Stormy Sunday Morning

It has been a while since I took the time on a Sunday morning to sit on the front porch and write. I had scheduled a bike ride for this morning. Mother Nature, however, seems to be in a mood. As I looked out of the window, dressed in my bike gear and ready to go, I saw dark clouds on the horizon rather than the sunrise I had expected. A quick glance at the weather map showed a large thunderstorm cell nearby, with its lightning and gusty winds. If my plan had been a run, I might have taken the chance, but on a bike, where I am still a little unsure of myself and there are more external, uncontrollable factors, I was reluctant to take the risk this morning.

So here I sit, with coffee in hand, listening and witnessing the start of a new day. There is a chipmunk nearby in the bushes. It is worried about something because it is “chip, chip, chipping” almost non-stop. I look around and then notice a hawk sitting in the tree across the street, probably looking for some breakfast. I hear the crows alternating between a single “caw” and a triple “caw, caw, caw”. They too seem to sense something concerning, perhaps, the same hungry hawk. The hawk takes flight, and the morning sounds become quiet for a few moments, and I can hear other morning bird songs.

It’s warm on the porch this morning, but not oppressively humid. It is comfortable. There is an occasional soft breeze. It feels nice as it floats gently across my arms. It goes unnoticed by the humming-birds sipping from the pink roses and the tall purple salvia flowers in the garden. The loud, low-pitched buzz of their wings always startles me. My first reaction is to look for some sort of giant yellow bumblebee. I am always pleased to see the shiny green throat of the hummingbird.

I finish the last swig of my lukewarm coffee. Its bitter taste contrasts with the moist, sweet aroma of the approaching storm. At this moment, I realize how lucky I am to sit and enjoy this relaxing, contemplative time.  

The thunder rumbles in the distance. The storm appears to be traveling from the northwest to the southeast. Maybe it will pass to the east of us. Even if it doesn’t rain here, I am happy to be on the porch relaxing rather than on a bike, worried about being caught out in a storm. I’ve decided it was a rational decision to wave off the ride and just enjoy my coffee and the morning. I’ll get my exercise in some other way today.

Sounds of rolling thunder are getting more regular. I have seen no lightning yet, though the sky to the east is dark and threatening. It is the dense blue/gray sky that one expects to produce a bolt of lightning at any moment. Dark, angry clouds in the east are blocking out the sunrise. The day seems moving toward dusk rather than dawn. The first flashes of lightning illuminate the northern sky for just an instant and, moments later, another roll of loud thunder.

As the storm moves in, the lightning flashes brightly and the thunder booms more fiercely. I acknowledge how blessed I am to have this opportunity to sit here, noticing all that is around me, selecting the words that will best describe it to my future self. This is happiness for me, and it is clearly a sensible alternative to a bike ride in a thunderstorm.

Quiet Time in NJ

Playing Patty Cake with Dziadziu

My wife and I went to visit our grandkids over the weekend last February. It is always a wonderful, crazy, busy time. My grandson is three years old, and his sister is seven months old. During the day, there is nonstop activity. The early morning may be the only quiet time.  

I was up at about five o'clock this morning. The house was dark and nearly silent.  The only sound was the hum of white-noise generators in the kids' rooms coming over the baby monitor speaker and the occasional sound of the furnace engaging.

Often, I would have been outside running around the lake at this time, or at least preparing to run as I awaited the first light of dawn.  This morning was rainy and cold, though, and I told myself that running in less-than-familiar places in the rain while snow still covered the ground might be dangerous.  The sensibility of this decision was demonstrated when I snuck out to pick up some coffee and fresh bagels.  I discovered that the front walk was ice-covered with a thin veneer of rainwater on top.  I took a single step onto that surface, and my shoes had no chance to grip; in a split second, I found myself on my back, looking up at the sky. I laid there for a moment, doing a quick inventory of joints and bones before I rolled off the pavement onto the grass, where I could regain my footing and maybe a little pride.  Fortunately, there was no injury and no audience for this slapstick routine at that hour of the morning.

I continued on my quest and returned to the house just as quietly but a little more carefully with 13 bagels and a cup of Dunkin Donuts Coffee. On my return, I circumnavigated the front walk, realizing now how treacherous and invisible any ice spots would be.  That was when I officially waved off my morning run.

