“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to get through this thing called Life,” sings Prince in Let’s Go Crazy. That’s familiar: “Get through it…” as I penned in my last post. But I would also submit—and my many euphoric nights going crazy at Prince shows confirm he’d agree—that we are also gathered here to celebrate this thing called Life.

That’s what my perfect daughter and I did a few days before school started, with a back-to-school, daddy-date tradition of paddling Minneapolis’s chain of lovely lakes and then perusing ever-funky Uptown. I loved the canoeing. She loved the shopping. We both loved lunch al fresco.

Let’s go crazy? Heck, yeah! Cancer makes you crazy—or at least provides a handy excuse—while also provoking some people around you to do kinda crazy things. The BreakAway blog has gone out-to-lunch too; we (the Royal) used to preach about making and taking time for what matters: career breaks, long-term travel, seeking balance, and listening to that dreamy (if crazy) voice inside of you.

Has that trip been hijacked? Or am I on a bad-thing BreakAway? I’ve written about that too—how even for purposeful people, it sometimes takes the bad thing to force the gift of time. Sickness or death of a loved one. A relationship ending. Getting fired. Guess we can add cancer (and other ills) to the list. If this is a restoration BreakAway, let’s go!

• Hair today, gone tomorrow

Last Friday, hair began falling like the leaves of Octember. And was about as messy. I am nothing if not fastidious and frugal (not), so I raced to Great Clips for my free “Courage Cut,” and got the Greatest Clipper. She preached the Gospel of Laughter, became yet another comic-duo sidekick, and had me chuckling and hairless lickety-split. Sure, it feels funny—smooth like velvet when stroked forward, scratchy like bristles backward. Mirrors and silhouettes still startle me. Who is that cat?

But as my stylist and new friend asserted when I lamented this insignificant and inevitable evolution, “Hey, there are worse things in this world!” And just like that…Pity. Party. Over.

• A rant about reactions

My comedy post went over well, but today may veer in the direction of rant. But that’s cool, I think, as many successful comedians have resorted to ranting: Sam Kinison, Sarah Silverman, Donald Trump.

As you know, I’m the luckiest man in the world—because I have so many friends. And that has made getting through this breezy so far. The help, communiqués, and connections continue to arrive, in all forms. The great majority are supportive, inspiring, and sweet. (A few short faves include, “Uffda!,” “Go kick some ass!” and “Picked the wrong dude.”) Others are memorable for other reasons—like a mosh-pit at a Tony Bennett concert. Let’s explore a few highlights of both types, shall we?

• The bipolar nurse

During perhaps the worst procedure I’ve endured, in a roomful of people holding various farm implements, I was belly-down while they drilled into my bones, med-free (not recommended). It went on and on, didn’t go well, and took many taps. In my hour of darkness, a perky nurse came to my aid and said, “Here, hold my hands. Go ahead and squeeze.” So I did. And the sound of her breaking bones soon drowned out the grunts and gizmos. The nurse and I quickly launched into cathartic comic-duo banter.

When it was finally over, she pulled her limp hands away, and I deadpanned my closing line: “I hope you enjoyed our first date as much as I did.”

Everyone laughed on cue, and the others gradually disappeared. The nurse stayed to ensure I was okay, yet snuck out soon enough as I sat there dazed and half-nude in one of those half-assed hospital robes. I forget our final chat, but it must have gotten cancer-deep. Because as she left the room, she yawned and muttered, “Well, when it’s your time…”

Alone and stunned, I could only think, “Did she just say that!?!” Given another chance, I’d tear open that door, burst out in my bruised birthday suit, and holler, “PICKED THE WRONG DUDE!” And, “WE ARE SO DONE DATING!”

• What is the cause, Kenneth?

Another forehead-gripper came from a close friend. During a pre-chemo party, he reflected, “I just can’t wait til this is over and we can figure out the cause.” Hmmmm. Wow. That golf-ball tumor in my head is going to lead the world to understanding lymphoma? I can’t wait til this is over, we go public, save countless lives, and make millions!

