I’m getting to the real purpose of this story. The idea of a caboose is fun, different, and admittedly eccentric. But the central figure of this story is not the caboose, it’s the fellow who figured out how to move the caboose.

In the 1960’s, Volkswagen ran a series of brilliant TV spots highlighting the simplicity, diminutive size, low-running costs of a Beetle. One of the VW spots I love opens with a man walking through deep snow. The voiceover poses a question, “Have you ever wondered how the man who drives the snowplow drives to the snowplow?” Then you see a VW Beetle driving through deep snow to a large storage shed. The driver gets out and gets in the snowplow and drives off.

Playing off the VW add, my question is, where does a professional crisis manager go for help when he has a caboose crisis? The answer is the always brilliant, amazingly patient, and endlessly resourceful, Richard.

As everyone in my life knows, for the past 30 years Richard has been the guy I call when I need something - anything - assembled, repaired, built or remodeled. When it comes to appliances on the blink, carpentry work, warning lights in autos, HVAC issues, plumbing problems, problematic remotes, and just about anything else you can imagine, Richard is the guy I call. And his answer is always the same. After I describe my latest problem in vague, non-technical terms, Richard says, “I think I have something in my truck that can fix that.” And he always does. I call it the magic truck.

When I told Richard I needed to move a caboose, he said what he always says, “I can do that.” That he had never moved a caboose before didn’t matter. This time he didn’t have a magic answer in his truck, but he understood the challenge, knew what equipment would be needed and had the network of guys to call for help. In no time, permits were obtained, a crane and trucks showed up, along with a crew of experienced men. Richard even pre-tested the approved route to make sure the caboose would fit under the overpasses and power lines.

Despite Richard’s great work, the caboose move had moments of drama. The truck hauling the main body of the caboose nearly tipped over at the first curve. And there was less than one inch of room to spare at an overpass in Virginia. But Richard delivered the goods, and when he finally got the caboose to my property and secured it, he and his guys celebrated like they had won the Super Bowl. As usual, I added NO value, except to cheer them on.

The Scariest Moment of the Move: Maybe an Inch to Spare

A 65,000 lb Caboose on its Side Would Not be Good

If everyone reading this Substack had to choose between having Richard on speed dial or me, Richard would win easily. He can do real things with his hands. I can’t. He solves important problems that don’t seem all that significant until they occur. And suddenly that problem is the only thing that matters.

Okay, you probably won’t be moving a caboose. But you definitely need every other thing Richard can do. In an AI, digital, white-collar world, we need more - a lot more - people training to be skilled tradesmen and women. More than 40% of construction workers will retire in the next five years. And it’s estimated we are going to have at least two million unfilled skilled trade positions by 2030. This is not a future any of us wants.

A Caboose Was a Rolling Office With Living Quarters

Richard Brought This One Back to Life

Let me tell you one last story about Richard’s work ethic. A number of years ago he was helping to install a metal roof on my cabin. He was working with a nail gun and happened to bump his elbow as he was twisting to finish a section. The gun fired instantly and the three-inch nail entered his boot through an eyehole and passed completely through his foot and into the plywood roof. In the blink of an eye, he was literally nailed to the roof.

He was shocked, of course, but remained totally calm. He assessed the situation and worked his boot loose from the roof. He grabbed a pair of pliers and slowly pulled the nail back through his foot. (I’m cringing as I write this.) Then he climbed down, got in his truck and drove to the local, small hospital.

At the hospital, the ER Doctor told him he had a serious infection risk and needed to go immediately to the regional medical center in Winchester, VA, 30 miles away. Richard thanked the Doctor for his advice, asked him to pour some more antibiotic solution on his foot and bandage it up. He left the hospital, drove back to my cabin, and finished his work. He never went to the regional hospital and never missed a day of work.

When he told me this story, I told him how amazed I was, but I said there was one detail he left out: Did he bill me for the time he was at the hospital?

Ok, I’m kidding. I love Richard like a brother. And I have endless respect and admiration for everyone who makes a living building, fixing and servicing the things the rest of us depend on to make our lives better. We need them more than ever…but probably not to move a caboose.