I got settled on the couch with my hot coffee and toasted bagel. I sat in the dark, quiet, comfortable house, recharging my batteries for the day ahead.  I thought about the games we'd play, books we'd read, and musical instruments of all sorts to play and pretend.  I admire my grandson's current and recurring fascination with musical instruments.  I reinforce it whenever the opportunity allows.  I was also looking forward to both the rough-housing and tender cuddle moments.   My granddaughter, still not quite mobile, observes all the activity with a keen eye on how her big brother manages to move so constantly.  She will be chasing him around very soon, I'm sure.

As I sat and absorbed the quiet calm of this early morning, sipping my coffee and working on various essays and journals, there was a disturbance in the force.  I heard my granddaughter begin to make noise in the next room.  She wined quietly and made a short little cry, and then the quiet returned, but not for long.  She repeated this sequence a couple of times, so I looked at the monitor and saw her rolling around in the crib from one side to the other, stopping to make it clear that she desired a change in her circumstances.  The rest of the house was still sleeping, so I went to her room and lifted her out of the crib before she got frustrated and released that ear-piercing scream, which cannot be ignored and would undoubtedly summon Mom and Dad.

Standing there by the crib, I held her to my chest, and she snuggled under my chin, but she noticed the unfamiliar whiskers tickling the top of her head.  She leaned back and looked up at me in the dim night light of the nursery. Her eyes open wide with wonder. She reached up and tried to grab my beard, but, unlike her dad, mine was too tightly trimmed to grasp, even with her tiny fingers.  The process of running her fingers across my beard calmed her, though, and she dropped her head again and snuggled under my chin with more purpose; her little body so warm, soft, and cuddly, clad in dainty, pink, footy pajamas.  She seemed resolved to cuddle up with her Dziadziu (Grandpa) and go back to sleep.  This moment was pure bliss.

I looked at my watch and remembered my son's instructions that if she woke after 6:30am, she should be up for the day.  It was 6:35am, so we headed into the living room to find a book, and she became a little more alert.  I selected a book with 100 baby words/pictures.  We sat on the couch. She snuggled into the crook of my arm, resting quietly on my lap, reaching out to explore random pictures with her fingers and occasionally yawning, which always ended with a quiet squeak.  We leisurely explored pictures, and my heart overflowed.  Occasionally, she glanced up at my face and reached back, continuing valiantly to try to capture my beard in her tiny fingers. She never succeeded but seemed reassured by the feeling of running her hand through my beard, and then she returned her attention to the colorful pictures in the book.  These moments are etched on my soul.

I whispered the name of each picture, trying not to disturb this quiet, predawn cuddle time. She smiled at some words and explored the book through a gentle touch or a taste of its corner when she could manage it. When she began to fidget a little, we decided a diaper change was a good course of action.  We had just gotten to the changing table when my son appeared from around the corner with a bottle of milk in hand, just in time to do the honors.  My granddaughter's face lit up in recognition of Dad and food. Babaci (grandma) was up now, too, and relieved my son of the bottle and the morning feeding responsibility, so he moved on to my grandson's bedroom to wake him for the day while his Mom prepared some toddler-friendly breakfast in the kitchen.  

That is how the day began, and I would have it no other way.

Rest in Peace, Mom and Dad

My mom passed away in October of 2020 during the COVID-19 epidemic.  We didn't have the opportunity to have a funeral.  Dad passed away on February 6, 2025.  We were able to perform a funeral for both of them at the same time.  That was important for me to achieve the closure I needed.  What I've recorded below is the eulogy I wrote for their funeral modified to be read rather than spoken.  I put it out here for others to look at if they cared to learn just a little more about my parents.  tldr; I have had the benefit in my life of standing on the shoulders of giants.

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Anyone who knew my parents has stories to tell.  I will tell their stories for the rest of my life to my children and grandchildren. I will be telling my Dad’s story because it is instructive and, frankly, inspiring. I will be telling my Mom’s story because it exemplifies perseverance, faith, and love. I will be telling the story of their 63-year marriage because it illustrates mutual respect, unconditional love, partnership, and faith in God. Things I want to model in my marriage.

There would never be enough time to write about everything I’d like to, so I’ll just mention a few things that might give those who didn’t have the privilege to know my parents well a sense of who they were.  For the rest of us, maybe this will rekindle our own fond memories of Don and Lois, Mom and Dad, Grandma and Grandpa. 