I’ll tell you what causes cancer. It’s the same thing that causes skinned knees, broken legs, and broken hearts: Life. It’s a fatal disease we all share. And I propose we all embrace its immense and infinite mysteries.

• The scathing psycho-soul assessment

Yet another longtime friend hand-wrote a 3-page letter that essentially stated that the reason this happened is because I live too much in my head. I need to open my heart. I need to free my soul. And I need to master my mind-body connection. It went on and on, and included book recommendations. I’ll just leave it at that.

But I didn’t at the time. I mean, who could? My very being had been judged and dissed.

So my very being started raging. And Buster (my soul’s bodyguard and Anger’s BFF) awakened in a foul mood. My best AdvisorZ tell me to watch out for Buster during this time. Stress too. They are toxic, I’m told, and my body is already being filled with an extreme poison cocktail. But try telling that to my slandered body, mind, heart, and soul. Try telling Buster anything.

I argued with Buster in my head. I instructed him to think about our compassion, meditation, and Zen work. But instead, Buster took to using a Buddha statue for a punching bag. So I stuck a WWJD bumper sticker over his face. But he ripped it off and pumped adrenaline, like gasoline, into my veins. And then, with spit and sweat splattering off his purple head, Buster bellowed, “Let’s go kick some ass!”

Being a strong Iowa boy, though, I hog-tied Buster and threw him back in his cell. We negotiated from there. Buster did convince me to write a reply; I said we’d keep it short and polite. I later had a mutual acquaintance deliver that reply along with the letter I’d received—and then rip mine to shreds after the first writer had read it once. “Please don’t respond,” I wrote. “I’ve moved on.” And we will. Because that’s what friends do.

Yet I would like to offer this simple advice: Please think twice before offering advice. Particularly when your advisee is in a vulnerable position. Especially if you weren’t even asked.

At least that’s my opinion. And it’s very true.

• The scarred—not scared—angel

On the sympathetic side of the reaction scale, at a recent St. Paul Saints baseball game, I was shopping for a baseball chemo cap in their gift store. There were dozens—hundreds?—of options. But I’m just not a cap guy. So I asked a nearby hip and outdoorsy couple to help me; it’s St. Paul, after all. They did, and we quickly found a soft fabric and ideal design.

As we parted, I explained that I was undergoing chemo, so I needed hats to warm my soon-to-be bald head. The gentleman, wearing a most dapper and proper hat, smiled and said, “Really? I’m getting over brain surgery, myself. We’re gonna be fine.”

He doffed that dapper hat to reveal a shaved head with a fresh scar that would make Frankenstein jealous. And we fell into a robust handshake-hug. As inspiration goes, that saintly stranger hit a home run.

• The language of compassion 

For one more story of grace, I ran into an acquaintance originally from Mexico. We don’t know each other well, but have a warm connection. Sadly, my Spanish is worse than his English. So we meet in the middle and use gestures—as you do when traveling foreign lands.

When I told him I have cancer, his face showed shock, his eyes got teary, and he turned away to hide his emotion. After a moment, he turned back and looked me straight-on. He tried to find words, but could not. So he simply clutched his heart with both hands.

Enough said.

• Sumus quod sumus

I can do no better than to quote the Lake Wobegon motto: Sumus quod sumus: We are what we are. People will do what they’ll do, and say what they‘ll say, whatever their belief system—itself an inexplicable oxymoron. One must expect to digest reactions of all flavors at times like this, as I anticipated in my announcement post.

Well-meaning people sometimes drive each other crazy. I suppose I do—certainly my daughter. (Hey, I’m her dad. It’s my job.) But we paddle on—if not fearlessly, at least seeking the courage of other cancer victims, MLK, Gandhi, and, of course, Apple.

Most important: I’m so grateful for your steady stream of support, however it shows up. So keep those vibes and missives coming. And if they displease Buster or serve me too much to think, well, that’s fine. To be Frank, That’s Life.

Life. We got this. Thanks for listening…

Back to my roots…for a new kind of buzz.

