Subject: Cityscape Lawn Care and Landscaping, Kenosha, WI.

This is the age most of us learn how to cut grass.

The barrier of entry into the lawn mowing business is quite low. All it requires is a lawn mower, a way to move said lawn mower, and a cell phone.

Mowing grass is a job most of us learned at an early age. One pushes or rides a machine across a piece of land in parallel lines, using the last line as a guide for the next. This is done until the parallel lines cover the entire piece of land.

My wife and I have been through three “landscapers” in the past four years. The first one, we’ll call him “Robby,” was fantastic. He was courteous, meticulous, showed up when he said he would and did a number of other odd jobs around our property. He made suggestions about things we could do to make our yard more attractive.

But Robby had a sweet tooth for prescription painkillers, which ultimately led to him not caring, stealing from our garage and becoming unpredictable. Then one day he just stopped showing up.

The next two years we used another guy, Bubba. I forgot how we found him, but he was fairly consistent and did a passable job mowing. He was no Robby, but the grass got cut. At the beginning of the third summer with us, he stopped showing up. We would text and he would reply with an excuse; it’s too wet, I’m getting my blades sharpened, my rider is in the shop, etc. We finally mowed our lawn with our push mower ourselves, a task that takes four hours when you include trimming. Bubba was fired.

We were starting over, and being project managers, did a full make-buy analysis. It seemed with the inconsistency that it might make more sense to just buy a rider and do it ourselves. Monetarily, it would be a smarter decision; the rider would pay for itself in one season, we could have the lawn mowed exactly the way we want it and when we want it. We would not have to deal with a revolving door of carnies.

Our problem was, and always has been; time. Our yard is a half-acre. We’re both away from the house for 60 hours a week. I have freelance work. Beth cares for elders. The time it takes to care for our property, we decided, was more valuable than the $40 it cost to outsource it. We decided to find a new vendor.

We did our googling and found what seemed to be some reputable companies. We called each for estimates and of the four we called, two called us back, which seems to be typical in this industry.

Both gave us estimates of $40 and we chose the one who responded faster. We reviewed and signed a contract, set a Wednesday mowing date and congratulated ourselves on the vendor selection process. Everything was done entirely via email and text, which is how we like to roll.

The first Wednesday came and he didn’t show up. I got home from work at 5 pm and texted him. This was his reply…

He didn’t show up that night. Thursday after work we got home and saw the lawn had been cut.

Next week Wednesday, he didn’t show up again. I texted him.

Not sure what he was talking about because it hadn’t rained for a couple days, but ok. It was cut on Thursday and Keith was so proud he texted me a picture.

The following week he actually showed up on Wednesday. We have to move our van and unlock our gate for the mower to get in our back yard, and I didn’t even bother doing it because he hadn’t shown up on a Wednesday yet.

The following week it was dry, so Keith said they wouldn’t come out unless we requested it. Sounds good. The week after that, on June 18, I received the following text from Keith. This is where things got kind of weird.

I blame this on a perfect storm of a crazy two weeks and my wife starting a new job. We had received the bill two days earlier and it was stuck between two other envelopes in a stack of mail we hadn’t looked through yet. We wrote a check and my wife took it and said she would mail it. Less than 48 hours later, I received this voicemail.

Keith’s voicemail

Wow. Really? Keith is officially fired.

After thinking about how stupid, and legally and factually inaccurate his threats were, and how unnecessary, I ask him for a total so we can square up and move on.

Keith seems to sense that after threatening someone they might not want to be a customer anymore, but tries to entice me into staying on by waiving the $25 late fee.

I made the check out for $225.

The following day, Friday, I received this text message from Keith. Keep in mind, this is less than 72 hours after the initial late notice:

The course of action I would have preferred he take was one of not being an asshole. But that is clearly not possible at this point.

Keith goes on to tell me that we are now on “cash and carry,” whatever that means. I do not acknowledge this text.

My last text to Keith lets him know the check is in his mailbox. My wife wrote on the enclosed copy of the invoice: This will conclude our need for your services.

June 12: First invoice arrives by mail
June 18: Receive text saying payment is late. Even though it is not, we offer to pay immediately. Told to mail it in.
June 21: Receive voice mail threatening legal action, collections and a lien on our house. Vendor fired.

Vendor Post Mortem:
Cityscape Lawn Care and Landscaping
Revenue: $225
Season Revenue Lost: ~$1,000
Additional Project Opportunity Lost: ~$2,000
Future Annual Revenue Lost: ~$1,200/per season
Damage to Image: Priceless

An excerpt of this column originally appeared as a special to the Kenosha News, Sunday Mornings With Basil Willis, May 6, 2012.

Two years ago when I started writing this column I had just finished chemo, radiation and surgery, the holy trinity of cancer care. I wrote about it at the time, but since then I’ve only mentioned it once in passing. I am sick of stupid cancer. Sick of talking about it, sick of seeing too many people I know fight it or die from it, sick of paying for it and sick of living with it. But here we are.

I am a numbers guy; a googler and a voracious researcher and processor of information. There is no such thing as too much data. I know more about esophageal cancer and squamous cells than most general practitioners. I know the statistics and they are grim. Seventy percent of people are dead within a year of diagnosis. Less than one in ten people diagnosed with esophageal cancer makes it five years.