From the beginning of his life with my mom, Dad was a man on a mission. He was determined to make a comfortable life for his family. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but he wasn't afraid of hard work and sacrifice to achieve his goals.  I have several letters he wrote Mom when they were apart in the early years of their marriage.  In one letter, he says, “Please don’t worry. I know we’re broke. We’ve been broke before. We’ll get through this, and I promise that someday we won’t worry about money.” (spoiler alert; he kept that promise).   

I never got a chance to ask him how that worked out for him, telling Mom not to worry.   One of my mom’s sayings was, “You can’t tell me that worrying does no good because the things I worry about never happen.” 

Mom dealt with worry through prayer and she probably wore out a set of rosary beads on just me.  In response to most of our complaints, from brussel sprouts for dinner to heartache associated with a high school breakup, Mom would suggest that we “...offer it up for the greater honor and glory of God”.   There were a lot of offerings from the Limer household over the years…

While Mom handled worry with prayer, Dad approached life with a quiet determination. Dad didn’t like to talk about his life story. I think he felt it was boasting, but I feel he had every right to.  His life was a testament to the modern American success story.  A lot of the details are in his obituary.  But he told me that one of his proudest moments was walking on the campus of Wayne State University, realizing that his life was moving in a new and positive direction and that he hardly believed it was happening at the age of 36.

Dad seldom lectured.  He asked simple questions and suggested a course of action.  When I was in college, I would call home to tell him and Mom that the sky was falling and I was never going to be able to get everything done. Dad would simply ask, “When was the last time you had a steak dinner?” As a college student, it had usually been a while.  He would tell me to go get a good steak dinner, which he would pay for, and then call back.  He was right; things always seemed better after a hearty meal.

Mom was an intelligent, welcoming, warm person.  Growing up, she was frustrated when she was actively discouraged from taking the math and science course in high school.  She took them anyway,  HomeEc she could learn at home.  Years later, when she was managing Dad’s office, I was teasing her about a printer problem they were having.  She didn’t get upset with my teasing; she signed up for some computer classes at the local community college, and she did well.

They were both musicians; Dad’s primary instrument was the trumpet and Mom’s the piano. I remember my Dad putting on a recording of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass for our bedtime music.  They felt music was an essential part of our education, so we all learned to play one or more instruments with varying degrees of success. The first piano we had in the house was an old upright that we hauled out of the neighbor’s basement.  I was about 8 years old, and it fascinated me.  Every house we moved into after that seemed to come with an upgraded piano until we finally had a baby grand in the living room.

Mom and Dad’s marriage was amazing to me in retrospect. Their strengths and weaknesses complemented each other.  I’m sure they argued; we all do, but it was never in front of us kids.  And when a decision was made, there was no chance to go ask Dad if Mom said “no”.  I know this because I tried it, and it didn’t work go well.

They were true partners in the very best sense of the word.  They leaned on each other, shared the tough times, and rejoiced together in the good times.  They recognized the blessing of their partnership and leaned on their faith in God to navigate life's challenges together. Dad told me of a night when they first opened the law practice where they went to bed and held each other tight because there was no money, and they prayed. I can only say that the results speak for themselves.

Mom and Dad loved hosting celebrations. Graduations, weddings, birthdays, visits from children, and the sun rising in the morning were all reasons to celebrate. Yes, they even taught me that funerals were a time to celebrate a life well lived and the return of someone to God’s presence.  Mom was a gracious hostess, and Dad was great at making conversation.

The point I am making is that my parents seemed to complete each other.  Between the two of them, there was nothing they couldn’t handle.  I think each of us children tested this assertion in many and varied ways (except me, of course).  Mom and Dad were always there to help, provide advice or simply make us feel understood.

Mom's urn is on the left, and Dad's on the right.

I think I’ll summarize what my parents were like with this short story Dave told me.  A friend of his happened to notice a picture of Mom and Dad on their mantel and said they looked like friendly people, the kind of people who would invite you to have coffee and cake.  It was a well-intentioned compliment and lovely to hear, but Dave felt the need to explain that they were also the kind of people that, if you showed up after 1pm, would offer you a martini on the patio, engage you in wonderful conversation and to insist that you stay for dinner.  Dad would throw a couple steaks on the grill.  For dessert, they'd offer vanilla ice cream with homemade chocolate sauce (Grandma’s recipe) and coffee, generally finishing up with a small glass of of B&B (Brandy & Benedictine) and they’d send you home with leftovers.  That’s the kind of couple they were.  