*kh

PS First spinal chemo tomorrow. All-day chemo Thursday, plus the start of the next five-day course of that elephant-dose of that effing steroid. So send thoughts, and go celebrate some normal Life for me. More soon when they’ve scraped me off the ceiling…

One perk for early medical appointments…a sublime sunrise!

“Everything will turn out alright if you can just keep your sense of humor,” my dad used to say, and still does, though I might need to remind him (and all of us) at times. So my new healthcare-survival strategy is to make every caregiver laugh at least once.

Cancer care is a full-time job, so I am getting lots of practice while also simplifying the rest of Reality, including withdrawing, sadly, from teaching at MCAD this fall semester—a tragic loss for the students. One upside: This should allow more time for comedy writing.

I’ll now need extra time for other things too. Like, today, my new cancer-care team added another 4-hour chemo treatment to combat a newly-decided small chance of brain or spinal  cancer. This procedure, naturally, will flow through the spine (insert Spinal Tap joke here). So scheduling all these appointments: Yet another pain-in-the-back that goes to 11—at night, for all I know.

When working with schedulers at the new clinic today, I asked about the next full-day (not to be confused with 4-hour) treatment and stretched my humor muscle: “Since I’ll be here all day, do I get a private room?” “Yes!,” she replied. So I asked, “Does it have a window?” “No!” she answered. Desperate for that elusive chuckle, I replied, “Well then, I guess I’ll have to bring my own!” It worked.

• Introducing Dr. Zen and Dr. Nostril 

I’ll call my new oncologist Dr. Zen, as he rather floats into the room and makes you feel, however temporarily, quite comfortable to have cancer and wish you were on whatever he’s on. He had so many wise things to say—not only about lymphoma—that I should have taken notes. I look forward to my time with him.

I later shared special moments with my ENT doctor, Dr. Nostril (he’s okay with that moniker) in another location. I had to drive like a NASCAR stud through construction terror to make it on time. But I was oh-so ready to play some C-card humor to any cop who would dare stop me that I was looking forward to that, too.

Dr. Nostril holds the honor of first telling me about my tumor and showing me the pictures (since I had steadfastly ignored everything they were sending me online) and also doing the biopsy surgery. We also have a fun mutual acquaintance. So we’re not only close, personal friends, but are now getting our comic duo act ready.

When he entered the room wearing an old-fashioned head mirror, I was taken aback—having never seen a real one before. “What is this, some Jimmy Stewart movie?” I blurted. Not missing a beat, he retorted, “Actually, we’re doing a Norman Rockwell painting today.” Me: “I just hope your not planning to stick that thing up my nose, too.” He did not, which was nice of him, though he did again probe a camera (not the 35mm this time).

• All good news mostly 

Happily, he was delighted with what he saw up there. Which is to say: My golf-ball-sized tumor is noticeably smaller than the last time he went sinus spelunking. So you can say what you want about how 5 chemotherapies makes you sick and how that elephant-dose of that effing steroid makes you curse the bald eagles and try to tackle telephone poles. But hey, it seems to be working—already—and I can feel it too. So at this point, if the plan includes my reading War and Peace aloud in the middle of 35W, I’m okay with that.

One hopes their shift in tone can continue. I mean, at those first appointments, it was all doom and gloom and stats and odds that, quite frankly, could ruin an otherwise lovely encounter. “Stop! Stop!” I wanted to scream, and probably did. Now, however, caregivers are sometimes grabbing my arm and cheerleading, “You’re young! You’re strong!” To which I reply “Go on! Go on!”

• Not a fall guy

September lurks. So does dark, stormy, dusty, messy, smelly, poopy autumn. Me? I’m the Summer Guy. So this time of year usually feels like the slow-mo cessation of an awesome party. On a cool boat. With all your best friends. And babes in bikinis and everyone shouting along to music blasting. And Bud Light (check that).

This year, though, I’m singing a different tune. With any luck, this crap might be behind me by 12-21, the shortest day of the year. And I can quit my cancer-comedy shtick and get back to bellyaching about the lack of light.

