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"The Power
Portal -The Structure and Design of Long-Lasting Success"
My Story - Chapter 1
The Moral of
the Story . . .
One sunny
day a rabbit came out of her hole in the ground to enjoy the fine weather.
The day was so nice that she became careless and a fox sneaked up behind
her and caught her.
"I am
going to eat you for lunch!” said the fox.
"Wait!"
replied the rabbit; "You should at least wait a few days."
"Oh yeah?
Why should I wait?"
"Well, I
am just finishing my thesis on 'The Superiority of Rabbits over Foxes
and Wolves’."
"Are you
crazy? I should eat you right now! Everybody knows that a fox will always
win over a rabbit."
"Not
really, not according to my research. If you like, you can come into my
hole and read it for yourself. If you are not convinced, you can go ahead
and have me for lunch."
"You
really are crazy!" However, since the fox was curious and had nothing to
lose, it went with the rabbit. The fox never came out. A few days later
the rabbit was again taking a break from writing and sure enough, a wolf
came out of the bushes and was ready to set upon her.
"Wait!"
yelled the rabbit; "you can't eat me right now."
"And why
might that be, my furry appetizer?"
"I am
almost finished writing my thesis on 'The Superiority of Rabbits over
Foxes and Wolves'."
The wolf
laughed so hard it almost lost its grip on the rabbit. "Maybe I shouldn't
eat you. You really are sick--in the head. You might have something
contagious."
"Come and
read it for yourself. You can eat me afterward if you disagree with my
conclusions."
So the
wolf went down into the rabbit's hole and never came out. The rabbit
finished her thesis and was out celebrating in the local lettuce patch.
Another rabbit came along and asked, "What's up? You seem very happy."
"Yup, I
just finished my thesis."
"Congratulations. What's it about?"
"The
Superiority of Rabbits over Foxes and Wolves’."
"Are you
sure? That doesn't sound right."
"Oh yes.
Come and read it for yourself."
So
together, they went down into the rabbit's hole. As they entered, the
friend saw the typical graduate abode -- albeit a rather messy one after
writing a thesis. The computer with the controversial work was in one
corner. In addition, to the right there was a pile of fox bones, on the
left a pile of wolf bones. Moreover, in the middle was a large, well-fed
lion.

The moral of
the story:
The title
of your thesis doesn't matter.
The subject
doesn't matter.
The research
doesn't matter.
All that
matters is who your advisor is.
Hello,
my name is Houston. I
wasn’t always called Houston though. It is one of four names I was given
at birth. In fact, although I have three names plus a last name of
“Vetter” on my birth certificate somehow I guess that still wasn’t enough
of a choice or flexibility.
For the
first 17 to 18 years of my life I went by the nickname “Buddy," that does
not appear on my birth certificate. I have the impression that the
nickname came from my Grandmother, she being of Scotch, Irish, Dutch and
Anglo heritage and my father being a full-blooded German named Adolf. I
inherited that name as one of the three names besides
Houston on my birth certificate
without the name Buddy anywhere on that sheet of paper.
Anyway, I
don’t know about you but in this world I started out as a child and I was
born naked. They say I was born in a place called
Petoskey, Michigan. I lived
there three weeks. I remember it well.
So well in
fact that as I was typing this into the word processor I had to go look in
my file and find my birth certificate so I could spell Petoskey right. By
the way, does your birth certificate have an expiration date on it?
From
there, we moved (my mother, half-brother and I) to
Shelbyville, Tennessee.
Shelbyville has two distinctions. At that time it was the walking horse
capitol of the world and where they make the #2 lead pencils that are
needed for all those tests and forms.
Who makes
the #1 lead pencils and how can they be number 1?
We
moved in with my
Grandparents on my mother’s side or else we would have been in a different
country, my father being German and all.
The story
I heard, because I don’t remember, was that my father, my dad whatever
titles one wants to use, anyway my male parental unit was sitting at a
card table and I crawled over and grabbed his pant leg. He picked me up
and threw me across the room. I hit the wall and slid down. He got up,
walked out of the house and never returned.
Anyway,
we lived at my Grandparents until one day when I was about 3. I was at
the babysitter’s playing in the sandbox. This reminds me of what Steven
Wright the comedian once said as a child when we played in a quicksand
box. I was an only child eventually.
My mother
came to pick me up and told me we’re going for a ride. Like any
excited 3 year old, I wanted to go. In addition, like any 3 year old I
kept asking, “Are we there yet?”
Are we there yet?
Well, the next thing you know
we drive into this area that looks like a college campus. You know lots
of buildings and dorms. Being 3 years old and not knowing what a college
campus looked like made it all strange and fascinating to me.