Mom would tell me that Dad would give anyone the shirt off his back (usually after he just had).  Though she said it is an exasperated way, I always understood it to be a compliment and a character trait she was proud of and hoped was emulated by her children.

Though I feel a keen sense of loss that they are gone from this life, my faith tells me that they are together again for eternity.  The legacy they have left us, the lessons they have taught us, and the example they provided us will echo for generations to come. That is a reason to celebrate.

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Obituary for Donald "Don" Edwin Limer 1936 - 2025

Donald “Don” Edwin Limer, 88, of Traverse City and formerly of Detroit and Milwaukee, passed away Thursday, February 6, 2025, with loving family at his side.

Don was born March 6, 1936, in McLean, Illinois, to the late William “Buck” Robert and Mary Irene (Powell) Limer. He left farm work behind and served his country in the United States Air Force from 1956 through 1959, working as a control operator at the 676th radar squadron of the Antigo Air Force Station in WI. It was here he met the love of his life, the late Lois Regina McPhail. On September 28, 1957, Don and Lois married and began a loving partnership for 63 years.

After leaving the military, Don worked a number of different positions in the insurance industry, from sales to claims adjuster. In 1971, with encouragement from his wife, Don began a journey to get his college and law degrees at night while continuing to work full-time and raise five children. After graduating from the Detroit College of Law in 1975 he embarked on a distinguished career as an attorney, opening a successful practice in the Detroit area helping plaintiffs obtain workers’ compensation they had been denied.

In April 1997, after 22 years as an attorney, Don moved on to a position as a federal administrative law judge for the Social Security Administration until his retirement. He served in Detroit MI, Long Beach CA, and finally in Milwaukee WI. Don was well known for his fairness, wisdom, and ability to comfort and uplift those around him.

In their spare time, Don and Lois shared a passion for woodworking, particularly carving decoy ducks, music stands, clocks, and cradles for their grandchildren. His love for craftsmanship and attention to detail was evident in everything he did.

Don is survived by his brother Duncan Limer and sister Teddi Wheeler and by his beloved children, David (Mary) Limer, Cheryl Miller, Timothy (Barbara) Limer, Daniel (Bonnie) Limer, and Jonathan Limer, as well as twelve cherished grandchildren and three great-grandchildren.

He is preceded in death by his parents, three brothers, his wife Lois, and his son-in-law Jeff Miller.

A Mass of Christian Burial will take place at 11am at Saint Francis Catholic Church on Wednesday, February 19, 2025 with a visitation starting at 10am. A Rite of Committal will be held at Southern Wisconsin Veterans Memorial Cemetery later in the year.

Memorial contributions may be directed to a charity of one’s choice in Don’s honor. Kindly share thoughts and memories with Don’s family at www.reynolds-jonkhoff.com.

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Obituary of Lois Regina Limer  1936 - 2020

Lois R. Limer passed away peacefully in the presence of family at the age of 84.

She is survived by Donald, her husband of 63 years; her sister Sharon (Raymond Hoffman); her five children David (Mary), Cheryl (Jeff Miller), Timothy (Barb), Daniel (Bonnie), and Jonathan. She had a deep and abiding love for her 11 grandchildren and her many nieces and nephews, and will be sorely missed by all.

Lois was a devoted wife and mother who also supported Don throughout his college and law school years, managed the law office for his private practice and then supported him throughout his judicial career. She enjoyed gardening, and the roses and orchids she grew were the envy of many. According to the local deer population, her hosta plants were the tastiest in the area.

A celebration of her life will be held when it is safe to do so. In lieu of flowers, memorial contributions may be made to the St. Vincent De Paul Society. A guest book for the family will be located on the Becker Ritter Funeral Home website Tribute page.

Sunrise in PA

Sunrise in the hills of Northeastern PA

I walked along a country road this morning just after first light. It is my habit to take a little time most mornings to escape technology and connect with the beauty and quiet calm of the morning sunrise. 

This was a cool early Fall morning with a slight chill in the light breeze. I pulled on my old, soft, brown leather jacket and grabbed an old baseball cap as I walked out the door with a mug of hot coffee in my hand.

I walked alone along the lake road.  Only the sound of my footfalls on the hardpacked gravel disturbed the quiet hush of the morning.  The fresh, crisp air tickled my lungs, and I took a deep breath, slowly releasing it and enjoying the refreshing feeling.

