One of Nashville’s great business leaders, Bobby Mathews, passed away yesterday. (Coverage in NashvillePost.com and The Tennessean).

This quote from NashvillePost.com captures his role in the development of Nashville:

“Besides building a family, he helped build the city of Nashville. There hasn’t been much in Nashville over the past half-century that Mathews wasn’t involved in either building or renovating.”

A lot will be written about his role in building (and preserving) many of the buildings and developments that have transformed the city, while embracing its past. However, I’d like to add a word about the first part of the quote — the “building a family” part. My wife and I, along with our children, have many close friendships among the children and grandchildren of Mr. and Mrs. Mathews. Our thoughts and sympathies are with them today.

Mr. Mathews passed on his legacy of love for Nashville to his children — and to all those who experienced his zeal for the city’s past and promise — including me. Today, many Nashvillians, because of his leadership and influence and passion, carry on the commitment to his civic vision. He will be missed, but his lasting contributions to Nashville will be with us for the ages.

I just learned of the death last night of one of my heroes: Bill Weaver, Nashville businessman, civic leader, devoted-father and grandfather, loving-husband, philanthropist, friend to all he knew, and inspiration to all he encountered. Where does one start in describing someone who, while fighting the gradually debilitating effects of multiple sclerosis over the course of three decades, still lived his life with boundless enthusiasm and commitment to make his hometown and the world a better place for all?

Bill Weaver was a visionary — a social entrepreneur before the term was known. He saw opportunities for solutions and service where the rest of us merely saw problems. For example, he felt strongly that talented kids from financially-struggling homes should be offered the chance to access a pathway to educational opportunities available to similarly talented kids from affluent familes. He didn’t stop with sensing the need — he did something about it. He created not just a program called Time to Rise, but he helped create the entire eco-system necessary to identify, prepare and support the motivated, talented kids most likely to benefit from such a program.

Confined to a wheelchair — and he always had the latest model high-tech wheelchair — for the past two decades, he could not walk, but he still found ways to give wings to ideas. He willed them to fly — and they obediently flew. And because of that, many lives have been enriched and transformed. Even when he lost the ability to speak clearly, his ability to communicate was never lost. For he communicated with his heart. And with his love. And with his inspiration.

Over the next few days and weeks and for all of time, there will be stories told of the big things Bill Weaver did for others. So here’s a small story about something small he did, but that meant a lot to some folks I love. One Halloween when my children were still very tiny, we dropped by the large home on the hill where Bill and his wonderful wife, Nicky, lived. My son was about three or so, and in one of those kids-say-the-darndest-things moments, he marveled at how cool it must be for Mr. Weaver to have such a neat wheelchair. “Want to go for a ride?” asked Bill. Quickly handing his mom the trick-or-treat bag, my son scrambled into Bill’s lap for a ride around the bottom floor of the Weaver’s home. Then Mr. Weaver suggested my daughter and son try out the elevator, something they’d never seen in someone’s home.

Bill Weaver’s gesture and his warm glow helped forge my children’s perceptions of the amazing abilities possessed by those others may consider “disabled.” Until they out-grew trick-or-treating entirely, each Halloween my children’s first request was to go visit Mr. Weaver. It is the treat they will always associate with Halloween.

For my children, my wife and me, I’d like to express my admiration and appreciation for Bill Weaver’s most amazing life and our warmest condolences to Nicky, their children, Collins, Will and Craig and their families.

Later:

Last night, the Nashville advertising and marketing firm, Buntin Group, celebrated its 35th anniversary. I worked there for six of the 35 years (1985-91) with some creative and intense — and intensely fun — individuals. It was great to see — and catch up with — several folks from my era. It was a super event.

I love Jeffrey Buntin, founder of the Buntin Group and my boss — and then partner — for six years. Love is not a word I believe I’ve ever used in describing a business relationship, but it’s hard to not love Jeffrey Buntin. Okay, it was hard not to at times, but for me, those times were extremely rare and quickly forgotten.

