Tag Archives: University of Iowa

Gratitude on Parade #4

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GRATITUDE ON PARADE
#gratitudeonparade
I am devoting much of this week to people who contributed in significant ways to my early publishing career. For the last 35 years or more, I have mixed journalism and writing skills with technical and professional knowledge to fulfill my aspirations. Many people helped make that possible.

One of them was my advisor for the master’s program in journalism at the University of Iowa, John Erickson. I have no photo to offer from way back then or more recently. He is now emeritus professor, and I hope enjoying a well-earned retirement, but I have not heard from him in a long while.

Nonetheless, way back in early 1984, when I needed to decide on a master’s project to complete my degree requirements, I met with him to state that I wanted to turn my project into a published book when I was through. We had the choice of a practical journalistic project or an academic investigation on some subject related to mass communications. I chose the former, in the form of an oral history project concerning a major issue in Iowa at the time–the growing farm credit crisis.

Completely unfazed by my audacity, John quickly wrote out two titles of books he thought would help me think through my strategy. Both concerned oral history and interviewing techniques. I ordered the books, went to work, and began networking across the Midwest to find farmers to interview on the subject, eventually taping interviews with more than 70. When I had about 140 pages of a book completed, John insisted that was enough for the project and I should turn them in–and complete the book later. Three years after earning my degree, Raising Less Corn and More Hell was released by University of Illinois Press. Only after that, for fear of jinxing success, did he tell me it was the first master’s project in the school’s history, at least to his knowledge, to achieve commercial publication. But he provided steady encouragement all along the way and always seemed to know I could pull it off. Call him my chief enabler. I never gave him nearly enough credit, so this is my feeble partial payment. Thanks, John, wherever you are.

Posted on Facebook 1/22/19

GRATITUDE ON PARADE
#gratitudeonparade
Two days ago, I noted the important role played by Professor John Erickson in the development of my first book. As i roamed the Midwest collecting the interviews that were at the core of Raising Less Corn and More Hell, there were many people who were helpful, but some were especially supportive of my project from the moment we first met.

Among those people were Gary and Mary Beth Janssen. Gary went through tough times as a farmer in northern Iowa, and he and Mary Beth eventually moved to Emporia, Kansas, after she studied to become a teacher. In Kansas, Gary began to grow organic vegetables and provided fresh produce to local schools for school lunches.

But in the 1980s, while I was researching and writing my book, Gary provided numerous contacts and referrals within the farming community to make my work possible. We grew close enough that he and Mary Beth drove to Omaha for our wedding in June 1985. After the book was published, Gary was an enthusiastic grass roots promoter. Without him, much of it might never have happened.

Unfortunately, Gary died of complications from colon and liver cancer in September 2013. Mary Beth has survived him, and I am still grateful to both of them.

Posted on Facebook 1/24/2019

GRATITUDE ON PARADE
#gratitudeonparade
I have discovered that my biggest obstacle to completing one of these tributes every day is not writing; that part is very easy for me. I barely know what writer’s block is. It is the fact that, Facebook being what it is, I prefer to find photos of the people for whom I am expressing thanks, and when, as I did this week, I reach into the more distant past, sometimes finding those photos is a challenge. For many people involved in helping me see my first book to completion, it just takes a while. Many photos I had in the 1980s preceded my ownership of a computer and have never been digitized, if I even had a photo in the first place. It is turning out to be a major undertaking with major competition for my time. I have had to compromise. Some photos are still on their way from sources I had to track down.

While I figure that out, I want to honor someone else of more recent vintage. At the end of 2013, a year in which I took 23 trips on APA business, five more teaching at the University of Iowa, and some personal trips, I realized I needed to do something serious to stay resilient. I enrolled in a new health club (X Sport Fitness) and arranged for a trainer just before New Years’ Day. I was about to undertake the new routine when I had to delay it because of a pinched nerve in my shoulder that occurred on that holiday. A few weeks later, I began my new routine with a good trainer, but he left abruptly a year later.

Then came Mike Caldwell, one of the most talented, thoughtful, creative, and dedicated personal trainers I am likely to encounter in that business. He pays very close attention to my development and ensures the routines are well attuned to my current situation. I have learned a great deal about fitness techniques and achieved things, now at 69, that I never did when I was much younger. I could not ask for more and have no regrets. Particularly at my age, fitness matters, and good advice in that arena matters even more. So here’s to Mike, a true pro at what he does.