I sipped my coffee as I walked, looking through the woods into the eastern sky.  There was an iridescent red backdrop to the tangled grove of pine trees and scrub brush growing from the road and up a small hill. The forest was dark, but the rising light in the sky silhouetted the trees and highlighted their tops with the crimson hue of predawn light.

It took me only a few minutes to walk to the main road and up the small hill, where I had an expansive view of the land. The sky had already changed character, but it was beautiful nonetheless. I stood on the crest of the hill, mesmerized by the spectacle of the morning sky, now a pastel pink, subtly morphing to blue with pale pink and bright white clouds. The horizon in the distance had the bright orange color of the rising sun beginning to crest the distant hills.

I stood quietly, a lone spectator of nature's opening act. The coffee mug warmed my hands, its steam mingling with my breath in the chilly air. The rich aroma of fresh-brewed coffee blended with the earthy scents of damp leaves and moist soil. As I gazed at the horizon, the wonder of this beauty settled upon me, a daily miracle often taken for granted.

I imagined the earliest inhabitants of this land witnessing the same sunrise, their lives tied closely to these rhythms of light and season. At that moment, I felt a connection across time, a shared awe at the grandeur of the natural world. But the ever-present pull of today's responsibilities and tasks stirred me from my reverie.

The cool breeze nipped at my reddened cheeks, and its chill began cutting through the warmth of my old leather jacket. It was time to move. As I walked back, I finished my coffee and felt a renewed appreciation for the quiet power of mornings like this, small moments that ground me in the beauty of nature, maybe the antidote for the craziness that has become modern life.

Antigo Morning

It is a remarkable fall morning. The air is cool and crisp, and the morning sun is bright in the cloudless blue sky.

These beautiful fall mornings always bring back memories of my grandmother's house in Antigo, Wisconsin. I don't know why that is. I don't recall ever being there in the fall as we would have been back to school in Detroit by September, but stepping out into the morning light, inhaling the fresh, clean air that chills my lungs while the sun simultaneously warms my face, always makes me think of Grandma Mac and her house in Antigo.   

Looking around, I see some leaves have fallen from many trees and covered the grass. There is work to do to clean up to prepare for winter, but the distinct earthy smell of fall excites me as I think of warm sweaters and cozy, breezy nights by the fire. I am also transported back in time to summer vacations in Wisconsin.

I love this regular reminder of my grandmother and her home in northern Wisconsin.   She was a woman of the earth, a gardener. She nurtured her rose garden, tended her blueberry bushes, and composted her raspberry bushes with great care. It was common for her to send us grandchildren out to the garden, each with our own bowl in hand, to collect a personally curated mix of fruit for breakfast. We would return with a bowl of blueberries, strawberries, and raspberries, and she would pour cream into the bowl, creating a white blanket over the multi-colored berries. There was no cereal, though a pot of freshly cooked oatmeal was often ready for those hungry grandsons as we got older and needed more substance to fill our bellies.  

Grandma's kitchen had a cedar closet near the dining room table. She called it her "Fiber McGee closet."  At the time, I had no idea why she called it that, but I heard years later that it had something to do with an old radio show. It was a large, at least to my memory, dark, walk-in closet that always, even in summer, smelled of cedar, wool coats, deer hunting, and the outdoor activities of men. When I was young, over my grandmother's half-hearted protests, I used to explore the closet, experience those scents, and feel the well-worn, plaid woolen work coats, denim coveralls and faded camouflage hunting jackets once worn by my grandfather or uncles, perhaps even my dad. Hats were hung about here and there, along with mittens and scarves. I could be transported back in time, like through the wardrobe of a CS Lewis novel, and imagine my Grandpa, whom I never knew, grabbing a jacket and leaving for work in his overalls and workboots that still sit in the closet's dark corners. I could sense my uncles returning home after a successful hunting excursion and hanging the hats and scarves on hooks deep in the closet. That may be why the earthy smell of fall reminds me so much of her house. It was perpetually fall in the Fibber-McGee closet.

Grandma Mac's house also had a canning room to the right of the bottom of the basement stairs. It had shelves lined with canned fruits and sauces, empty glass canning jars, and long wooden work benches. I only recall a small window near the ceiling that let a little sun during certain times of the day. It, too, had a damp, musty, earthy smell. The canned fruit on the wooden shelves, cardboard boxes of empty jars, and sacks of potatoes on the floor gave the room dark accents against the white concrete walls, much like the color of the brown leaves on the green grass this morning. The colors may also be a trigger for my memories.