Not to complain. Hanging out in hospitals and cancer clinics surely makes a person feel grateful for all that is good and right. As Grandma would cheerfully chirp on the South Dakota farm when someone felt the need to carp about something, “It’s not so bad we are off!”

• Get through it…

When making late lunch before a blissy-sunny kayak ride with my perfect daughter after today’s appointments, The Current FM played an old favorite, favorite song, Tender. Sweet serendipity. Please watch. My humor was exhausted. A few tears fell from my face onto the carrots. Were they joy? Were they grief? It is such a secret place, the land of emotions.

“Tender is the day…the demons go away,” goes the song. “Come on, come on, come on…get through it,” sings the choir.

I hope you, too, are getting through any obstacles in your path. We got this. Thanks for listening…

*kh

Meet Scott, proudly representing my so many friends. Scott’s a BFF since 2nd grade, growing up in Soo Siddy and beyond, who spent the last few days prepping (and partying) with me at home on Lake Owasso. In this pic, we are afloat at Boji just a few weeks ago.

…because I have so many friends.” I found out I have cancer 13 days ago—and have since been bludgeoned by medical testing and intel, ridden a gut-wrenching roller-coaster of emotions, and been lovingly group-groped by friends near and afar. My diagnosis: If med-tech can’t cure cancer, then friends will.

I’ve been a lake aficionado all my life, with a special connection to one Lake Okoboji, Iowa. (Is this heaven?) I spent some college summers living the college-boy dream in Okoboji—on the water all day, waiting tables long nights, growing vegetables in between, and chilling in a hidden cabin with no phone or TV (just a giant stereo!).

My last summer, I was promoted to head waiter and worked alongside a legendary,76-year-old Maître D, Mr. R., who taught many friends the brilliant headliner above. (He also knew more bad—and by that I mean good—jokes than a convention of comedians.)

Mr. R. was cantankerous and flamboyant—with countless colorful tuxes, more jewelry than Liz Taylor, a what-critter-is-that toupee, and cigars the size of baseball bats. He’d end the night with two pockets full of $20s and announce, “I’m the luckiest main in the world…because I have so many friends.”

He was an anomaly in this community, a place he only “summered” to escape Des Moines. He drove a VW bug with a Mercedes front, knew everyone wherever he went, and might show up in woman’s clothes for huge Sunday parties, even at the Omaha blue bloods’ estates. This is northwestern Iowa. Folks work hard, clean harder, and didn’t know much diversity. But nobody gave a shit, not even all the frat boys who worked the joints and waters—or they just kept it to themselves and had another G&T.

And Mr. R. was right: He had SO MANY friends.

I’ll never match his je-ne-sais-quoi, or those like him who love limelight, or especially his taste in clothes and cigars. But I’m pretty sure I have even more friends. And I look forward to collecting those $20s, metaphorically, in food and fun and freaking out (if it comes to that) while I endure my cancer daze.

Chemo kick-off tomorrow morning. Keep them vibes and prayers comin’!

Cancer: WE got this. Thanks for joining me.

Hello World,

I know what you’re thinking: Nice hair, huh? Better look fast!

But let’s get right to the point, shall we? Cancer.

Today, (August 15) is National Relaxation Day. I hope this doesn’t mean we can only relax one day per year!

It’s been a great summer. Is there any other kind? Never mind that this blogger has suffered some shattering personal sh!t, starting in July. And then, this relaxer also got struck struck by some shocking health sh!t, as of last week. As Casey Kasem used to say, “The hits just keep on comin’!”

But despite the chilly sh!t-fan, there were also countless moments of relaxation. Repose. Rest. Beauty. And grace. Perhaps that’s why the wordsmith-ing got quiet? Oh yeah, and the aforementioned. But who wants to get stuck there on National Relaxation Day?

Instead, here are some random pics from the bliss that summer brought. Because  when life gets hard, there’s still an abundance of beauty most anywhere you look—and peaceful moments awaiting most anywhere life takes you.

• Golfing is relaxing…when you remember…it’s an outdoor game…to bring you zen.

• I’ve looked at clouds. From both sides now.

• Beer is beautiful. And relaxing!