Posted on Facebook 1/26/2019

Jim Schwab

Gratitude on Parade

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Gratitude on Parade #1

Okay, call me a copycat. If an idea is good enough, why not copy it proudly? On New Year’s Day, I read in a Chicago Tribune column by Heidi Stevens about a woman, Jen Kramer, who began a daily effort on Facebook a year ago as #yearoflove. Every day she posted about someone who meant something.

It occurred to me that we all have many people for whom we should be grateful, and we may not always do a good job of saying so. I thought hard about whether I could sustain a daily effort for a year as Kramer did, and then I thought, you’re a professional writer. How hard can one paragraph a day be? So I decided to take the plunge, starting that day, with #gratitudeonparade. Friends will begin learning why I am grateful and to whom. Some of it may be random, and some may be well planned. It’s a daring commitment, so I’ll see how it goes. But I have a feeling I may learn much about myself by trying.

Once a week, I will compile these short entries into a composite blog post to expand the audience. So, if you miss the daily feed on Facebook, feel free to visit www.jimschwab.com/Hablarbooks.

Posted on Facebook 1/1/2019

GRATITUDE ON PARADE
#gratitudeonparade
Gratitude should start in the most logical places. My mother, Hazel Schwab, who has outlived almost all her peers, would probably prefer that I not state an age on Facebook (she does not own a computer and has never used the Internet), but I want to state that she has shown me and three siblings the power of determination and the will to live and resilience many times over. She and my father early on made sure that we were in a good school district and encouraged education, even though they finished high school but never attended college. When I moved to Iowa, later married in Nebraska, and ended up in Chicago, I knew she would rather I had stayed in Cleveland. Reluctantly at first, however, she learned pride that I had spread my wings and soared professionally, even if she never fully understood exactly what I did–it was a bit esoteric by her standards, not easy to explain to her friends. (Even my wife wondered what an urban planner was when she first met me.) But she was tough of mind, and if we did not always agree on some things, we learned to disagree. But by now I have watched her survive and surmount so many challenges, it is hard to escape the conclusion that I owe some of my own dogged persistence to my mother. Thanks, Mom. You get the first tribute.

With my brother, Jack, his son, Kyle, and Kyle’s two young sons, Ryan and Dylan, at Christmas.

Posted on Facebook 1/1/2019

GRATITUDE ON PARADE
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I suffered a disappointing discovery yesterday while composing my blog post. Long-time friend and former University of Iowa professor Michael F.  Sheehan had died on May 30. I was mentioning his role in my career and searched for an appropriate link only to find a May 30 obituary. He was 72. A physically fit ex-Marine, I expected he would live longer, and the obit does not say how he died. I had not talked to him in a long while, but I still felt a loss. He was the pivot point in a vital decision that changed my life.

In late 1981, I was pursuing options for graduate school after two and a half years as the executive director of the Iowa Public Interest Research Group. Mike was a fierce advocate for the environment and knew me in that role. At lunch one day, I mentioned that I had just explored a Ph.D. program in the University of Iowa’s political science program, but had a disappointing conversation in which I had told the head of the department’s MPA program that I had lobbied in Des Moines in my Iowa PIRG role. He responded, “That wouldn’t be relevant here. If you had done a study of lobbying . . . .”

Mike reacted to this curt dismissal of real-life experience by simply asking, “Why don’t you apply to our urban planning program? We love people like you.” I did, and the rest is history, so to speak.

But it was more than that turning point. In his classes, Mike had high expectations for me and tolerated no flimsy excuses if I fell short. That was of a piece with his approach to life. He never hesitated to be a thorn in the side of polluters, the powerful, and the pompous. By the time I completed my degree, he was entering law school so that, as they say, he could “sue the bastards.” The advocate in his soul triumphed over the academic. Several years later, still in his needling mode but living in Oregon (where he remained), he joked that I was the best of a “mediocre lot” in my class. But this time, I was ready with a verbal ambush. My first book was out, and the reviews were appearing.

“Do mediocrities get their books reviewed in the New York Times?” I asked.