Every six months I walk into a doctor’s office and roll a six-sided die. If it comes up one through four, I am given very bad news disguised as “we need to do more testing.” A five or a six comes up and I get a pat on the back and an appointment card for six months out welcoming me to roll again. So far I’ve rolled five times and it’s been all boxcars. It has been 30 months since I was diagnosed and I am playing with house money.

Concerned wife asking questions at the doctor”s office.

It is the new normal, a place between sick and cured called “remission,” and it is the reward for winning the first round with The Big C. It has forced me to live life in six month increments. They tell me if I can keep this up for three more years, I’ll only have to roll once per year, and then all I have to do is avoid snake eyes. But I can’t look that far ahead.
When you’re going through the treatments you can’t afford to think about the future. In many ways I still can’t and will never be able to. That is not necessarily a bad thing.

Living every day like it’s your last is a great sound bite, but it is not sustainable or real. If I really knew today was my last day, I’d go skydiving, rent a Ferrari, run naked through Harbor Park and do a shot of that 100 year old scotch behind the bar at the HobNob. I would probably do the shot first. Then I’d gather my loved ones and light candles that smell really good and eat lobster and tell stories and cry and laugh.

Unless you are positive it is your last day, you can’t really live like that. What we can do, is know that it is almost over, and could be over, at any moment. It is not a dreadful feeling, rather a peaceful one that allows for reflection and appreciation. There is a delicate balance of planning to make tomorrow as good as possible without sacrificing today.

Financially, my wife and I plan as though we’re going to see old age. We contribute to our 401k, we make improvements to our house and save as much as we can. We plan for the long term, but live for now.
Things are not the same as before cancer and they never will be. What happens is a deep appreciation for the little things, the moment. Whenever there is uncertainty about a decision, we err on the side of enjoying ourselves. One small example is the relatively expensive whole bean coffee we buy, because life is too short to drink cheap coffee.

When I see people stressing out at home or at work I smile inside. And sometimes I smile outside. When someone is truly upset about something completely irrelevant I tell them quietly, “Don’t worry. It’s almost over.” They will respond by telling me it is most certainly not almost over. And I will say, “I’m talking about your life.”

If I could bottle up that feeling of calm and serenity and hand it out to anyone I see fretting about something meaningless, our troubles here would be over very quickly. Despite all the damage, that is the gift cancer has given me, the gift of perspective. Being able to take a deep breath and not sweat the small stuff anymore is not a place I would have ever been had I not gazed into the abyss.

I used to dread birthdays but I collect them now. I used to hate going to the grocery store but I know I’m going to see someone or something that makes me laugh, or cringe. It all adds to the experience, and it beats the alternative.

Having had cancer does not define me. How I respond to it does. Cancer clings to me and follows me like a duckling. It permeates every aspect of my life. It might kill me, but it is not who I am. I had it, it did not have me.

When things get tough, I just remind myself that I’m playing with house money and I’m all in; paying anything to roll the dice, just one more time.

An excerpt of this column originally appeared as a special to the Kenosha News, Sunday Mornings With Basil Willis, April 8, 2012.

Much like the handwritten letter, the art of the phone call is being lost. We don’t use the phone much anymore. When I say “we” I am talking about The Herd, but specifically I’m referring to people I know.

I mean, we use phones all day. I have one next to me right now and will stop typing the instant it makes a specific sound or sequence of vibrations. I have instructed my phone to notify me of certain events and I will stop whatever I’m doing to respond to my digital master assistant . What I will not do is answer a voice call. We’re using them, or being used by them, just not for speaking to each other.

I constantly use apps on my phone, but the app I like least is the one for which the device derives its name; the “phone” app, which requires synchronous human interaction. It’s not that I don’t like talking to people, sometimes it is necessary and even enjoyable, but most of the time it isn’t efficient because I’m too busy managing myriad other communication channels.

Social media has filled the void for many friends and relatives I don’t talk to on a regular basis. People I might see once a year, or every few years, are in my thoughts. I can watch their kids grow up or congratulate them on the big promotion or the low golf score.

For me the most personal and immediate form of non-voice communication is SMS, or texting as the kids are calling it now. Texting is genius. It allows talking without the formalities. Just send the information that needs to be sent. I don’t have to ask the recipient about their day when I’m reminding them to not forget the milk. I can send a link to a map or web site. Or I can send a smile.

Ironically, there are times when texting can be more intimate than a call. I’ve texted friends I haven’t heard from in a while asking how they are and have had some very open and honest responses that I don’t think I would have heard on a voice call. There is an element of safety and anonymity in SMS that for some people lets them confess what they normally might not.

If we retool Maslow’s work into a pyramid-shaped hierarchy of communications, texting would have to be at the top now. It has become the surest way of reaching me immediately. I can respond during a meeting, or while I’m on the phone with my wife. I never, ever text while driving, but with voice commands I can now tell my phone to do it for me.

Video chat is now widely available, which unlike all the other new forms of communication, is a huge step backwards. I have FaceTime and Skype on my phone, but both are worse than just voice alone. Now, in addition to pretending to be interested in a conversation, I have to look interested too. And be clothed. For most calls, anyway.

All sarcasm aside, if I had to be away from Beth for an extended period of time, we would totally be video calling.