Richard and The Magic Truck

They are both children of the 50’s. They were both creative prodigies. They both knew from a very young age exactly what they wanted to become, and both achieved precisely what they set out to do. They have both been elected to multiple Halls Of Fame. And they both happen to be from Philadelphia.

One is automotive design legend, Ed Welburn, of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The other is country music legend, Marty Stuart, of Philadelphia…Mississippi.

Ed Welburn, member of the Automotive Hall Of Fame and the

Corvette Hall of Fame

Marty Stuart, Member of the Country Music Hall of Fame and the Musicians Hall of Fame

Marty is a white kid from a little town in the deep south. Ed is a black kid from an east coast, urban neighborhood. By the time they were in elementary school they had both decided on their life’s work. Marty was set on being a country music star like Hank Williams and Johnny Cash. Ed was determined to be a car designer like the great Harley Earl and Bill Mitchell.

My friends Marty and Ed have never met and, on the surface, their worlds appear to have little in common. Marty’s not much of a car buff, though in the grand tradition of country music, he favors Cadillacs. Ed claims he knows a little bit about country music, but he clearly leans more to the style of his late friend, Tony Bennett.

Marty came into my life through Ken Burns. Ken kindly contributed to a couple of video projects I did with Joe Posnanski and offered to help with anything else we cooked up. I happened to mention to him that we were thinking of doing something in the music world and he said, “You have to meet Marty Stuart. He’s brilliant, knows everyone, and he’s my brother.”

(FYI, if you haven’t watched Ken Burns’ 8-part series on Country Music, do yourself a favor and download it asap. Marty is the principal narrator and interpreter of this fantastic series.)

Based on Ken’s recommendation, I went to Philadelphia, Mississippi to spend the day with Marty. He was gracious, welcoming, and, as you might expect, very entertaining. He invited me into his log cabin, drove me around town, played a tune or two for me, and regaled me with stories from his phenomenal career.

As I was leaving he asked me to make a quick detour to the 119-year-old Williams Brothers General Store so he could get me a gift. (The store is owned by Peyton Manning’s mother’s family). I told him I certainly didn’t need or want a gift, but he insisted. Minutes later he came out with a grocery sack, folded on its side, with what he described as the finest delicacy the Williams store had to offer. It was a plate of thick-cut, home-made bologna, on white bread.

I loved it. The perfect gift from my new Mississippi friend.

Bologna sandwiches from Williams General Store

I met Ed through my work with General Motors. I was trying to help the company with a broad range of reputation challenges, and to do my work I felt I needed access to the design team. Ed could easily have told me to mind my own business, but he did the opposite. Like Marty, he was welcoming, gracious and exceedingly tolerant of my uninformed questions and half-baked ideas.

In one of my first meetings with Ed, he took me to a secret GM garage to show me the 1959 Corvette Stingray Racer, one of the most important concept cars in automotive history, and the Bumblebee Camaro, the star of the Transformers movie - in which Ed made his Hollywood debut! Ed and I were giddy schoolboys as we ogled the cars. I knew we would be fast friends.

Ed and Bumblebee on the Red Carpet for the premier of Transformers

Although Marty and Ed come from different worlds, on the creative level at least, they are one and the same. At an age when most kids are planning to be astronauts or athletes, they were planning their artistic careers. Art filled their brains, their veins and their dreams. Ed sketched and Marty picked. They were always destined to be artists and they weren’t going to let anything get in their way.

You can google their bios, but here are a few highlights.

As a young boy Ed wrote a letter to GM Design asking for advice on becoming a car designer. To GM’s great credit and benefit, they wrote back. Ed needed little encouragement, but this was the spark that lit his afterburners. Ed never set out to be a trailblazer, he just wanted to design cars. He applied to design schools, but was rejected out of hand. So he enrolled at Howard University where he found a supportive artistic environment, but no auto design classes.