I could hear the chuckle over my one-upmanship. “You know, I’ve been bragging on you, Schwab,” he replied. It was like that with him, and it was always fun. Today’s tribute of gratitude may be too late for Michael Sheehan to read, but it is owed nonetheless. Here’s to the man who guided me into a career I have never regretted.

Posted on Facebook 1/2/2019

GRATITUDE ON PARADE
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Yesterday, I offered tribute to Michael Sheehan, who persuaded me to try a career in urban planning. Today’s honoree gets to enjoy reading his tribute, fortunately. University of Iowa Professor John W. Fuller followed closely on Mike’s heels by quickly hiring me as a research assistant as soon as I was accepted into the program. I worked with him year-round for more than three years in the Institute for Urban and Regional Research and in the Legislative Extended Assistance Program, neither of which remains extant. The latter produced policy studies each year from four-year colleges and universities for the Iowa legislature at the request of its leaders. In my final year of graduate study in both Urban and Regional Planning and Journalism, John sold those leaders on my combination of writing and analytical skills to produce what he promised would be a plain-English assessment of the farm credit crisis, arguably the biggest issue facing the state as the 1985 legislative session commenced. John knew I could also draw upon research I was doing for my master’s project in journalism, an oral history of the farm credit crisis, to humanize the report’s conclusions.

As the due date in February 1985 approached, I was so grateful for this remarkable opportunity that I pulled an all-nighter in the LEAG office at the Oakdale Campus in order to ensure that the 100-plus-page report could be printed and delivered to Des Moines on time. As for that master’s project, it eventually became a book—Raising Less Corn and More Hell—published by the University of Illinois Press in 1988. Just a few months later, he and Kathy regretted missing our wedding in Omaha because they were on an academic exchange at Universidad de los Andes in Venezuela, but later that summer they returned with a beautiful Andean marital blanket as a wedding gift.

But John was never done manufacturing opportunities. Two decades later, when the 2008 floods were swamping Iowa and the School of Urban and Regional Planning was seeking expertise to add some hazards training to the curriculum, it was John who spoke up and asked, “Why don’t we bring back Jim Schwab?” That was the beginning of an ongoing relationship that has allowed me to teach and mentor my own crop of students ever since then as an adjunct assistant professor, teaching an annual course on hazard mitigation and disaster recovery.

John and Kathy have offered their own home as a place to stay when I visit. This is not at all unusual. He and his wife, Kathy, have hosted and housed innumerable international visitors, students, and others for decades. They are among the most generous people I know. John is a profile in professional dedication and has been a powerful asset for the students he has taught for nearly four decades.

John Fuller (left) with me at his daughter Libby’s wedding near Cedar Rapids, April 29, 2017.

Posted on Facebook 1/3/2019

GRATITUDE ON PARADE
#gratitudeonparade

Last night, I failed to post my daily installment of Gratitude on Parade, but I will make up for it. My excuse is that a groin muscle strain flared up late in the day, making it uncomfortable to continue working, so I sat back and watched television instead. Jean was watching the Joy Reed town hall on MSNBC with Nancy Pelosi, so I joined her.

When such days occur for me, and they are rare, I think about people with much more serious illnesses or injuries, and how they demonstrate personal resilience. They all have lessons to teach the rest of us—to be grateful for their examples, and for our own generally good health. One of those people, who I know thinks the gratitude should run the other way because I have filled in for her as acting chair of the APA Hazard Mitigation and Disaster Recovery Planning Division for much of the year, is Allison Hardin. Allison, a planner for the city of Myrtle Beach, SC, was doing fine as the real chair through April, had the misfortune of nearly being killed in a serious auto accident in which a young man drove into the sports car Allison’s son Robert was driving, and in which she was a passenger. A long string of examinations, surgeries, and treatments has followed for both, and Allison has shown great courage in moving from wheelchair to walker to her own two feet while nurturing her son back to health as well, with the help of her husband. Through it all, she has coped with mountains of delayed e-mail on her job, tough decisions about her own future, and the usual major insurance and medical issues that accompany such a calamity. Allison has occasionally reminded me that she is aware that, while we planners talk about community resilience, it really all starts at a personal level.

I remain happy to be her “acting chair” of HMDR because, frankly, I have never faced a predicament like hers, hope I never do, and have no clear idea how well I would handle it But at least I have an example if I ever need one.