Our house still has a landline, which is an ironic term because at the end of the line there’s a wireless device. We use it to talk to elders who might not be able to hear us well on a cell phone, or for people who want to call “the house” and speak to either or both of us. In stark contrast to cell phones, the venerable landline is communal. We also keep our landline for any form that requires us to enter a phone number, so all the associated phone spam gets funneled away from our cell phones.

My wife reminds me that some of the best times we had were on the phone when we were dating long distance. While they did ease the pain of not being together, I have a distinctly different recollection of those calls. Beth lives in the same tech world I do but still enjoys a good, long phone chat with her girls. Her and her mother, despite living three miles from each other, can effortlessly pass an entire afternoon on the phone.

When Beth is talking to anyone besides her mother, she is an expert at controlling the conversation. She can keep someone on the phone as long as she wants, and conversely can end the call on a dime. She does it nicely, but in my head I always hear her say, “I’ve been blabbering the whole time and I get the feeling you’re about to say something, so let me let you go.” Click.

The exception to phone calls is the one I make to my mom at least once a week, and would do so even if she knew how to text. There’s something about hearing her voice that can’t be replaced by little dialog bubbles under a piece of glass. I can rest easier hearing that she sounds ok and isn’t trying to bamboozle me. And when I threaten to put bring her back to Wisconsin and put her in a home if she doesn’t quit skydiving, she can hear that I’m only half-joking.

Yes, this is really my 70 year old mother skydiving.

An excerpt of this column originally appeared as a special to the Kenosha News, Sunday Mornings With Basil Willis, March 11, 2012.

Whatever gene it is that drives people to reproduce is completely missing from me. Not the process that leads to it, mind you, but actually wanting offspring. I don’t get it.

I am the guy who, when handed a baby, holds it awkwardly at arms’ length like spent nuclear fuel. The sounds of children are nails on a chalkboard. I would rather get a colonoscopy than go to Chuck E Cheese. As horrible as it sounds, I am immune to Anne Geddes photos.

I know. I’m a monster.

Despite a dramatic increase of childless adults in their 40s over the last few decades, there is still a strong stigma around it, especially for women.  Many people are simply unable to get their head around the notion of choosing not to have children. There has to be something wrong, they think. My wife and I run into it all the time.

When we meet people, Beth will often be asked, “Do you have kids?” She’ll reply in the negative and not offer a reason, allowing an uncomfortable silence to fester. People wait for a response, a reason for not breeding. They want to hear “we’re trying,” or “we’re not ready.” Or simply, “I can’t have children.” That would bring out the “awwws.” But we offer nothing. It is society’s discomfort, not ours.

A couple months ago I sent my cousin a text, congratulating him and his wife on their third baby. I’m glad the baby is healthy and the parents are presumably happy to have it, but in the grand scheme of things it is one more being I have to compete with for resources on a badly overpopulated planet.

Hello, Sunshine.

People get really excited about something that has done been billions of times for the last 65 million years and something that happens every day by accident.  Even dumb teenagers do it before they can drive. Yea, you made a baby! You’re a mammal!

He replied with the typical, “Thanks. Now it’s your turn!”

I smiled as I tapped a response: “Hmm, let’s see. Orthodontist or a trip to Hawaii? College tuition or a Porsche? Bedtime stories or spontaneous love making? Toy Story or Bridesmaids? Retire at 65 or 55? Tough decisions, Cuz. I’ll have to get back to you.”

My cousin then told me to go do something to myself that would require an impossible degree of flexibility. I replied with the smiley winking emoticon.

I am tired for you, new parents, especially those of you who are my age and wisely decided to get your financial affairs in order before breeding. One new mom I’m friends with posted how excited she was that she got to go to the store by herself for the first time in months. Wow. You are warriors. I have seen Facebook posts of parents proclaiming love for their children, but I have never seen a post that says, “I love being a parent.”

Some dads I know have confided in me. “I love my kids and wouldn’t trade them for anything, but if I could do it all over again…” has been whispered more than once. I’ve also heard, “Man, I love my kids, but I am so tired.”

It’s the circle of life, the natural order of things. We’ve heard it. You have to carry on the family name. Heard that too.  Who will take care of you when you’re old? This is perhaps the most comical reason to breed. It isn’t the nineteenth century; people move away now and then put their parents in homes because everyone has to work. The new trend is “aging in place,” which is a nice way of saying “we don’t want grandma living in our house.”

I know some parents reading this will genuinely feel sad for me. They tell me they never knew what love was until they had children. I get it. I never knew what fear was until I had cancer. Don’t be sad, we’re not. Rejoice in our choice. We gladly pay taxes to help educate your children but don’t burden the system. Everybody wins. Except me, when I’m sitting in front of your progeny on an airplane.

The decision to be childless is ultimately self-centered. I want my spouse’s undivided attention and love and she demands mine. As much as we talk and plan and enjoy doing things together, it would be totally ruined by kids. We’re having way too much fun.

The next time someone tells you they don’t have kids, say “good for you,” or “you lucky dog,” or “wow, what do you do with all the free time and money?” Try to hide your horror. A little. I, in turn, will tell you how cute your kids are. They are absolutely adorable when they’re sound asleep.