I learned a great deal from Jeffrey during the six years I worked at Buntin. Some of those lessons, however, I didn’t know I had learned until many years later. I can’t thank him enough for his willingness to nearly always support me, many times when he had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. I think the key to our relationship was his steadfast (and accurate, for the most part) belief that I was deeply committed to bringing into the agency more money each month than I took out.

Not everyone is lucky enough to have such a bigger-than-life mentor as Jeffrey. I’m was. Thank you, Jeffrey. And congratulations.

Here’s a set of photos from last night’s party.

The first time I ever heard the word, “weblog,” it was from Doc Searls. And the first time I ever heard the word, “podcast” it was from Doc Searls (on September 28, 2004 — I blogged about it the next day).

I am a big fan of Doc’s and the things he says. Heck, I’ve listened to and internalized so much of what he’s said, I’m sure a lot of what I write here is merely channeling Docisms.

Doc also taught me to look out of the window when I fly. Because he takes incredible photographs out of the windows of airplanes, I look forward to his travels because — in “where’s Waldo fashion” — I can’t wait to see what geologic formation or natural phenomena he’ll record: I can recall photos of mud-slides, forest fires and, just recently, an awesome display of the Aurora Borealis.

I think Doc Searls sees lots of things the rest of us don’t because he looks while others don’t think to. His depth of curiosity is, fortunately, balanced by his gift for analysis and the ability to write in such a way as to convey perceptive — sometimes even radical — ideas in a provocative (but respectful and professional), non-technical and entertaining fashion.

One thing he said several years ago, when someone was commenting about all his accomplishments, was this: “Everything you know me for, I’ve done since I was 50.”

At the time, I was heading into that decade (I’m firmly ensconced there now), so I filed away that nugget and have thought of it many times since — especially when I hear about certain things that only “the young” can do.

Today, Doc turns 60. I can’t wait to see what he does this decade.

I can’t wait to learn what he discovers as he looks out the window while flying far above the rest of us.

Technorati Tags: doc searls

On this very day — although it was at night — 20 years ago, I became a Dad. As any dad will tell you, there’s nothing greater — or more frightening — than becoming a dad. My daughter has made being a dad a snap. She’s perfect. Really. I’m not biased, of course.

If it’s not obvious, I’m web access challenged for a few days. (Voluntarily so.) But being off line meant I missed Nick Bradbury’s 40th birthday yesterday. Happy birthday, Nick. If you know Nick or read his blog, you’ll know he’s had some brushes with serious medical conditions and harrowing life-threatening situations over the past couple of years — so I’m especially happy he made it to 40. After brain surgery that caused loss of hearing in one ear and seriously affected his balance, Nick has, through physical therapy and exercise, “relearned” balance (although there’s a smashed flat-screen TV that paid the price in his recovery journey) and recently ran the Music City Half-Marathon.

Nick is an accidental software developer. I say “accidental” because I think he’s a cartoonist who got sidetracked. He created HomeSite, TopStyle and FeedDemon. He could live anywhere, but chose Nashville for all the family-friendly and life-style reasons that make it my home of choice, as well.

He’s a great inspiration to me — I’m already committing to next year’s Country Music Marathon because of him — and I’m happy to jump back online to wish him a happy birthday weekend. (Nick and I live in the same town, but I think we’ve seen each other more often in places other than Nashville: Seattle, San Francisco, Austin.)

(via: Dave, who had a birthday recently, as well, and who is no stranger to bouncing back after medical challenges.)

NashvillePost.com has an post (subscription not necessary) today that includes a reprint of an interview with journalist and author David Halberstam in which he recalls his four years at the Nashville Tennessean, from 1956-1960. Halberstam, 73, died in a California car crash yesterday.

Quote:

“The newspaper boasted a proud tradition as an aggressive, combative, fearless voice of the people, a public trust. Compared to Mississippi, which was a de facto police state, Nashville was a nice, livable little city — the state capital, a university town, a pretty literate place, where you could say what you wanted (if you didn’t mind being unpopular in some quarters). The atmosphere had not congealed in fear, as had happened farther south. And best of all, the newspaper was right in the thick of every fight, and I was like the proverbial kid in the candy store, just devouring everything I could get my hands on.”