Allison, second from right, after presenting me with my “retirement” t-shirt at the HMDR reception at the APA National Planning Conference in New York, May 2017. Miki Schmidt and Susan Fox of the NOAA Digital Coast staff are to our left and right.

Posted on Facebook 1/5/2019

Gift to the World

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As a New Year arrives, perhaps it was the gift-giving season and the story of Christmas that prompted this blog post. Or, perhaps, it was simply lurking in my subconscious mind, awaiting the appropriate opportunity to emerge into the light of conscious deliberation. These are not, of course, mutually exclusive possibilities. Almost any experienced writer can attest that ideas have a way of burrowing into our minds and fermenting through periodic reflection and creative thinking. This one, I confess, has had an especially long period of germination, but I am finally prepared to shape it and share it. (I have no apology for my mixed metaphors.)

In my twenties and early thirties, I traveled what I would now consider a rather tortuous route to finding a definitive purpose in life. Many people would not regard that as unusual. Finding a purpose is not easy, and it often evolves considerably. After bouncing through some unsatisfactory jobs, and then a very satisfying one that paid very modestly, I decided that my next move was to apply to graduate school, which led me into a double Master of Arts degree program in Journalism and Urban and Regional Planning at the University of Iowa, beginning in January 1982. Despite a mid-year entry into this customized arrangement (I learned I was the only UI student doing it), I gained a financial life raft when Professor John Fuller in the planning program offered a half-time research assistant position. Typically, these were offered only at the beginning of an academic year.

When I decided to return to school after more than a six-year gap, I was not sure what to expect or how to make ends meet. I had been told to expect lower entrance exam scores after such a hiatus from academia. I took the Graduate Record Exam (GRE) and ordered the transcripts and then patiently awaited the results, which back then took several weeks. One day, my notice arrived with the GRE scores: 740 Verbal, 680 Math, 660 Analytical. To me, it was like winning the trifecta for graduate admissions, much better than I had allowed myself to imagine. It apparently caught professorial attention, which helped prompt the offer. I have rarely shared these numbers since then, but they are relevant to this story. They were within the top one percent for those taking the test.

I have not shared those scores much over the past 36 years in part because I don’t think they prove much, certainly not as much as some people thought at the time. Yes, they show aptitude in those three categories, and particularly for verbal and math skills, my highest and the basics of the original GRE. But those are only partial ingredients for success in life. People can also have high aptitudes for music, have outstanding natural athletic talent, or in my father’s case, mechanical skills. Intelligence comes in many forms. Some people show amazing relational skills in dealing with other people, as is often the case with excellent teachers. The best politicians also have outstanding people skills, although often focused differently toward amassing power or achieving policy goals. My gifts, at least at that time, simply happened to be those that college admissions tests were designed to measure. But that at least promised a good start toward academic achievement, at least if I were willing to use those skills aggressively. Not everything was as easy as this might make it seem. There were times when I had to work very hard and fight for my grades. That was a good thing; it meant that I had to learn persistence, patience, and determination.

I have had and still have plenty of weak points, and I have had to learn how to exploit the strengths and shore up the shortcomings as needed, to use teamwork, and to spend my time and talents wisely. None of that was tested on the GRE, in my estimation. Tests are blunt instruments for self-assessment, and we often need sharper tools that are honed through experience. The most valuable experience, in turn, is often gained through courage and honesty and a willingness to test one’s limits. At times, experience breeds humility, which often becomes its own kind of strength.

In that first semester, however, those scores attracted the attention of Mensa, an international society designed to serve the needs of those deemed to be exceptionally bright, which invited me to join. The combined basic GRE score of 1420, I was told, automatically qualified me for membership in this exclusive club. Always willing to pursue options that might open doors, I accepted the invitation and attended some local meetings in Iowa City.

Any group that aims to include only those in the 99th percentile on IQ tests is not going to be huge, even in a college town. I don’t remember a meeting with more than maybe 20 people, but I won’t swear that my memory is entirely accurate. Given the transitory nature of university students at any level, the group was undoubtedly fluid from year to year. However, the entire group was noticeably lacking in faculty, or in anybody much beyond 30 years old, as I recall. Being what I now call a compulsive extrovert, I tried to engage my fellow Mensans in conversation. That was not hard. But I quickly learned that some lived at home with parents, not clear on what they wanted from life, and others had a disappointing sense of their own destiny. What they mainly seemed to share was an artificially generated awareness of being unusually intelligent. There may well have been other members who were too busy to attend, but those I met often seemed satisfied with this status without feeling any compelling obligation to any greater good.

