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The Monday Morning Memo

Brad Pitt, Ron Howard, and Me

August 5, 2024

| Download
https://podcasts.captivate.fm/media/cdefe000-ae1c-4a09-bade-ac265c7701a6/MMM20240805-BradPittRonHowardAndMe.mp3

Brad Pitt, Ron Howard, and Me

I never write click-bait headlines, but I wrote this one just to prove I can.

Brad shines from Shawnee, Ron comes from Duncan, and I bailed from Broken Arrow.
We’re all Okla-Homeboys.

Now that my click-bait headline has done its job and convinced you to keep reading all the way down to this third paragraph, I will transition to the real reason I wanted to speak with you today: Amway.

Here’s how it works. You buy stuff from me that I buy from someone above me, and they buy it from someone above them, and so on. But through the mystical magic of multi-level marketing, we all get rich by making a tiny commission on whatever you bought!

What you need to do is find some friends who dream of financial freedom and convince them to buy this same stuff from YOU. And guess what! THEY WILL GET RICH, TOO! Don’t you want all of your friends to be rich with you? Think of all the fun you rich, rich, rich people will have after you all become rich, rich, rich!

Welcome to Oklahoma. Now you know why Brad, Ron and I decided to leave.

Honestly, I have fond memories of Oklahoma and I cherish all the valuable lessons I learned there. For real.

  1. Never deal with an idiot. Escape while you can. Keep an eye on them until they become a tiny speck disappearing in your rear-view mirror.
  2. Fall in love with an actual person. Do not fall in love with falling in love.
  3. Commitment does not flow from passion. Passion flows from commitment.
  4. Patience will make you wealthy much more quickly than luck.
  5. Business is nothing more than a search for purpose and adventure, and failures are footlights along the dark pathway to success.
  6. Everyone has a superpower. When you have figured out their superpower, that’s when you know a person.
  7. Never lose sight of your closest friends and always be there for them.
  8. Every conflict is an auction. The winner will be the one who is willing to pay a higher price than anyone else. (This is why you should try to avoid conflicts.)
  9. There is a time for incremental escalation and there is a time for overwhelming force. Take no action until you know what time it is.
  10. What you are currently thinking and feeling is a product of where you have turned your attention. Be careful where you turn your attention.
  11. Learn to speak in color and to write poetically.
  12. Poetry is any communication that changes what you think, and how you feel, in a brief, tight economy of words.

Those are some of the things I learned as an Okie, and now I have shared them with you. That makes you a little bit Okie, too.

Ciao for Niao,

Roy H. Williams

Becoming a children’s book publisher is not “sugar and spice and everything nice.” It is one of the toughest journeys an entrepreneur can undertake. When Georgia Lininger launched her children’s book imprint in January 2020, she quickly discovered that success was going to require more from her than sweet stories and colorful illustrations. Join roving reporter Rotbart and his deputy rover Maxwell as they uncover a classic American story of struggle and defiance along with the happy ending dreamt of by every entrepreneur offering a product or service that comes from the heart. MondayMorningRadio.com

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Random Quote:

“My name is Jack Miller, and on Saturday at ten o’clock I’ll be standing in my own driveway
watching my life get sold by the piece.

They call it an estate sale, but it feels more like a yard sale for a dead man who just hasn’t had the decency to lie down yet.

I’m seventy-four.

My boots are cracked, my flannel is soft from a thousand washings, and the Nebraska wind still smells the same as it did when I was six years old riding on my daddy’s shoulders to check the cows.

This ground has had a Miller on it since 1924.

My granddad turned the first sod with a team of mules. My dad kept it alive through the eighties when the bank tried to eat us. I thought I’d be the last one to leave it, but I figured I’d leave feet first in a pine box, not watching strangers load my com bine onto a lowboy trailer headed for Kansas.

The sign at the road doesn’t say Miller Farm anymore.

It says
Absolute auction.
No reserve.
Everything goes.

All week people have been poking around like crows in a cornfield.

A woman in yoga pants held up Grandma’s butter churn and asked if it was real or just for looks.

A guy with a man-bun tried to talk me down on the price of my hay rake because he only wanted the wheels to make a chandelier.

Yesterday a young couple stopped at the old wooden gate my dad built the year I was born. The paint’s mostly gone, but you can still read Miller in faded green letters.

A woman snapping pictures said to her husband, “Oh my gosh, this is perfect for our entryway. So rustic.”

Rustic.

That gate held back stampeding cattle the night lightning hit the barn. It’s got hoof marks and blood stains and a patch from the time I backed the pickup into it at sixteen.

But sure, honey, hang it over your subway tile and call it rustic.

I stood there with my coffee getting cold and didn’t say a word.

It wasn’t one big thing that killed this place.

It was a million little cuts.

The elevator started paying thirty cents less a bushel because of the world market.

The seed corn went up forty dollars a bag because of research and development.

The fertilizer plant shut down, so now it comes from Morocco and costs twice what it did in 2010.

The grocery store sells sweet corn flown in from Peru cheaper than I can grow it thirty miles away.

Two years ago I had the prettiest stand of corn you ever saw.

Ears filled clear to the tip. I ran the numbers and it would cost me more to harvest it than I’d get paid.

So I fired up the shredder and turned a hundred and sixty acres of gold back into dirt. Sat in the tractor cab and cried like a baby while the stalks fell.

My granddaughter Lily is sixteen.

She helped me sticker everything with lot numbers last week.

She stopped at the old John Deere and ran her hand across the seat worn smooth from three generations of Miller backsides.

“Why sell it, Papaw?”

Nobody needs what it does anymore, darlin’. It’s made for growing food.

The world don’t want food grown this way now. It wants food grown cheaper, farther away, by somebody else.

She didn’t get it. How could she? She’s never seen a grocery store shelf empty. She thinks food just appears.

That’s the joke, really. Shelves are full, but the people who filled them are disappearing.

Saturday they’ll sell the tractor, the tools, the gate, the butter churn. They’ll sell the kitchen table where my wife and I paid bills and held hands and raised two kids.

Some of it will end up in landfills. Some will end up as farmhouse décor in houses that have never smelled silage or heard a rooster.

I don’t hate the buyers. They’re just folks wanting a piece of something solid. I hate that the only piece they can still afford is the memory of it.

When the last item is gone and the auctioneer says “Sold,” I’ll still be standing here.

The barn will be empty. The fields will already belong to an investment group in Omaha that’s never felt this soil between their fingers.

But the wind will still blow.

The red-winged blackbirds will still call from the cat tails.

And somewhere under all this black dirt, my granddad’s sweat and my dad’s blood and my own broken heart will still be feeding next year’s crop.

Only it won’t be mine anymore.

If you ever bite into an apple and it tastes like sun shine, or pour milk on your kid’s cereal without a second thought, just remember: somebody loved you enough to get up before dawn for fifty years so you wouldn’t have to.

Most of us are almost gone now.

When the last small farm disappears, don’t be surprised if the food gets a little less sweet.

Because love was the secret ingredient.

And nobody’s figured out how to import that yet.”

- From a Facebook Post in December, 2024

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