We went to the dining hall and
they seated me at a square table with seven other little boys between the
ages of 3 and 6, two per side. Afterwards, I walked with the boys to
their dormitory. I don’t remember my mom telling me I was going to live
here.
Me live here?
Yet this
is interesting and fascinating because we go into this room we have to sit
in three rows (there are about 12 of us) and we watch TV. The only
challenge is that the show we get to watch is Perry Mason, which our
houseparent enjoys.
I don’t
know about you but at 3 years old, I really wasn’t into Perry Mason.
Where were the funny looking characters, the falls, the talking mouse and
duck and of course Foghorn-Leghorn and the little chicken hawk, “I say, I
say look at me boy when I’m talking to ya son!”
That
night I slept in a new bed in a room with 12 other boys. This was my
introduction and first experience with orphanage life.
The
pattern became one of my mother visiting every Friday evening through
Sunday noon. During the
week, I would live the life of an orphan. It was regimented and
structured. There were rules, lots of rules. It is also fun.
One
Friday afternoon I was on the concrete porch waiting for my mom. I waited
and waited and waited. After a while I started getting that feeling in my
stomach of not getting what I wanted, that feeling of loss, that feeling
of fear.
As it
grew and compounded upon itself, feeling upon feeling, it moved into
blame, shame, guilt and fear. The dreaded why question came up, why
me? What have I done to deserve this? I began to feel hopeless and
lost.
I began to
cry.
I stood on
that porch crying, bawling and feeling worthless until it was dark and I
was made to go to bed. It is interesting that there was a part of me that
stayed on that porch hope against hope that she would show up.
The next
morning before they rang the big bell in the middle of the campus that
signaled we had thirty minutes to go to the dining hall for breakfast. I
was back on that little 3x4 concrete porch pacing, looking and waiting
with hope.
After
breakfast, which I did not eat, I was back on the porch feeling the
hopelessness starting to creep back upon me. I don’t know how long it
took, maybe 10 minutes, maybe 30 minutes or an hour. All I know is that
by lunch I was bawling and completely hopeless again.
This
continued all day Saturday and all day Sunday.
When
Monday rolled around, my unconscious already knew that my mother was
normally never there on Monday. I went into that mode of being the little
boy living in this place with 175 other kids ranging from the age of 3
months to 18 years of age. They call it an orphanage.
The next
Friday about the same time I was back out on that porch pacing, waiting
and hoping! This weekend wasn’t as bad as the weekend before and by the
next weekend I barely noticed she wasn’t there. In fact, I didn’t notice
she did not come.
Later in
life, one of the possible meanings I gave to this episode was that the
orphanage administrators had asked my mother not to come. Maybe I wasn’t
adjusting to orphanage life well enough.
Whether
it was true or not wasn’t important. It was just a way that I used to
cope, justify, honor my mother and take the responsibility for what was
going on. This gave me more power and control over me.
What are you thinking and
believing that gives
you more
power and control over you?
After the
porch escapade, my mother came and visited me about twice a year during
those early years and I would get to go home (Grandma’s house) for about a
week once a year. At those times, I would spend time with my mom, my
brother, my Grandma and John-Daddy (my grandfather).
In later
years my Grandma would tell me that she had raised my brother, who was ten
years older than me, and had not wanted to raise another child. That’s
how I happened to end up in the orphanage.
Almost
every time I tell my story (and this is just the beginning) I usually
throw in a few jokes and humor. My story, my entire story is about
empowerment. I have very rarely told it as a tearjerker. On the few
occasions, where I just really made people feel sad it was because they
were talking about how bad their past had been.
My Grampa
Vetter said we have some good news and some bad news. The bad news is
that you’re the only problem you have and the good news is...

You are the
solution.
I
grew up in a fundamentalist Christian orphanage. Although they didn’t
realize it, and they didn’t intend it to be, it was fantastic. I grew up
believing that we had it right and that if others just believed it the way
we did, they would be all right, too. Except the words and actions just
did not line up together.
They keep
talking about knowing the truth and the truth setting you free. Except
that the truth or what we were calling the truth, our interpretation of
truth puts people in bondage.
Anyway, I
grew up, went to college and seminary got two Piled Higher and Deepers
(PhD's -Comparative Religion and Psychology) and became a pastor—which was
blasphemy to the Christian group I was raised in. They had a problem with
the word “pastor", not the job description of what one does, just the
title.
One day
someone asked me why I was a pastor, since what I did as a pastor, my job
description was not in the book (Bible), so I searched it out. What I did
was in the book, but no one person did it. So for me, I just became a
believer again and started giving responsibility back to others.
Looking
up the word RESPONSIBILITY was a fun endeavor.
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