At the few meetings I attended, that bothered me. It had not really occurred to me before that it was possible to let IQ scores feed a low-grade narcissism. In the blue-collar world from which I had emerged, achievement was everything, and aptitude was merely an advantage, albeit one that needed to be exploited. I was attracted to urban planning in part because one professor, Michael Sheehan, who knew of my environmental activism at local and state levels, suggested I apply because “we love people like you.” He convinced me that urban planning was a way to develop and apply skills that would produce the progressive change that had energized my life in recent years. In other words, he was promising that the program would help me fulfill my own sense of purpose. Yet, I was meeting people for whom mere proof of intellectual aptitude seemed sufficient to sustain their self-esteem. I have always felt that I needed to be contributing something. I did not always need to succeed, though that helps, because I could always learn a great deal from failure. Learning to overcome obstacles is only partly a function of intelligence, and mostly a function of grit and creativity.

That grit and creativity, seasoned with perspective and a sense of humor, has been the larger part of what led to the high points in my own career, which in my opinion are connected less with titles and positions than with outcomes, such as influencing the role of natural hazards in the urban planning profession, seeing students from my University of Iowa classes make a difference, and being able to move audiences because of the ideas I espouse and my ability to articulate them in a way that conveys genuine concern for others. Smug satisfaction that I was somehow smarter than other people would have smothered and strangled those accomplishments in their cradles.

It took only a few months for me to abandon those meetings and focus my precious time and energy on those goals, and on learning everything I could within the two programs that had adopted me. I bear no ill will toward Mensa; its membership undoubtedly has included some wonderful people. But my experience was that it fostered what I deemed some morally skewed priorities. The emphasis on the importance of high IQ breeds a sense that brilliant people need and deserve special attention that perhaps would be better focused on learning to help others instead. I also learned that helping others is an opportunity to learn from others, if undertaken in the right spirit. It is an opportunity to learn that most people in this world have some sort of gift that needs to be nurtured, whether or not it is recognized by some organization with lofty claims. My wife, for instance, like most teachers, has better gifts than I for relating to and working with children, some of whom have later attributed at least some part of their fondness for learning to their experience with her as their teacher. I lack musical skills, in part for lack of opportunity at an early age, but I can appreciate what others contribute to my life because of their talents. I never excelled athletically, but I have learned the value of physical fitness. I would never claim to be in the 99th percentile of moral leadership, but I am a better person for knowing those who are, or for reading about the examples of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela, Mother Theresa, and Mohandas Gandhi, among many others. I could go on in this vein, but I suspect you get the idea.

Contributions need not be big or visible to matter greatly in the lives of others.

My bottom line is this: Either you contribute something meaningful to the greater good of humanity, or you don’t. It need not even be noticed by anyone important. It can just matter to the people who benefit. Not everything is about who is the smartest, the swiftest, the strongest, or the most talented. You can move the needle ever so modestly, ever so slowly, but move the needle. And trust that your contribution matters.

Jim Schwab

The People Affected by Harvey

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A few days ago, in my last post, I wrote that Hurricane Harvey would last a few days, but the recovery would last years. However agonizingly long Harvey appears to be taking to inflict its misery on the Texas Gulf Coast, and now parts of southern Louisiana, it will go away. And then the real marathon will begin. People will have to face the necessity of reconstruction, both as individuals and as whole communities.

In writing about this now, I am crediting readers with a longer attention span than seems to be assumed of most Americans on social media today. I truly hope, however, that the news media does not forget about Harvey or the Gulf Coast as the recovery process grinds on over coming months and years. Certainly, most residents of the Texas coast will have little choice but to bear with the process, and ideally, they will participate. Recovery needs to be as participatory as possible to succeed fully.