• My favorite five-fingered flower that always shakes the blues!

• Daughter’s USA Cup soccer games at 7 am: The best reason go get up early!

• Root, root, root for the fireworks. If the home team can’t win, who cares?

• My garden is my playground. Plants, flowers, found art, and an angel or two…

• For pristine, eye-popping grandeur, consider Lake Superior.

• My children have taught me how to spell relaxation: H-A-M-M-O-C-K-I-N-G.

• Peace.

• WAR

During the Vietnam War, Canada welcomed most any American man whose conscience would not allow him to go to war and inflict harm on other people. Brilliant. Compassionate. Generous.

• CIVIL WAR

Today, we have a national epidemic of people shooting and harming one another—with violence and anger surrounding us and new tragedies flaring daily. My guess is, if there were a Canada option available, many people would flee the madness for a refuge.

• POLITICS

Some say they’d like to move if Donald Trump becomes President. Perhaps others feel that way about Hillary Clinton. Americans are dissatisfied, angry, and scared. All sorts of them, about all sorts of things, in ways not seen in decades.

• FAMILIAL ABUSE 

Others find themselves in broken families—living with (and often putting up with for years) partners or relatives who lie, cheat, abuse, and cause irreparable spiritual and physical harm—disregarding human necessities like love, kindness, and respect. When your own home and alleged loved ones knowingly hurt you, who can you turn to? You may feel like running away. And some do, sometimes for the better.

• WHERE TO GO? 

The Vietnam War may provide a model to these scenarios that have much in common. Sadly, Canada can’t just take every foreign soul who’s hurting so badly he can’t take it any more…or mad as hell and can’t take it any more.

• THE BAD-THING BREAKAWAY

Career-break advocates try to maintain an upbeat—if not dreamy—tone to the promise of an extended period for travel, reflection, adventure, and rest.

But in truth, many people’s “breaks” look more like running away—in hopes of escaping the madness, ending a long, domestic nightmare, or simply finding a place of peace and hope.

Is it a valid and viable solution to problems and pain? There is never a perfect answer. But sometimes, maybe it is. Even the fantasy can offer some solace. You may be trapped or suffering, but you must keep faith you’ll land in a better place.

You can start over most any time. Sometimes, you have no choice.

Keep the faith.

The holiday season comes loaded with lots of stuff. Literally, metaphorically, and beyond. When a WashPost article about the stuff of Christmas arrived like a big-box gift recently, many had to stop and think; the millennials don’t want the baggage of the holidays, but they crave the pomp and trad. The elders don’t want the responsibility and labor, but they adore the festivity and customs.

• Here’s an idea: Shake it up

My parents may kill me, but they haven’t yet. Nor will your rellies. Regardless of your rituals, why not reinvent the holiday season every year? There are as many ways to spend these days as people to spend them. Somewhere old, somewhere new. Something borrowed, something blue.

The holiday season may seem less spiritual every year. And yet, the churches keep filling and singing. The synagogues keep lighting candles and feasting. Black Friday keeps growing—and soon may be a whole month (or two). Why not? It’s the dark daze, and we need ways. To gather, observe, and carry on.

• Big Christmas
  • 55 gifts (per person)
  • 5,555 lights (per tree)
  • Yard Santas
  • Rum-soaked punch
  • Umpteen parties
• Little Christmas
  • Hand-made presents
  • Countless candles
  • A walk in the woods
  • BreakAway
  • Quiet presence

There’s a time for all the above, and endless ways to celebrate, commiserate, and meditate. Did I ever tell you about the ONLY time I saw my elderly Grandpa have a drink? (And we were close.) On a Christmas Eve. In a dive bar. No, a real dive bar. Blackberry brandy somebody insisted he sip. He resisted, then took a taste. And his words were, “Hey, that’s pretty good!”

Merry Christmas. Happy holidays. Hey, that’s pretty good!

