johnmaconline

Nobody talks about the gantry when they reminisce about the Saturn V and Apollo.

Except everyone who worked on the program.

The gantry — the red steel skeleton that stood watch next to the giant launch vehicle — was a critical piece of the mobile launch platform (MLP). The MLP allowed the rocket to be assembled vertically in the Vehicle Assembly Building (VAB) and then transported to the launch pad while maintaining its vertical orientation.

The seemingly innocuous curiosity of moving a 363′ rocket from assembly building to launch pad was one of the first program-level design decisions to be made because everything depended upon it.

It enabled the verticle assembly and transportation of the rocket, pre-launch activities and preparation, stability during pre-launch and launch, fueling and provided power. The disconnection of the gantry from the rocket happened at the very last millisecond it lifted off the ground. It was only at this moment that Saturn V became a fully autonomous system.

It wasn’t just a support structure; it was the backbone of the entire operation.

Don’t forget about the gantry. Who and what helped you? Who and what made it possible for you to become who you are? Who and what supported you until that very moment you launched?

Also, you can be or you can make the gantry for someone else. You can be an idea gantry. You can be an emotional gantry. You can make the system that enables the system.

You’ll probably fail.
You’ll probably make a fool of yourself.
You’ll probably end up back where you started.

But…

You’ll probably learn something.
You’ll probably gain confidence.
You’ll probably never regret it.

Do you know the Pixar movie “A Bug’s Life?”

Possibly not, because it didn’t have nearly the success that its predecessor, “Toy Story” did. It’s been labeled less polished, less relatable, and just not as good.

I disagree, however. I’ve always liked the movie better than “Toy Story.”

Because I think about leadership, individuals, and systems all the time. And this movie is 100% about leadership, individuals, and systems. 

• Flik, the leader: Innovation, courage, a willingness to be wrong, and an ability to create a followership.
• The Circus Bugs: Each individual with their unique strengths adds up to a greater whole. 1 + 1 > 2
• The Colony: You want real, lasting change? Change the system.

Whether you stand at the front or sit in the back row, maybe give A Bug’s Life a whirl.

You think you have a good idea?

Prove it. Go find some (3? 10? 100?) others who agree. If they exist, then you might have a good idea.

What if you can’t find them? 

1. Maybe you’re not looking in the right place.
2. Maybe you’re not looking for the right people.
3. Maybe you don’t recognize them. 
4. Maybe they don’t recognize you.
5. Maybe their clock and your clock aren’t synced 
6. Maybe you don’t have a good idea

If you think you have a good idea, you should definitely work through 1 – 5. These are skills you can develop through action and thoughtfulness. It might take longer than you want or expect, but you can do it. 

The trouble with looking for proof is that you might just find it.

Cows run away from the storm. Buffalos run toward it.

Or at least that’s how the myth goes and how the motivational speakers frame it. I’ve never tested it myself. I just don’t have any Buffalos. I do, however, watch the cows across the field, and they seem to generally follow this trend.

OK, so let’s just go with it, at least in spirit.

Today is a big day. You’re a bundle of nerves. How will it turn out?

One way to manage it is to try to forget about it. Distract yourself. Tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Run away. Another is to lean into it. Overprepare. Tell yourself it means everything. Run towards it.

Maybe there’s a third way. Maybe you shouldn’t run at all. Maybe you should sit and be present. Be prepared, but not with a script. Let the situation unfold. Be open. You might end up sopping wet. But you might end up cleansed and refreshed.

Maybe don’t be a buffalo or a cow. Maybe be a human.

Arcadia Publishing created a series of books titled Images of America. You’ve probably seen them in gift shops or local bookstores, and if you’re a history buff (like me), you’ve probably looked through a few of them. Sepia-toned photos of people, places, and things. 

The stated purpose of this series is to document local history, educate, and foster community pride. Photographichistorical storytelling. 

When I pick one up and browse through it, I like to find and compare the images with today. Sometimes, the location they show looks remarkably similar; sometimes, you can make out a few buildings that are the same, and sometimes, they’re unrecognizable. In any case, I always find myself thinking, “Isn’t that interesting.”