FEMA teams managing the distribution of water, and meals for hundreds of semi-trucks at an incident Support Base in Seguin, Texas. Photo by Dominick Del Vecchio – Aug 29, 2017 (from FEMA website) 

It will not always be a pretty picture. The news media in recent days have been full of photographic and video evidence of the best aspects of humanity—people in boats rescuing neighbors and strangers alike, public safety personnel risking personal safety as they save people from flooded homes and transport them to shelters, and other heroic acts away from cameras and too numerous to count. People from other states and nations will contribute to disaster-related charities to help people they have never known and may never meet. Politics and race and religion will all take a back seat to saving lives and reducing suffering. For just a brief moment in history, we can stop shouting at each other long enough to care for each other and be proud of one another.

Several years ago, Rebecca Solnit produced an intriguing book, A Paradise Built in Hell, that explored many of the positive community-building relationships that emerge when people are challenged by adverse circumstances such as major natural disasters. It is a journalistic journey through the informal alliances and communities created by people under what seemingly are the worst possible conditions, but which challenge our humanity and force us to consider how we value those around us. It is an optimistic book that forces readers to rethink what it means to live through a disaster. I have always hoped that it would spark similar efforts among academic researchers, particularly in the social sciences, to study this phenomenon more closely. I think that is happening to some extent, but perhaps not nearly enough.

The Texas Gulf Coast communities stricken by Harvey will need as much of that spirit as they can muster to produce successful long-term recovery. Recovery takes years because, while no one wants to delay rebuilding unnecessarily, hasty rebuilding that fails to consider the failure points that allowed destruction to occur is even more undesirable. Under considerable time pressures, which researchers Robert Olshansky and Laurie Johnson, both wonderful friends of mine, have notably referred to as the problem of “time compression” in disaster recovery, planners and local and state officials will need to meet with constituents, hear their concerns, explain both the obstacles and opportunities involved in reconstruction, and ideally, inform the public process to help lead to a better outcome. During this time, minor and modest repairs may go forward while the bigger decisions, like where to buy out damaged properties, how to rebuild infrastructure and to what new standards, and how to produce a stronger, more resilient community to handle future disasters may need to undergo vigorous debate.

I point this out because, inevitably, and despite Solnit’s rosy scenarios in the context of community building, tempers will rise and people will need to iron out significant differences and widely varying perceptions of the causes of, and solutions to, the damage that occurred. There will surely be some debate about Houston’s sprawling development patterns and relative lack of development controls. There may be debates about strengthening building or zoning codes or, in Houston, the absence of zoning. If there is any echo of Hurricane Sandy, there may be discussion of a greater role for green infrastructure in mitigating hazards, though that alone would have made only modest difference in the flooding from Harvey, but it might have helped.

More importantly, people will have undergone trauma that will make them deeply and justifiably emotional about the disruption of their lives. They will bring that trauma, and a need to vent and share their fears and anger, to public meetings. Public officials will need to exhibit patience because, as Christine Butterfield, another good friend who served as community development director in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, during and after the 2008 floods, has noted, those public gatherings will be therapeutic. People may cry, they may yell, they may accuse. Most of all, they need to know that someone else wants to hear and share their pain. They want to know that someone cares. Once most have achieved that comfort level, they may be ready to move forward and discuss options for recovery. But first, community leaders must build trust.

Some people may never trust, and the rest of the community may need to move on. Life is not perfect. Human beings are not perfect. Recovery cannot wait forever, but it must demonstrate compassion and a commitment to social equity.

In a few weeks, the entire process will begin, and people will decide what role they want to play. Leaders will arise in unexpected places. Just last week, my students at the University of Iowa School or Urban and Regional Planning, during a field trip with which I launch my course on “Planning for Disaster Mitigation and Recovery” every year, heard from United Methodist pastor Clint Twedt-Ball, a co-founder and executive director of Matthew 25, a community organization that arose from almost nothing after the 2008 floods in Cedar Rapids to help rebuild 25 blocks of downtrodden neighborhoods in the city, raising money but also making tough decisions about what would work and what would not. Nine years later, his organization is still working to make a difference. Before 2008, Clint would confess, he knew next to nothing about floods or community development. My guess is that now he could nearly write a book. Who knew?

Watch Houston, and Rockport, and Corpus Christi, and all the other cities on the Texas Gulf Coast for both surprises and struggles, and mostly for deep human engagement in solving massive redevelopment problems the likes of which most of us will never have to confront. And be ready to cheer them on when good things happen. They are likely to need the encouragement from time to time.

Jim Schwab