The big losers in all this are our mothers. We are told what good parents we would be and how spoiled the grandkids would be. We are told that it is incumbent upon us, as thoughtful, compassionate humans, to reproduce and raise smart children in an effort to balance out the crazy relentless breeders like the Duggars who are populating the world. A breeder’s arms race. That kind of thinking is what got us into this mess.

Enjoy your Sunday. I’m going to finish my coffee and maybe get out of my robe. Maybe not. Then I’m going to, well, do whatever I want. If this were a text message, right here is where I’d put the smiley winking emoticon.

An excerpt of this column originally appeared as a special to the Kenosha News, Sunday Mornings With Basil Willis, February 13, 2012.

I love America. From stem to stern and tip to toe, I heart this big cauldron of diversity, dysfunction and determination. I especially like Wisconsin. I’ve lived in different parts of the country – Chicago, Miami and a brief stint in New Orleans – but our great state keeps pulling me back. I was reminded why on a recent road trip to Florida.

The automobile is how people used to take vacations, when gas was cheap and air travel was not. The family would load up the station wagon or living room-sized sedan (this was pre-SUVs), tie suitcases to the roof and spend two or three weeks traveling cross country by car. I had made the drive at least a dozen times myself, but it was Beth’s first such adventure southward. Americans tend to fly everywhere now and don’t really experience the in-between like we used to.

Traveling through the southern United States is like being in another country. And like actually being in another country, it’s the little things one notices. Sometimes all we share with them is currency and a language, and the latter is open for debate. When a woman asked us, “Y’all from Shelbyville?” it literally took her repeating the question three times before we understood. I thought she was saying, “Y’all want a shelter here?”

Later, when a waitress called me “sugar” and “darlin’,” I immediately understood what she was saying. There is something about a woman with a southern drawl calling me “sugar” that makes me kind of goofy. Beth noticed right away and said, “Don’t get too full of yourself. She says that to everyone.” And sure enough, when the waitress returned to our table she called Beth “darlin’” too.

One buxom server, upon learning we were from Wisconsin, said, “Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit.” Umm… ok. I will never be able to unthink the mental imagery that accompanied that directive.

While taking a trip south on the interstate system gives one a flavor of the rest of the country, it is not the same as seeing the back roads of Charles Kuralt’s America. There is an entire ecosystem built around the major arteries that includes all sorts of traveler traps and assorted freak shows. Most of the people you see when you get off the highway are other travelers; stretching, fueling and getting called “sugar.”

One fact that cannot be denied is Southerners love them some Waffle House. There is a Waffle House at every single interstate exit from Indianapolis to Tampa. The running joke on the trip became, “Only 94 Waffle Houses until we’re there!”

Interstate 75 that runs through southern Georgia, between Atlanta and the Florida border, is a sociological petri dish. There is a two hundred mile stretch of massive billboards, spaced every hundred yards, that kept repeating three themes; Jesus loves and/or will punish you, pecans, and gentlemen’s club next exit (truck parking in rear). Pray, eat pecans, watch strippers. Rinse and repent. The moral tension between the battle for souls and wallets was palpable in the heart of Dixie.

You have to be careful where you walk in the deep south. At my mom’s house you can’t walk barefoot on grass because there’s stuff in there that can kill you, or at the very least, ruin your day. Fire ants, scorpions, coral snakes, alligators and bobcats are not uncommon in her neighborhood, an area where humans are not at the top of the food chain. And don’t even think about getting in the water. In Wisconsin you can go just about anywhere without fear of being bitten or eaten, unless you’re feeding baby bears, or cover yourself in peanut butter and stumble upon a hungry wolf pack in the far north woods.

On the way back we stayed overnight in Louisville. We ordered drinks with dinner and the bartender said, ‘Y’all ain’t from around here. We can’t serve alcohol on Sunday.” Turns out the good people of the Commonwealth of Kentucky have decided that it is ok to drink wine and beer on Sunday, but not booze. When asked why, the man replied with a chuckle, “Guess they don’t want people getting tanked before church.” And therein lies a fundamental difference between Southerners and ‘Sconnies – we don’t need spirits to get tanked before church; beer or wine work just fine.

I am certain that people from the south find things about the north strange, besides our nasally accents, but I’m not sure what. You just don’t see a lot of northward migration, unless it’s Flatlanders, so it’s hard to get a good sampling. The harsh winters act as something of a filter, keeping the less hardy at bay. Despite my disdain for it, there is something about winter and its ability to kill everything outdoors that makes things seem cleaner, less greasy here. The environment has a chance to reboot. But that’s easy to say during this glorious specimen of a winter.

As we left the shorts and flip-flops weather and retraced our route north, we realized how huge and beautiful our country is, and that there’s no place like home. The return trip seemed shorter. It always does.

An excerpt of this column originally appeared as a special to the Kenosha News, Sunday Mornings With Basil Willis, January 15, 2012

It was at our house on New Year’s Eve, sometime after the Basil-tinis started flowing but well before the ball dropped, when I was blinded by a bright flash. It went off inches from my face and was followed by a familiar whirring sound. After blinking the spots out of my retinas, I realized someone had just taken my picture. With a Polaroid instant camera.