Ed meeting Bill Mitchell, GM VP of Design

Ed persevered. The fact that design schools didn’t accept blacks and no auto company had ever employed a black designer didn’t deter him. Again he reached out to GM and they made him the first African American summer intern in their design department. When he graduated from Howard, Ed became GM’s first African American designer.

Ed started where all car designers start, working on trim, lights, minor interior finishes. But his talent and work ethic were obvious and greater responsibilities soon came. In the mid-80s he designed the Oldsmobile Aerotech which AJ Foyt drove to a world record 257 mph. Ed’s career was launched.

Oldsmobile Aerotech, designed by Ed Welburn

From 2003 to 2016 he led Global Design for GM, the first African American head of design for any car company. Many industry experts credit Ed and his team with being the spark that revived GM after the bankruptcy. If you’ve owned a GM car in the last 30 years, Ed’s design influence was a part of your life.

In baseball terms, Ed is a “First Ballot” member of the Automotive Hall of Fame and the Corvette Hall of Fame and is in great demand as a judge for the world’s most exclusive automotive concours. He’s also one of the most elegantly fashionable men you’ll ever meet.

Marty was strumming a guitar by age two and made his debut at the Grand Ole Opry at 14 - to multiple standing ovations. He joined Lester Flatt’s band, dropped out of school - in the 8th grade - and never looked back. A few years later, his hero, Johnny Cash asked him to join his band. He traveled the world with the man in black and, as he puts it, “tried to be the boy in black.”

Marty with his mentor and lifetime friend, Johnny Cash

Marty left Cash (JR as he calls him) to launch his own solo career, wrote and recorded multiple top 10 hits, sold out arenas across the country, won four Grammys and burned out. And then he reinvented himself. He cleaned up his act, stopped chasing hits, put together a killer band (The Fabulous Superlatives), married his lifetime love, the beautiful and brilliant Connie Smith, and became Nashville’s most respected and admired practitioner and promoter of traditional country music. After 55 years on a bus, and more than 5,000 shows, he’s a beloved member of the Country Music Hall of Fame and the Musicians Hall of Fame and in greater demand than ever.

Marty is much more than a musician and singer. He’s a widely respected photographer, producer, songwriter and music historian. In Nashville he’s known for his sequined Manuel jackets, his unmatched showmanship and for having “the best hair in country music.”

Marty Stuart and The Fabulous Superlatives

Members of the Musicians Hall of Fame

Along with Emmylou Harris, in the early 1990s, Marty led the successful fight to save Nashville’s Ryman Auditorium, the mother church of country music. The restoration of the Ryman was the spark that ignited Nashville’s multi-billion dollar economic explosion.

When it was announced that Marty had been elected to the Country Music Hall of Fame in 2020, the elite of the music industry responded with unanimous praise. His musical skills alone would merit induction. With everything else he’s accomplished, he belongs with the inner circle of Nashville greats.

Connie Smith and Marty

The only living husband and wife team in the Country Music Hall of Fame

Being with Marty and Ed is energizing. Ed may show me his latest super car design, or his updated version of a classic car from the 30’s or 50’s. Or he may share sketches of the latest women’s boots or scarfs he’s working on.

Marty is still touring and wowing regular fans and industry insiders alike with his virtuoso performances. But his passion is the Congress of Country Music he’s building in Philadelphia. Against all odds, he has raised the funds to build a spectacular theatre, museum and music education center in his hometown. Of course, he has personally overseen all of the design and finishes.

I’ve always been drawn to creative people. They are the gifted souls who add joy, color, spirit and spark to our world. There are no better examples of this than my two Philadelphia buddies, Marty and Ed.

Every day Ed sketches and Marty picks and sings. Every single day.

They will be that way to the end and the world’s a better place because of their creative obsessions.

Marty refers to Dolly as his “sister.”

Ed oversaw the design of the last two Presidential “Beasts “

I want to thank those of you who posted comments or sent emails or texts encouraging me to continue writing. I also want to thank those of you who refrained from saying, “Please God, whatever you do, STOP WRITING!”