Roots and wings. That oft-used aphorism professes what most parents hope to grow in their children. And the highest and widest wing-spreading journey, for most, happens when leaving for college. In my case, the boy flew off to Princeton—a mere 1200 miles away, where he will, “play football, play baseball, and study my brains out!” Bye-bye roots, hello wings. Here for 6,000 todays, gone for…forever?

• College gets controversial

These days, college gets kicked around more than a Division 1 soccer ball. The mountains of student debt—a potential macro-econ bubble-crisis. The value debate. The lack of lucrative jobs for grads. The sports/pay debate, the sex (abuse), the (binge) drinking, the elitism, the multi-billion-dollar endowments (for the top spots), the specious school scandals, the online education (r)evolution, yadda yadda yadda. Rah! Rah! Rah!

• The gift of time

All those deserve examination, of course. But I think they are mostly distractors of what college (and by that I mean four years of focused study that results in a credible degree) is all about: The Ultimate BreakAway. Never again will a student of life receive ~1400 days to explore, evolve, and learn—usually with only a foggy (if smug) notion of where he is going, or where he’ll end up.

What can happen? Here are just some of the possibilities…

Leave home.

Leave friends.

Start over.

Listen more.

Speak up.

Learn fast, or…

Be humbled.

Fail shamefully.

Celebrate victoriously.

Juggle 555 expectations.

Fail again.

Try again.

Defy expectations.

Find trouble.

Change directions.

Change your mind.

Change the world?

Gain wisdom.

Gain weight.

Lose interest.

Fall in lust.

Fall in love.

Fall out of love.

Rekindle talents.

Discover a calling.

Change directions again.

Push your luck.

Pull all-nighters.

Study abroad.

Immerse yourself.

Perfect a language.

Take road trips.

Visit friend’s stomping grounds.

Get internships nearby.

Get internships faraway.

Ruminate, deliberate, contemplate.

• Travel, travel, travel…

They are lucky, these new wanderers, and I hope they know it. (The very thought of a self-directed four-year journey makes me green-jello jealous.) You can’t put a price tag on their new experiences. And yet, parents pray they appreciate the cost—which can quickly soar into hundreds of thousands—and make every dollar and moment count.

Back home, this dad pledges to glide along on a parallel breeze while letting go, yet also embracing our successful, if often bumbling, family experiment that went so well. For me, too, the new life starts here.

Still, as I garden daily and watch my friends the loons and wrens wing it through their annual cycle, I notice they stay longer and louder this warm year—chattering, scolding, laughing, raising their babies. Then one day, without warning, they fly away. The yard gets quiet. And they seem to take 18-year’s worth of sandboxes, whiffle balls, and snow angels with them.

I wonder where they are now, and long for their return. I know they may not come home, or any of us could get eaten by the wolves. All the more reason to rejoice in what was, and pray with passion for what will be.

Savor your Ultimate BreakAway, son.

And don’t forget to…text?

In a recent NYT column / book review about kids and summer, Julie Lythcott-Haims waxes poetic about lazy, old-school summers, while criticizing current trends to push America’s “luckiest” teenagers toward internships, college-prep classes, sports and music camps, or “maybe all of the above.” She disapproves, and asserts that summer is the perfect time for teens to “kick around doing nothing.”

I couldn’t agree more. If only modern life were so simple. But it’s not.

• Schools stop educating

Here in MN, where the education is pretty good, school happens at most 180 days a year. That leaves more than 50% of your days “free.” Summer brings three-plus months of…closed doors. The schools do what they can but usually fall short in music, arts, exercise, nature, and many more categories critical to maximize one’s potential.

Meanwhile, my last count found that 18 school days include standardized testing. That’s 10% of your school year—not including the dozens of days spent prepping.

Nationwide, education quality varies dramatically—from rigorous East Coast prep schools to intensely diverse city schools where priorities become safety, feeding under-nourished students, and providing classes (and translators) in myriad languages. Most of us have kids somewhere in the middle.

Engaged (“the luckiest”?) parents see the obvious voids and fill them with extracurricular activities. It’s a problem that you spin into an opportunity.

So summer becomes a time to upsize the education that public schools provide. Parents hope to find some camps and experiences—at our own (and often substantial) cost—to fill in what our schools simply don’t do.