The air in Antigo always seemed clean and crisp. Coming from Detroit, noticeably improved air quality was a low bar, evident even to a youngster like myself. This Northern Wisconsin town was far from any urban population and was mostly farmland. Grandma's house was surrounded by a large potato farm on two sides. Unless we arrived when the farms fertilized the fields with manure, which Dad seemed to appreciate far more than we did, the air always seemed fresh. We also did a lot more running and playing outdoors with our cousins than we might typically do back home, so the sheer quantity of fresh air moving through our little lungs was much higher, and our bodies burned the clean fuel like a Formula One race car. 

For whatever reason, when I experience a fall morning like this, finding myself in the confluence of fresh, crisp air, bright sunlight, and the warm, earthy smell of leaves needing to be raked. I will allow my excitement to rise a little and revel in my memories of Grandma Mac, my cousins, and our summer vacations in Antigo.

Quiet writing time

This is one of those times when I have a half-dozen essays started, and I intended to take this time to work on one of them, but I am struck by the beauty of the moment and feel compelled to try to describe it.

I worked hard this morning.  I did an hour at the gym, then came out to the lake to mow the grass.  The weather has been wet and warm, so the grass was long and shaggy, like my hair in the 1970s.  It was so thick in some places that the lawn tractor struggled.  I got through it, though.  It made a second pass over the lawn with the push mower to clean up the clippings, so I got my steps in, too. Now it is time to relax. 

I decided to grab an Adirondack chair and sit out on the dock.  The temperature is cool, and a light hoodie strikes a reasonable balance between cozy and a little warm. A light breeze blows across the lake, just a note of coolness, like opening the refrigerator on a hot afternoon. The air is clear, fresh, and light.  There is no humidity to weigh it down.

The sky is mostly overcast, with thicker, darker clouds accenting the blue-grey canvas. Every so often, there is a momentary break where the sun peeks through and brightens the landscape, but just a moment later, it retreats behind the blanket of clouds.

Some days, the lake is like glass, reflecting the trees and shoreline like a mirror.  Today, it has a different texture, dimpled like the surface of a golf ball.  It seems to be in constant motion, yet not going anywhere.  If there were more sunshine, it would shimmer off the surface.  Without it, the movement of the water is more sensed than seen.

It is very quiet here.   The most notable noise is the lapping of the water as it is blown by the breeze against the rocks on the shoreline. The birds are calling to one another.  The songs are familiar, but I can't connect them to any particular species.   The musical notes are beautiful nonetheless.

I am surrounded by peace, my mind is quiet and calm.  My soul is still.  I am content.

 

Thoughts on Retirement

At the end of August 2024, I will retire after a 40-year career, 27 at iA and 13 years before that at IBM/Loral/Lockheed.  It is a time of retrospection and introspection.  As I processed the emotions associated with the significance of this event, I decided to write down some of my thoughts.  The exercise unintentionally turned into a retirement speech, though it is pretty unlikely I will say any of this out loud, let alone to an audience.  It was a worthwhile activity for me to sort out some things, so I will put it here and invite anyone to read it if they are interested.  I hope these thoughts resonate with some of my colleagues. Perhaps these thoughts may even, if you will indulge my pretentiousness for a moment, inspire others who may be interested in a glimpse of the roads we’ve traveled through the eyes of one of the travelers.  Feel free to comment if you care to.  Let me be clear that these are my personal thoughts and may not reflect iA’s position on any particular topic (...the Compliance Officer in me has not left the building quite yet 😉) 

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Farewell to my Colleagues

Most retirement speeches have a common theme of “...missing the people most”. For me, this rings true in many ways. I will undoubtedly miss the incredible individuals I’ve had the privilege to know and respect. I have spent countless hours with some of you, maybe more than you’ve spent with your children in some cases. We have worked hard together, and I am grateful for the depth of friendship forged through common dedication and commitment. I count you among my dearest friends. I will cherish these relationships and wish each of you happiness and success in whatever form and measure you find meaningful.