Before anyone could say anything, the bandit photographer was darting around the room, randomly shooting people from various angles and distances, throwing the undeveloped pictures onto our kitchen island. She quickly burned through the 10-pack of film, then loaded another and started shooting again. The remarks came from all corners; “Where did you get that?” “I haven’t seen one of those in years.” “Don’t waste the film!” “No, I’m not ready!”

The Polaroid camera was iconic when I was kid. Scoffed at by photo buffs for the relatively low quality, it definitely had a fun factor. The film was expensive but there was no fuss and only a couple minutes of waiting. It was the old fashioned version of the view finder, and at the time it was the only way to get near-instant results.

Back in the day the only other option was a camera that required disposable flashbulb cubes to be mounted on a swivel atop the camera. People would scrunch together at gatherings, holding smiles seemingly forever, and there would always be a problem with either the flash or the film not being wound to the next picture. A crazy uncle would grab the camera from the poor photographer and there would be conferences and arguments. Pictures and flashes would be wasted while the contraption was figured out. Then everyone would have to scrunch back into a group and try again.

Then there was the waiting for the film to be developed. When you finally picked them up, pictures would be cut off, or of a ceiling, or covered by a thumb. It’s amazing we have as many pictures as we do. Something tells me the youth of today wouldn’t have bothered.
In my kitchen, as we stood around the white, undeveloped pictures, the first one of me started coming into focus, the ghostly outline of my alien-shaped head giving me away. “There’s Basil,” someone giggled.

This film was old so all of the pictures had a brownish hue, almost like they had purposely been put through an Instagram filter. It was a neat effect that professional photographers and graphic artists sometimes do on purpose.

I equate the experience of Polaroids to reading an analog newspaper. The hardcopy and online version of the newspaper have the same content, but in some ways the online version is a much richer experience; there is virtually endless space for more images and video. Color does not cost more to produce. There is reader interaction with comments and polls. Content management systems are becoming more intelligent and can suggest related items you might be interested in based on your reading habits. You can search it. Soup to nuts, the online version is a better product.

There is just something about being able to hold and fold a newspaper. You can scribble on it or cut out articles or coupons. It is nice the ads don’t flash at you or make noise. Finding an old newspaper in the attic is like opening a time capsule. It is the same feeling I got watching the photos develop, shaking them like a Polaroid picture, as the song goes, even though it isn’t necessary.

Someone found a notebook and people began taping the Polaroids into it, writing notes and random quotations on the white border of the pictures. Someone asked if we had a glue gun. The evening devolved into a fun, drunken Martha Stewart episode and now we have a pretty neat crowdsourced scrapbook of the event.

Today the Polaroid company itself is just a shell, gutted by changing markets, corruption and ultimately bankruptcy. The last Polaroid instant film was produced in 2008 and a four-year old pack of 10 prints on eBay will now run you about $60. I’m not sure the picture taker at our party realized that she had just burned through over $500 worth of rare film.

A group of enthusiasts known as the Impossible Project has since taken up the torch and is producing film packs that work with Polaroid cameras for about $20, but their re-engineering process isn’t perfect yet and the film quality is not great, even for Polaroid standards.

In 2010 Polaroid teamed up with Lady Gaga to promote a new mobile printer that wirelessly connects to smart phones or cameras with Bluetooth or WiFi. It’s about the size of a paperback novel and uses special paper that does not require ink or cartridges. A 30 pack of prints costs $20. It’s a cool concept which gives you the instant developing experience. They are pitching it as a “mobile photo booth.”

At some point during the night I took a picture of the random Polaroids spread across the island with my iPhone and uploaded it to Facebook. A picture of pictures; new technology chronicling the extinct. I am able to share the picture around the world, but it will never be as fun as the original, or feel as good in my hand. And they will never find it in the attic.

An excerpt of this column originally appeared as a special to the Kenosha News, Sunday Mornings With Basil Willis, December 11, 2011

It was the summer of 2007 and we were on our way out for martinis, driving downtown, when we passed the majestic building at dusk. There was a for sale sign in the yard. I slowed down. “Wow, she’s gorgeous.”

“Oh yeah, that’s the old Elk’s Club. I had my prom there.” Beth has a habit of hiding interesting Kenosha things from me, and then acting like I’m dumb for not knowing they existed. She told me about the weddings and other events she had attended there, and about the glorious ballroom.

We got out and walked up to the doors to peer in. The building was amazing. The first floor housed a restaurant on one end, a comfortable lobby and lounge area with a large fireplace in the middle, and a bar tucked away in the back on the other end. There was a circular drive on the north side of the building for dropping off the ladies. I pictured parties and laughter and music. I was instantly in love.

I had never even entertained the notion of being a business or commercial property owner, but I was helplessly enchanted. Walking around the building gave me a sense of community and vibrancy and I could see it all coming back to life.

When we got home I did research. It was assessed at a half million dollars and had been falling steadily for years. The property taxes had not been paid for the past two years. We might be able to get a great deal on the place.

Within one weekend we had the outline of a business plan. We knew nothing about running a restaurant, so we would partner with a local up and coming chef who wanted to start his or her own place. We would build out and provide the space for cheap for a piece of the revenue. The back bar would be turned into a speakeasy-themed hideaway, with a secret door from the lobby hidden behind bookshelves.