Heck yeah, we’d all (parents too!) rather spend three months, “daydreaming in the hammock, (and) lying in the grass staring up at the clouds.” (We do still find time for that, by the way.) But frankly, we also have other things to do.

• East Coast Elitism?

Ms. Lythcott-Haims writes from an East Coast (and possibly elite) point of view. Yep, it sounds pretty sucky—turning teenagers into over-stressed competitors fighting for future suit-and-tie jobs on Wall Street or at Merck. It’s no wonder we Midwesterners can feel inferior and play some catch-up.

But for about 90% of the American population, summer-as-success school is not reality. The St. Paul school district now sends out a food truck (three rounds a day) just to feed students in the summer—while many of their schools go year-round just to provide food and shelter (and continued attempts to close the achievement gap).

Nationwide, millions of kids can’t play little league, join a soccer team, or escape to language camp because their parents lack the funds, the transportation, or the wherewithal to make it happen. Many can’t even get to a library.

• Kids, when left to their own devices…

Ms. Lythcott-Haims hopes for summers when her children live free-range and,
“come home breathless and wide-eyed with adventure.” Sweet! That’s what we all long for—adults too! But FBOW, unless you take away their many screen toys, teens’ visions these days may be more wide-eyed about digital devices—the spitfire, terse communication of texts, the countless, come-hither SM “communities,” and an endless and relentless stream of content that draws them in like no distant pond can.

If it weren’t for camps, teams, and—yes—schedules, most teens (and tweens) I know would spend more time this summer online than on a swing, field, or beach. Shit yes, I’ll fight against that addictive beast.

• You can do it all, just not all at once

This website preaches the gospel of balance—the goal of working hard and PLAYING hard. (Okay, playing lazy and easy too!) So in my community, we rejoice when August finally arrives, most camps and sports have stopped, and we run into neighbors on the lake or at the park with wide smiles on all faces and shouts of, “Where have you been?”

We gather old gear and pack up the car and head “Up North,” where family reunions, fishing, bonfires, and smores take on powerful—almost mystical—relevance. With any luck, our tweens and teens get to those places and feel the sweet relief of “getting away.” They bond with faraway cousins. Play Cribbage with grandparents. Go hiking, biking, fishing, and chase frogs and balls and each other.

We do this all year, actually—not just in August. Such things can happen on weekends, holiday breaks, and many of those 185 days a year when the school is closed. But yes, the balancing act gets harder every year. Because: we also want a competitive, well-rounded education. And good test scores. And ultimately, meaningful careers that pay the bills and allow freedom from financial worry plus enough slush fund for a BreakAway now and again.

• It’s about us, not “Admission Deans”

Here in the heartland, most of us aren’t sure what an Admission Dean is. But we do strive for smarts and success and fruitful futures. Summer extracurriculars are a necessary part of that. So is R&R.

There are better parents out there, and I may be a demanding SOB. (Just ask my kids.) But as my Grandma used to say,

“I’m not much good at doing nothing.”

So sometimes that, too—and preferably unplugged and outside—becomes a skill we have to teach, as Ms. Lythcott-Haims asserts. Forgive us if we want it all (even if not all at once).

Maybe there’s a Big Idea here—an opportunity to merge the two extremes at a rigorous, easy-going residential camp with sunrise salutations, healthful food, fresh air, singing and drumming, laughing and shouting, silence and sitting, and teachings from wise masters about all this complicated stuff.

Zen Boot Camp, anyone? When that opportunity arises, I know my kids will be there.

Whether they like it or not.

We hear much about the 1% thing. In this land of plenty: Dislike. God bless Scandinavia and other successful social-democracy experiments, where people can get rich, but also most everyone enjoys excellent education, employment, healthcare, and—wow!—lots of time off for vacations, babies, families, and more.

Yet hard-working people can do well the world over, and you meet examples daily. A friendly deliveryman or breakfast waitress can make your day (while a millionaire in a Mercedes may flip you off for no reason). Somehow, sometimes, hard-working laborers lead role-model lives; competence is not always about the money.