Each photograph captures a moment, a story, from the area’s past. By comparing them to the current surroundings, we can see the threads that connect the location to it’s history. That connection is unbreakable and critical.

Just like us. Your personal history leaves an indelible impression on how you view the world. As it does with your neighbor.

“Isn’t that interesting.”

The more we can engage with that in mind, the more we can love, respect, and understand each other. 

In today’s Western life, you don’t have to fix it yourself.

Experts exist to do it for you — better, faster, cheaper. But if you care enough to spend the time and effort to fix it yourself, you will take away some things that matter.

You’ll understand it better. You’ll appreciate it more. You’ll build your skill set. You’ll grow your confidence. You’ll be able to commiserate with others about it. You’ll have a story.

Sometimes, you should fix it yourself.

“To revolutionize the embedded development industry by delivering innovative DevOps solutions that streamline workflows, empower developers, and delight customers. We are committed to modernizing embedded development practices, relieving operational burdens, and consistently providing exceptional value.”

In some ways, mission statements are meaningless cliches. You can say what you want because does it really matter? Does a mission statement make a difference? 

But also, if you care, your mission statement can perform a few important jobs for you:

1. It can provide the North Star when you’re face down in the muck, at night, in the rain, and have no idea which way is up.
2. It can signal to your audience that you might be the people that can solve their problems.

In order for a mission statement to perform either of these tasks, or mean anything at all, you gotta believe it. You gotta be proud of it. You gotta act on it.

Action is everything. 

What’s the value of something? Is that the same as it’s worth? 

When I visited my grandfather as a kid, we’d spend some time with his stamp collection. I loved the smell, the shoeboxes full of colorful unsorted potential treasure, the neatly arranged books of post-sorted commemoratives, first-day covers, and plate blocks, the stories behind the images on the stamps, and being a voyeur to a person with a passion project. 

I had various jobs. One job was to slog through the shoeboxes full of loose stamps and sort what I found — US 1 centers in this pile, 1960s UK with Queen Elizabeth in another, etc. My other job was to take sorted piles and cross-reference them against the Scott Standard Postage Stamp Catalogue to generate an estimated value. To do so, I had to find the match in the catalog through its objective characteristics — US, green, 1 cent, Ben Franklin — and then make an assessment of its quality. 

Determining quality was a subjective exercise bounded by some pseudo-objective guidelines. Is it used? Is it postmarked? What is the condition of the perforations? How about the shade of the color and the crispness of the image? Is that a desirable and unique flaw, or just a pedestrian flaw?

I’d come up with a number and show it to my grandfather. 

“This pile here is worth about $24.50.”

He’d take a look and quickly assess my assessment for himself. 

“Eh, maybe I could get half of that.”
“But then why does the catalog say $24.50?”
“The catalog shows retail value. You can’t actually get retail value. You’ll only get what someone will be willing to pay.” 

Huh? Willing to pay? My ten years of experience with our transactional economy included, to this point, only price tags and cashiers. Here’s the listed price. I hand that much to the cashier and walk out with the thing. 

What does “willing to pay” mean?

One time, he rummaged through his cabinet, pulled out a unique, longish box, and handed it to me. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve assessed what this lot here is worth. Maybe you can take a stab at it.”

I opened it to reveal hundreds of first-day covers encased in cellophane wrappers. All from northeastern Pennsylvania. I grabbed the catalog and went to work. The problem I found was that the catalog was equal parts vague (ie, missing much of what I found in his collection) and ultra-specific (ie, the catalog showed only a particular cover with the stamp in question).

After an hour or so, I wasn’t making much progress.

“I don’t how to come up with a value.”
“Yeah, I figured as much. Here’s the next lesson…”

And he explained that this part of his collection was his personal favorite. He had spent a lot of time, effort, and money building it up to what it was. Our family has roots in NE PA and he found this intersection of philatelic history and personal history interesting and nostalgic. He just liked it. 

It had a lot of personal value to him but didn’t necessarily have much value to anybody else.

So what’s it worth? Only what someone else is willing to pay.

What’s your product or service’s value and worth? Find the people who value what you do.