Here’s what I’ve decided. I’m going to give it another run for a while. My plan is to write once a week for sure, and occasionally more often as I come across something else that happens to inspire me. I’m still undecided about how or if I should try to grow my audience, but I’m open to ideas if any of you happen to have one. In the meantime, I continue to be grateful for your time and interest. I hope you enjoy today’s post. Thank you.

THE MET GALA

The Met Gala is tonight and if you’re giddy about seeing the elite of the fashion and entertainment world in their other-worldly outfits, I apologize for what I’m about to say: I think it’s the ultimate symbol of excess, elitism and cluelessness. It can also be, as the outfits I’ve included in this post demonstrate, incredibly tacky. To borrow one of my favorite country music lyrics, “There ain’t no excuse for taste that bad.”

Despite what you may think, I’m not anti-fashion, anti-celebrity, or anti-gala. I freely acknowledge that many of the celebrities (or at least some of them) are artfully attired. Plus, we all need distractions, and it can be fun to watch famous people prance around in miserably uncomfortable and indisputably ghastly costumes while trying to look cool and sophisticated, especially if it’s for a good cause.

But there’s something about the Met Gala that irritates me more than any other Gala. Perhaps it’s just my Appalachian roots. It’s certainly not a place where I would feel comfortable. More significantly though, it’s not an event where I would feel welcome, not that I would want to pay $350,000 for a table or $100,000 for an individual ticket. My image of the Met Gala is less about the celebration of creativity and more about the simmering arrogance of exclusion. There’s a haughtiness about the event which only seems to grow with each passing year. Having Jeff Bezos and Lauren Sanchez as this years Co-Chairs only magnifies the perception of elitism.

Inexplicably, I was once asked by a prominent woman executive to participate in a brainstorming session about her overall strategy for the Met Gala. Topics ranged from potential dress designers to hair, make-up and jewelry choices, options for the most newsworthy guest to invite, to her arrival strategy and potential media opportunities. There were maybe 10 people in the room and I was one of two men invited to participate.

When the executive asked me for my suggestions, I proposed skipping the event entirely. The business she was leading was in the midst of an intense, high-profile controversy, and I thought it would be better for her and the business to be anywhere but the Gala. As I made my suggestion, there was an audible gasp in the room, and the executive looked like I had just uttered the most hurtful insult she had ever received. The meeting quickly broke up and I was never again asked for my opinion on any kind of social event. So if you don’t like my take on the Met Gala, you won’t be the first.

DAVOS

Private Jets at the World Economic Forum

Davos is shorthand for the World Economic Forum (WEF), which takes place in Davos, Switzerland in late January. Members of the WEF have met every year but one since 1971, with the stated purpose of bringing together top leaders from business, government, civil society, and academia to discuss and collaborate on critical global economic, political and social challenges. It certainly sounds like a worthy idea, and I have no doubt the vast majority of their 1,000 or so members and 900 partner sponsors have been sincere in their desire to help set the world on a better path.

My question is this: can you name one thing Davos/The World Economic Forum has accomplished? Anything? Have you ever had a conversation with someone about the benefits they’ve seen from Davos? I didn’t think so. I’ve known plenty of executives who have dutifully traveled to Davos - always on one of the 1,500 private jets of course that descend there every year - and their focus has primarily been on networking. That’s perfectly fine, but the value return seems a bit modest.

To be fair, the WEF says it helped ease tensions between Greece and Turkey in 1988, supported South Africa’s peaceful transition in the 1990s, pushed for a shift to a green economy, helped deliver vaccines to a billion children, and expanded digital inclusion for another billion people (supposedly by 2025). And they facilitated lots of worthwhile dialogue.

I say it’s time to move on. After decades of global power brokers jetting to a resort in Switzerland, where rooms can go for $3,000 per night and villas for $150,000 for the week, we’ve probably received whatever benefit we’re going to get . The idea seems noble, but the process has grown stale and increasingly distant. A new approach is in order.

PRESIDENTIAL LIBRARIES

FDR Presidential Library - Hyde Park, New York

If you google my name and Presidential Libraries, you’ll find this is not the first time I’ve written on this topic. In 2016, I published an Op-Ed calling for an end to Presidential Libraries as we know them. I did so even though my greatest passion is American history and I’ve dearly loved visiting most of the Presidential Libraries.