Above the restaurant was a 1,500 square foot chef’s quarters, which we would turn into our own apartment.

The second and third stories housed the magnificent ballroom with two story arched windows, hardwood floors and bars on either side. On one end of the ballroom was a balcony with another bar, which we would set up as a VIP and wheelchair accessible area for shows. Outside on the front of the building was a wonderful portico that spread out under massive columns. Mojitos and long, sheer linen curtains would flow in the summer breeze.

We could have done anything in that space, and we planned it all; concerts, weddings, theater in the round, dances, exhibits, chamber events, fish fries, yoga, bingo. We would keep it used and occupied.

The fourth floor, which was once hotel rooms, we would turn into an incubator for small service-based start-ups; a caterer, designer, web developer, perhaps an accountant or lawyer who wanted to hang their own shingle. There would be private offices, a shared conference room under the large sky light, and a shared phone system and Internet connection. It would be an attractive, professional place entrepreneurs could work and meet clients without a lot of overhead.

I worked with a contractor on the remodeling costs and totaled up everything we could think of, and then doubled it just to be safe.

We figured what we could make by selling our house (this was before the bottom fell out), cashing in our 401Ks and our savings. We also did some preliminary research on SBA loans and grants to restore historic buildings. One of us would keep our day job in the interim for income and insurance. The numbers were working.

We called the real estate agent and set up a tour the next day. He showed us the basement first, which housed an olympic-sized pool. Bonus. Then he showed us a room off to the side. “They had oil tanks for the furnace here, and there may have been leaking. You’ll probably have to get some testing done, get EPA clearance.”

My heart sank. As the tour continued, it was obvious that the whole place needed to be gutted, and was probably beyond even that. Broken windows had allowed birds to take up residence and there was mold everywhere. We should have been wearing masks. Worst of all, the owner was asking for close to a million dollars, which was twice the assessed value and half of what it would take to rehab the place. With every step, through every room of what was once a magnificent community anchor, the dream was slowly, methodically, strangled to death.

My heart sank again last week when I saw her on the cover of the Kenosha News with plans to raze. I know the recent background story on the building, and it is sad, but I can’t help wonder how this was allowed to happen. Designated an historic structure by Kenosha in 1979, the city has looked away over the last decade as this beautiful edifice was allowed to decay, taxes unpaid. It is a metaphor for much of what challenges Kenosha.

Sure, I‘ve dreamt of pulling the rip cord and setting up shop in a beach hut, but I’d never had a crazy idea for a sudden life change like that before, so clear and powerfully compelling, and haven’t since. The idea of restoring the building was all-consuming for a brief moment. There was something about that old place that spoke to me, and inspired me to dream. I never really knew her, but I miss her already.

An excerpt of this column originally appeared as a special to the Kenosha News, Sunday Mornings With Basil Willis, November 13, 2011

There is an old Wisconsin adage that says: If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes. In today’s world the same can be said about almost anything, especially the workplace. The pace at which technology marches forward is dizzying and those who ignore it and are being left behind. For better or worse, the new economy rewards those who embrace change.

A recent new hire came into my office last week. He is a supervisor, an older guy who was brought on to herd cats in the plant and bring order to a specific area of operations. He had the air of being a no-nonsense butt-kicker who was used to people being intimidated by his presence, but this day he wore a sheepish look.  “I’m supposed to get an iPhone today, but I don’t need it. I can use my own cell phone.” I asked him if he could get email on his personal phone, or if he could view our company’s web-based production dashboards, or if he had a barcode scanner app? “Uhh… no.”

He was visibly upset. I asked him to close my door. “You have to learn how to use this tool. That’s all it is, another tool on your belt. If you don’t, there is someone out there who wants your job that will.” I assured him that someone on my staff would give him personal training and he didn’t have to master it overnight. I also told him that once he learned how to use it, he would wonder how he ever lived without it.

As he left my office it got me thinking about my own career and how change has been central to it. The job I had out of college doesn’t exist anymore, replaced by Indians, commodity hardware, hosted services and ever increasing reliability. When I started out, my full time job was literally babysitting two fussy servers and a handful of computers.

Now a skilled technician can manage twenty servers, a hundred workstations and dozens of mobile devices by herself. My focus has become less about the nuts and bolts and more about how I can apply technology to make business better, customers happier and margins fatter. I have become of an analyzer of business strategy and process and an agent of change. I have found that most people fear and loathe change, and I don’t blame them. But I do worry about them.

While technology may be the face of evolution, change is everywhere and it is constant. The math that the accountant uses has been the same for millennia, but the codes and tools are always shifting. A mechanic who is my age has seen the automobile become infused with dozens of sensors and chips. An engine is still a spark, gas and air, but you need a computer now to diagnose and tune a modern car.

Companies are all trying to get leaner and more productivity out of each worker, refine every process and squeeze waste from every system. Those who will succeed (or simply survive) in the new economy will be the ones who are able to adapt to an ever-changing landscape. There are a number of ways to get there, but the single thread that binds all careers will be one of not ever getting comfortable.

My path, a generic bachelor’s education from Madison, was hugely beneficial. Very little of what I learned in college gets used now. I remember some authors, some interesting lab experiments and enough Spanish to order a beer in Cozumel. I’m pretty good at Jeopardy.