The Heart of iA

Logo circa 1997

If I’m being honest, what I’ll miss even more is the sense of purpose I’ve had at iA. This personal commitment to a common cause, to developing valuable products in an honorable industry, has been deeply fulfilling. For me, it has been much more than a job. Executing our mission to create products that empower pharmacy staff to deliver medications to more patients has not only improved efficiency but also prevented mistakes, and that has saved lives. In the early days, I remember reviewing the system logs with our resident pharmacist.  We would look at the errors our software prevented, and he would tell me which were trivial and which could have resulted in serious harm. This gave me a concrete understanding of the importance of what we developed.  Our early customers found as much value in the safety and accountability protocols our products enforced as in the additional efficiency they gained. My favorite comment to hear from a customer was, “...I can sleep at night knowing the system is double-checking everything.” Supporting this mission for 27 years has been an honor and a privilege.

Growing with iA

If you understand the culture at iA, then you already know that developing our products here is a little like raising children.  We care a lot, and we never stop caring, even when it is hard or inconvenient.  When I arrived, we only had a few products, which were small and simple compared to what we have today. I fully bought into becoming part of the team that would nurture these products. From guiding the software through its early, shaky steps to some sleepless nights working through the challenges that came with our first big systems, I’ve always cared deeply and done whatever I could to give our products life in the market and help to constantly improve them in important ways. It was hard work with long hours, and while in the midst of it, I didn’t realize how fortunate I was, but looking back, I see it clearly. 

Logo circa 2005

I was one of many caretakers and guardians who helped this company along its way, and I am somewhat envious of those who will continue the quest. I’m confident that our amazing team will continue to build upon the foundation and culture established in those early days.  Today, I feel like I did while dancing with my daughter at her wedding. I was thrilled as I considered her future with her new husband, but I also felt a little melancholy knowing my role in her future had changed.

The Road Ahead

Harry Boyer, our founder, often spoke of his vision for iA: creating jobs to do meaningful and rewarding work with significant impact. We were a small team back then, and today, I can see we’ve achieved so much. I’m proud of our growth and that iA has provided a rare opportunity for people to be part of a flourishing manufacturing business. The opportunity to participate in launching this business and the chance to make a difference in our communities is a gift.  It was my good fortune that it was offered to me, and I was able to take advantage of it.  I am grateful.  The opportunities for the future are now in your hands, a gift to you from Harry.  It is like a small sapling from an oak tree.  Tend to it and nurture this opportunity because as it grows, it will naturally produce more for others.  We intend to plant a forest.  

My career has taken me along some twisty and bumpy roads. Let’s keep it real, I know the road ahead does not get any easier.  There will be challenges and problems, setbacks and disasters.  Some of these will frighten you and keep you awake at night, like when our first system was pulled out of the store or when the manufacturing plant was under eight feet of water. But you can be assured that the sun will rise the next day, and you will work through the issues.  Inspiration will come, opportunities will open up, and things will get back on track.  It won’t be easy, but it will be exciting, and it will be worth it.

Helping to grow this business has been one of the most significant endeavors of my life. I hope it will be for you.  I encourage you to take the time to reflect on what our continued success will mean for our customers, our community, and our employees. Understand your connection to our work and its importance. Work together and respect each other for what we each can contribute.  Embrace the challenges, as frightening as they might be, and take bold action.  Harry often said, “A faint heart never won a fair lady.”

A Challenge for the Future

I love a good football analogy, so I’ll leave you with this: hold the ball high and tight and keep driving it down the field. Our opponents are formidable, but with dedication and teamwork, you’ll score. One score won’t win this game, though: it requires consistent effort and winning on every down. Build more and build it better, invent more and faster, be creative, focus on understanding and solving the real problems, and above all, keep the patients safe.  Be a team on the field and in the locker room.  That is how you’ll win. That is how this company will thrive.  

Harry’s vision was for iA to follow in the footsteps of IBM, Endicott-Johnson, Link, and others that had their start in the Binghamton area.  You have the foundation, the tools, and the team to achieve that and even more.

For me, it’s time to focus on other important relationships and tasks that have long been second priorities in a world of crisis management. I leave iA satisfied and proud of what we’ve accomplished. Vince Lombardi once said, “Any man’s finest hour is that moment when he has worked his heart out in a good cause and lies exhausted on the field of battle—victorious.” My finest hour is behind me, but I leave knowing I’ve been part of a good cause, something significant.

As I move on, I challenge each of you... I dare each of you to commit to taking iA to the next level, regardless of the bends and bumps in the road.  Do it knowing it will require courage, creativity, focus, and an unwavering belief in achieving success. Do it knowing that it matters. I’ll be watching, rooting, and praying for your success. I will miss contributing but will rejoice in your achievements from the sidelines.

Best of luck to all of you.

- Tim