Also, today in the Tennessean, John Seigenthaler and others recall Halberstam’s days at the paper and in Nashville.

So it goes.

Typically, I try to avoid the blogosphere on April Fools Day — On this day, I always believe even less of what I read than usual.

But today, this is a straight-up sincere post of appreciation regarding my friend, Dave Winer. No fooling. Today is the tenth anniversary of Scripting News, Dave’s blog. (If you’re reading this on April 1, he’s going old skol with a display of that first day’s posts. He’s “blogging” today using Twitter. Later: He’s now back with a reflection post.)

For several of the early years of my blog, before I even knew Dave’s name, I was the beneficiary of his generosity. The first day I learned that Doc Searls set up a blog at the URL “doc.weblogs.com,” I checked to see if “rex.weblogs.com” was available, and, well, it was. (I registered the domain rexblog.com soon afterwards and started using it later.) I made a couple of posts in August of 2000 but it would be another year and a half before I started making posts again. That was about 6,500 posts ago. I’ve not missed many days of blogging since then.

Dave pioneered many of the conventions of what we today know as blogging. He doesn’t claim to have the first website updated on a daily basis. However, many of the ideas related to lite-weight content management systems we all use for managing blogs today were exhibited and evangelized from the earliest days of Scripting News. Dave can recount the history of those early days. All I know is that what I do today on this blog can point straight back to that early work of Dave Winer.

For the few folks who may read this who don’t know it, other things he helped to create, pioneer, popularize, evangelize, defend and champion are the things we today call RSS and podcasting.

If it weren’t for blogging, I’m sure I would have never met Dave. Because of blogging, I know we met first on June 10, 2003 (he would remember the gathering, but not meeting me), then on April 17, 2004 at his Bloggercon II (again, I was one of many), then on May 7, 2005, a day that I remember for this memorable quote by an iconic Nashvillian, John Jay Hooker: “You can’t call a sonofabitch a sonofabitch without calling him a sonofabitch.” (I’ll skip the details.)

I could go on.

Dave is a seminal figure in the development of the technology, conventions, style and ethos of blogging. As such, he deserves much of the credit for what blogging — and the wider array of blog-like conversational media — has become. Industries are being built on the foundation he laid.

Like many pioneers, Dave has often pushed forward when others didn’t want to follow. Or he stepped on turf others wanted to defend. Or, well, there are lots of metaphors I could use, but that’s not the point of this post. Simply put, Dave has played a part in many tech debates and battles that I know nothing about, but that by the time I got to know him had left some war wounds on all involved.

This isn’t a post trying to explain Dave. This is a post simply to say I appreciate all he’s done that allows me to do what I do on this blog. And the blogs I follow via RSS. And the podcasts I subscribe to via iTunes. And, well, the list could go on and on.

Dave and I perhaps are not likely friends, on the surface some of our politics and points-of-view may appear at odds.

However, those things we share are far stronger than our differences. We share a fascination and curiousity of the dynamics of hyperlinked conversation. We care greatly about what people say, but we care even more that they have the tools — and rights — to say them. We also share a common belief that playing with something new — having fun — is the best way to discover what “works.”

Recently, when I was in San Francisco, I spent an afternoon just hanging out with Dave. We had a wonderful lunch in Berkeley near his house. We went to Fry’s and shopped for some speakers — some really killer speakers — for Dave’s sound system. He let me play tourist and stopped the car whenever I wanted to take photos of the impressive views of the San Francisco Bay we passed. At his home, we were like adolescents discussing his TV, Mac mini, network setup and some cool hacks for managing video. We talked about earthquakes and health and music and a little about politics.

But mainly, we just joked around. And bantered. And kicked ideas around.

It’s a great way to work.

For Dave, it’s a great way to change the world.

Thanks, Dave.

Technorati Tags: dave winer, davewiner

Funny to the end, Art Buchwald’s Washington Post obituary includes this quote of a line he told friends concerning his longer-than-anticipated survival of a terminal kidney condition: “I just don’t want to die the same day Castro dies.”