What I gained from school that proved to be most valuable is learning how to learn; how to quickly cram copious amounts of information into my brain and manage multiple tasks simultaneously, often doing so with very little sleep. It was great training, because that’s essentially what I’ve been doing for twenty years.

Tech schools are vitally important for other reasons. I want the guy that’s fixing the X-ray machine to know exactly what he is doing. They don’t teach you that at universities. I don’t care if he can speak to the American Dark Transcendentalists or has studied Pavlov as long as the images are clear. But know that the machine he is a master of now will be a relic by the time the warranty is up. Be prepared, and eager, to master the new machine. Or even a whole new paradigm.

That new supervisor grins at me now when we pass in the halls. He shows me apps he’s downloaded and is especially delighted with the GPS golf app that calculates yardage. “It posts my scores on Facebook too, if I want.” He has an incredibly annoying screaming monkey ringtone that can be heard throughout the entire office. I smile whenever I hear it; a reminder that an old dog learning new tricks can still kick butt.

Noted twentieth century philosopher Kevin Cronin put it succinctly when he said, “So, if you’re tired of the same old story, oh, turn some pages. I will be here when you are ready, to roll with the changes.” Keep on rolling.

An excerpt of this column originally appeared as a special to the Kenosha News, Sunday Mornings With Basil Willis, October 16, 2011

Almost four years ago I wrote a column about moving to Kenosha, and while the piece wasn’t entirely flattering, I did try to accentuate the positive. I moved here for love and since then have settled in, despite my constructive bullet points.

Most of our friends are scattered around the state and country, so visits usually involve an overnight stay. Last week we hosted Beth’s BFF, Heather LeMay, and Heather’s new friend Steve, who both live north of Milwaukee. Steve had never been to Kenosha and I found myself in the position of being an ambassador. It was a strange sensation looking at Kenosha through someone else’s eyes.

They didn’t arrive until Friday evening so we stayed in and ordered a smorgasbord from Tenuta’s, which Steve claimed was the best Italian food he’d ever had. We told him about the Italian influence in Kenosha, and Beth gleefully pointed out that one of the Tenuta guys on the pizza box was Heather’s prom date a couple decades ago. Awkward, small-world moment that Steve took well.

I’m a huge fan of Heather, and Steve turned out to be a worthy wingman. We were thrown together because our gals were best friends, and I could have done much worse. He was as laid back as me and spoke enough to be interesting, but didn’t feel like he had to fill space with idle chatter. He knew how to use “saw” and “seen” in the proper tense, which is kind of a litmus test for me.

Our Saturday got off to a bumpy start. Because of a cable TV show, every first time visitor to Kenosha wants to eat at Frank’s Diner. Or at least the people that live here think they do. I have been to Frank’s six times since I’ve moved to Kenosha and have yet to eat there. The two times that there wasn’t a line out the door and we actually went inside, we left after realizing the estimates being given for wait times were optimistic. We go out of our way to support local establishments, but bumping against strangers and getting barked at before I’m fully, or even partially caffeinated, just doesn’t work.

We went in and toughed it out for our friends but after five minutes all four of us, starving, looked at each other and decided to leave. In the future we’ll just drive by and say, “There’s Frank’s Diner.” They clearly don’t need my patronage to stay successful.

Serendipity led us to the Coffee Pot, a friendly place with a comfortable outdoor area, the best homemade bread ever, and a mean Bloody Mary. After breakfast we took a ride on the trolley and showed Steve all the downtown sights, stopping at the newish Irish pub near the marina, Ashling on the Lough, for another Bloody Mary and/or beer. It was the first time Beth and I had been and will not be the last.

Boody Mary at Ashling on the Lough

If I was allowed to design the perfect weather day, it would have been this glorious fall specimen. We walked from the marina to the Farmers Market where we ran into Beth’s mom. She was in a lively conversation with former mayor, John Antaramian, who I understand was instrumental in helping develop what is now a vibrant downtown harbor area. Steve was getting the royal Kenosha treatment; meeting the mayor, dating a LeMay and hanging out with an esteemed (in his own mind) Kenosha News columnist. Had we come across an Aiello and a Ruffalo it would have been the Kenosha Trifecta.

We visited the public museum (Steve was amazingly schooled in glaciers and fossils) and had a late lunch outside at the yacht club.

That evening, after napping and freshening, we headed back downtown for dinner and cocktails. We started out on the deck at Pazzo’s and worked our way to Sazzy B’s where we sat outside. And that is where a superbly enjoyable day and evening turned deliciously weird.

We heard them before we saw them; moaning, screaming and growling, the honking of horns and ringing of bells. Our group stood up from our sidewalk table to see what was causing the commotion and around the corner came one of the trippiest things I have ever seen; a parade of over a hundred zombies on bicycles. They had pale faces and blood on their clothes. They were in all manner of dress and decay, from mutilated Elvis’ (Elvii?) to sexy zombie nurses; a cornucopia of rolling undead. They waved and hollered.

The rest of the night we saw zombies everywhere we went. The undead enjoy drinking and dancing and were very friendly. I was molested by a zombie with pigtails in a bloody school girl outfit (“umm… thanks, but I’m married”). We ended up at The Port, which was crawling with zombies, and it seemed much cleaner and less brooding since the last time I was there. Beth and I agreed it had lost its grunge since the smoking ban went into place, but it smelled a lot better and the drinks were worthy.