• A modest man gone viral

The story of one James Robertson, 56, went viral recently, and he soon found himself $345K richer…and rising. The Detroit Free Press reported about his daily, 10-mile, walking commute to a low-paying job. This he’s done for 10 years. A few good Samaritans took notice, went to GoFundMe, and now Mr. Robertson has the car of his dreams—plus a nice cash cache.

• Hard workers: Everyday heroes

This tale stirs up many sub-stories, including: The sad lack of job options for the carless and working poor; the nonstop political kerfuffle about funding public transportation and living wages; the incongruity of well-to-do do-gooders suggesting they can solve systemic and societal problems by selectively throwing their money around.

The real story here, though, is the profound role-modeling Mr. Robertson provides by enduring these conditions just to put food on his table—with (until now) no obvious prospects for significant advancement or payoff. He’s just one of the millions (billions?) of workers who toil away out of loyalty, self-sufficiency, and pride.

Most of us have met many of these everyday heroes—and still do. I think about the ones I’ve had the good fortune knowing, especially when I’m feeling overworked, the cash isn’t flowing, hard-working folks do something for me while I merely flash my credit card or move from Point Y to Z.

My heart forever goes out to Irma, my fellow server and a “lifer” at the country club—whose patience and laugh went right to my heart and the many members who adored her. John, the janitor (when that was the title), who put up with college-dorm crap and always had wisdom and a smile to share. Bob, the pot man. Lee, the fry cook. And Joe.

• Joe the Dishwasher

I once worked in a downtown Minneapolis restaurant with a booming lunch business, busy bar, and serious dinner crowd. As a newbie waiter, my shifts might start at 10 in the morning—and end after midnight. It seems like Joe was always there, manning the piles of pots, dishes, leftovers, and epic messes that come with such a job.

Joe served as bedrock amid the kitchen’s slippery chaos. And he was always kind and appreciative to me, which is more than I can say for some of the staff who worked in a place with hierarchy and secrets.

Imagine water and food scraps spraying everywhere, all the time. Picture steam and sweat and the occasional burn. Joe did yeoman’s work, never stopped, and never complained. In fact, he rarely spoke, though I know that he walked an hour to and from work every day to his home in a Native-American, government housing complex.

I can’t fathom what keeps a Joe like that ticking. But I do know that—even amid the mean scene that a kitchen can become—Joe held a high post. If you screwed up the way you distributed dirty dishes, you were pulled aside by the chef. If Joe couldn’t keep up with a crazy-busy mealtime, Chef commanded an assistant from the line over to help. And when employees were fed between shifts, Joe got whatever he wanted.

Chef: “You hungry, Joe? That was a rough lunch. What can I make you?”

Joe (shyly, as usual): “You got any ribs?”

Chef (with a smile): “I got more ribs than you can shake a stick at, Joe! I’ll heat some up and you just let me know if you want some more.”

When the employees ate, the staff segregated by tables and status—management at one, fancy waiters at another, underclass waiters and bussers at the next, kitchen crew at the largest one where the evening’s specials and recipes were debated while fresh and fussy ingredients were fondled and on display.

Joe always sat alone—amid the odors of his work and in a uniform that usually looked like a Jackson Pollack painting. But I so remember the satisfied smirk on his face when he dug into his plate of fine dining.

This upscale eatery—where CEOs swung deals over Scotch and Symphony Ball mavens gossiped over Chardonnay—could not function without him. Countless jobs and meals and celebrations depended on his dependability and unheralded skills.

Nobody ever crowd-sourced a car for Joe. He may never have gotten a car, and probably didn’t get rich. Yet those of us who got to work with him are richer for it. Maybe richer than the people we served.

• Loyalty and attitude trump arrogance and ignorance

The backbone of any society is the good people who pick the crops, repair the streets, drive the busses, and dish out our food-on-the-run. Make it a game: When you see someone quietly but diligently making the world a better place despite low pay and status, give them thanks. And a smile.

Chances are, they’ll say, “You’re welcome!” And smile back.