Bonus link: Buchwald wrote a “final column” to be released upon his death. Quote: “‘What’s it all about, Alfie?’ is my way of saying goodbye.”

Another bonus link: I would call the following the “quote of the day,” but I’m thinking it’s a candidate for “quote of all time”:

“Hi, I’m Art Buchwald and I just died.”

From an impressive new feature on NYTimes.com, a video obituary series called “The Last Word.”

[The following post regards the sudden death of a special person to my family -- and to many others whose lives he touched. A special note to those who may have found this post via an Internet search: This link will take you to information on the Deerfield Academy website about memorial services and ways in which Mr. Kapteyn can be honored and condolences extended to his family. Also, a group has been set up on Facebook, In Memory of James Kapteyn, that contains many wonderful memories, expressions of condolences and photos from students and friends of Mr. Kapteyn.]

Last year, my son was a freshman at Deerfield Academy, a boarding school in western Massachusetts. His resident adviser — his mentor and friend and father of the faculty family who lived in quarters adjacent to my son’s dorm hall — was one of the most gifted teachers I have ever known, James C. (Jamie) Kapteyn.

My wife and I had been hopeful that our son would end up on Mr. Kapteyn’s hall as we had grown to appreciate him over the three previous years during which he’d taught english and literature to our (now college freshman) daughter. He was, for her, one of those special teachers who light a spark of passion for a subject that leads to a lifetime of study and appreciation. My wife and I sat in on Mr. Kapteyn’s classes on a couple of occasions and marveled at his skill at opening his students’ minds and eyes and hearts.

As he had spent many years as a teacher, coach and resident adviser — and was the father of a daughter who is a classmate of our son — my wife and I turned often to him for insight into the minds of teenagers — especially on those several occasions when our understanding came to a sudden brick wall of that species known as “15-year-old boy.” Mr. Kapteyn’s wise, reasoned, concerned advice never failed to calm us, or reassure us, or inspire us. In hindsight, he was always right.

Last night, my wife and I wept together with our son who called to inform us that Mr. Kapteyn had passed away unexpectedly earlier in the evening after collapsing while playing soccer with some faculty friends. He was in his mid-40s.

My wife or I did not attend boarding schools, but we’ve learned a lot about them — or at least one of them — over the past five years. When the students’ interactions with teachers (and their families) extend beyond the classroom into the dining hall for three meals each day, and onto the playing fields for sports, and into the evenings for study halls and academic (and life) advising and a whole myriad of clubs and projects — it creates a unique and close community bond, a family. The joys of one become the joys of many. And when the loss of one so loved occurs, it is the loss of a cherished member of a very large and extended family. And the entire family mourns.

Today, the Deerfield community is in shock. I know that my son and all the other boys who have ever been in Field (the “dorm” [house] name) with Mr. Kapteyn and his wife are mourning deeply the loss of their mentor and friend. After talking with him on the phone last night, I sent my son and daughter an e-mail and decided to post a portion of it here:

Going through this sad experience with your friends and all of the people who loved Mr. Kapteyn so much is going to be a very tough thing to do. But you will pull together and your sense of loss will be be shared also with a sense of appreciation for all that Mr. Kaptyn was and all he did for you.

I’m sitting here thinking of all the lives Mr. Kapetyn touched — his students, their parents, the boys who he advised and mentored on his hall, the players he coached. It is a very sad and terrible thing to lose someone you love and appreciate so much as Mr. Kaptyn. Along with our grieving, I know we will be honoring him, as well. For his was a life to celebrate. He was so gifted as a teacher and he was able to share that gift at such a wonderful place as Deerfield. He loved what he did — and was so loved by those with whom he came into contact. That is a special, unique thing to have in ones life.

This weekend, my wife and daughter (who finished her first semester exams today and is flying home from Scotland) will travel to Deerfield to express personally our family’s respect and appreciation for Jamie Kapteyn, to extend our condolences to his wife and two wonderful daughters and to honor and celebrate his life of not only teaching, but inspiring young people in so many ways.

We also want to hug tightly our 16 year-old son (and brother).

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