Downtown and the harbor is simply an awesome area and is the crown jewel of Kenosha. If only the economy were better. I would love living there and have a walking lifestyle, and I think a lot of people would if we could sell our houses. Steve mentioned a number of times how safe he felt, adding he always thought of Kenosha as more run down and dangerous. “Like Racine,” he said.

I could not have drawn up a better weekend, the best time I’ve had in Kenosha. Next year we are going to be bike riding zombies ourselves, and Steve can’t wait to come back. Any place that has bar-hopping bike-riding living dead is ok in my book. I think I’m starting to heart you, Kenosha.

This column originally appeared as a special to the Kenosha News, Sunday Mornings With Basil Willis, September, 18, 2011.

After a challenging summer, we knew we had to get away before the weather changed. Something cheap and relatively close. Beth booked a trip down the mighty Wisconsin River from Sauk City to Spring Green, a 25 mile canoeing adventure over two days through the Driftless Area created during the last glacial period. All the provisions we would need had to fit inside a canoe, which meant Beth couldn’t bring a suitcase full of shoes.

The weather was perfect when we pushed away from the shore at the canoe rental shop where we purchased firewood and ice.  We also rented a “dry bag” for our valuables in the event of a tipped canoe. We would not see a man-made structure for the next two days.

The Lower Wisconsin River Waterway is managed and protected by a state agency of the same name. If ever there was well-applied regulation, it is that no development is allowed in this zone. The entire area is pristine.

There are no cities, no porta-potties, no houses, no water slides and no place to charge your phone. Nothing but nature, as it has been for millennia.

The sandy shores of the river are hugged tightly by dense forest. There are many high bluffs, their layered faces shorn by ancient glaciers.  As we glided down the river it was not hard to imagine being a native or explorer hundreds of years ago.

A quarter into our journey we passed the Mazomanie nude beach, an infamous two hundred yard stretch of sand at a wide point in the river that local authorities have grudgingly allowed for decades. I was in the back of the canoe and could see the bright, white untanned bottoms from a half mile away. There must have been over a hundred people. When Beth noticed a few minutes later, she turned around and whispered, “We’re near Mazo! That’s the nude beach!”

Most of the crowd was AARP-ish, and as we drifted past, it became clear that the manscaping paradigm had not yet reached this demographic. We’d seen nude tanning before on the European parts of Miami Beach, on cruise ships and on trips to the Caribbean. Beth, as she so often does, gave voice to my thought before I could; “Why does it seem like only old, fat people go to nude beaches?”

There were times when we would both stop paddling and just drift. You don’t realize how much noise is in daily city living until you’re not in it. There were literally hours at a time when we didn’t hear or see other people. We saw bald eagles and cranes. Turtles sunning themselves on fallen trees would jump into the water as we drifted by.

The river is wide, sometimes a full quarter mile, and shallow with a sand bottom. The majority of this section is less than four feet deep. Sandbars dot much of the river and this is where campers are required to stay; you cannot set up camp on the shores. There are hundreds of sandbars, and finding one is part of the process. We had our choice of great locations.

As we were setting up camp we saw thousands of geese fly overhead and Beth mentioned she thought it was early for migrating. They turned around and flew back over us, broke up into different groups and were all honking loudly. This continued for almost an hour; take offs, circling, landings, disjointed and unorganized V-shaped groups going in different directions amidst relentless honking. Neither of us had seen anything like it and I said it looked they were practicing, teaching the young who had never migrated before. The ones that don’t learn you see walking across the street near Tinsel Town.

“Are you going to do your fire tepee thing?” Beth asked. When I was a Boy Scout I earned a survival badge by going into the wilderness for two days with nothing more than a pot, a knife and flint. I work behind a keyboard and am not known for being a handyman, but if you need a fire started, I’m your guy. On this trip it helped that I had a mini Duraflame cheater log and a lighter. We were roasting brats and baked beans in no time. There is something hypnotic and cathartic about sitting by a camp fire.

We could not hear traffic or anything even remotely related to humankind. The only signs of humanity were the tiny flickers of camp fires, a mile up river and another one a mile downriver. That night we heard coyotes howling at the full moon; there were many and they were close. We packed all our food in the canoe in sealed containers, far from our tent. We were more concerned about bears than coyotes.

When I opened the tent door in the morning, our sandbar was completely enveloped in fog. We could not see the water or the shore. It was eerie and quiet and ethereal. As we packed up, the sun burned off the fog, slowly revealing the river and hills and bluffs. It was nothing short of magical.

I had an epiphany on this journey; at 44 years old I must face the cold, hard fact that I physically can no longer, will no longer, sleep on the ground. Tent camping is dead to me.  We will enjoy the river and sandbars again someday, but only for a day, at the end of which will be a hotel attached to a different kind of bar.

I considered not writing about this adventure because I want to keep it to myself, but it’s too beautiful not to share. If you get the chance, don’t hesitate to go. Like seeing a game at Lambeau Field, Dells Duck rides or cream puffs at State Fair, you haven’t had the full Wisconsin experience until you’ve seen it from the river. But if you’re my age or older, you might want to bring an air mattress.