At that time, I focused my objection on President Obama’s library plans, and I made the case, which I now repeat, that my criticisms are strictly bipartisan. I’m not concerned about the politics of the former Presidents, I’m concerned about their financial judgment and the questionable way funds are being raised for these Taj Mahals.

Consider this, the first Presidential Library was built by Franklin Roosevelt on his estate in Hyde Park, New York. It was dedicated in 1941, four years before he died in office, at a cost of $400,000. Harry Truman followed in 1953 in Independence, Missouri, at a cost of $1.75 million. And then the game got serious.

Barack Obama Presidential Library - Chicago, Illinois

LBJ spent 10 times what Truman spent.

Reagan tripled Johnson’s budget.

George H.W. Bush doubled Reagan’s budget.

Clinton doubled the Bush budget.

George W. Bush topped $500 million, or more than three times what Clinton spent.

The Obama Library in Chicago is reported to have cost $850 million.

These are great buildings, excellent research institutions and important local economic development assets. But we’ve gone too far.

Although we can take some comfort that the construction costs for the libraries have been funded through private sources, ongoing maintenance costs and staffing expenses are paid for by the Federal Government. As bad as the soaring costs are, what bothers me even more is that it’s become customary for outgoing Administrations to make a big push in their final year or so in office to secure funding commitments from major corporations. It may sound trite now, but the White House shouldn’t be leveraged to fund the building of a monument to any President. Period.

I have two suggestions: Congress should put a cap on the square footage and budget for all future Presidential Libraries. And the President and his or her staff should be forbidden from soliciting any funds for a Library until their term of office concludes.

I finish with an endorsement. If you haven’t been to Mount Vernon recently, you need to plan a return visit. What was once a sleepy house tour is now the definitive immersive experience in George Washington’s life and the creation of our democracy. Mount Vernon isn’t just a great Presidential residence and library, it’s an endless source of inspiration for how we can resolve our current divisions. I promise you will love it. (FYI, Mount Vernon receives NO government funding).

George Washington Presidential Library - Mount Vernon, Virginia

With this column, the total views of my posts will top 100,000. A modest number in the greater scheme of things, but a flattering, and much appreciated, endorsement for my efforts. You’ve been exceedingly polite - I’ve received virtually no criticism. And you’ve been consistently engaged - every post has had an open rate of about 65% (which Substack says is high), and many have been widely shared.

Looking at the various how-to guides for building a Substack following, I’ve learned that I’m doing almost everything wrong. I don’t stick to one theme or idea. I don’t promote my posts or comment on those of others. And other than reaching out to a few friends, I’ve done nothing to grow my audience.

What I have done is write about things I know and believe. Every story, lesson learned, and insight is tied to something I’ve experienced.

My visit to a gold mine (where no gold can be seen) taught me that the most important facts and lessons learned are often the least apparent. Landing on and taking off from an aircraft carrier opened my eyes to the brilliance of everyone associated with our Navy: not just the fighter pilots but the shipbuilders, the mechanics, the cooks, and the laundry crew as well. And traveling deep into a coal mine redefined heroism for me.

I’ve always looked for answers in data, which explains my focus on everything from the population growth of India and auto production in the US and China to the size of Mark Zuckerberg’s yacht.

I’ve thrown in a few references to my personal passions - country music, baseball, American history, and my beloved Alice. I’ve also shared some hard-earned crisis lessons, which have taken on a different meaning for me during my recent battle with cancer.

Now I think it’s time to pause. The last thing I want to do is impose on you with content that isn’t worth your time and consideration. I’m going to take the next two weeks to decide if I should keep posting or not. The questions I'm trying to decide are:

1) Do I think I can produce interesting content?

2) Do I want to make an effort to grow the subscriber base?

I’ll think about it and get back to you in two weeks with my thoughts. Thanks again for your support. Here’s hoping something I’ve written has provided you with a moment of enjoyment.

With appreciation,

Dan and Alice