Thanks Dad.

Over the years, my wife has picked up all sorts of odds and ends at bargain prices in post-Christmas sales. She stuffs them various places in the house, often losing track of them for years, then pulls them out for housewarming gifts, etc.

This morning, Christmas morning, she produced a collection of 25-or-so round, cardboard Christmas coasters, each with a tree on one side and a conversation-starter question on the other side. One of the questions was, “What’s the most important thing your parents taught you?”

After a moment's reflection, my wife described being taught by her quiet-spoken, hard-working, tender-hearted father that, even though she was a girl, she could do anything in life she wanted to do. That was a breakthrough message in early 50s.

The coaster question reminded me of an old saying: Most of the values parents pass on to their kids are “caught, not taught.” We get told all sorts of things, but are more deeply influenced by the way the people around us live than the way they talk.

Two lessons I learned from my folks come to mind.

One was to be careful — I’m plagued with that one. They never stated it overtly, but I got it, got it bad.

The other was a good one, probably best stated by my dad in a sermon I remember.

Important context: Dad was a Baptist minister in a time when smoking was sophisticated, way before health warnings began to get traction. And for the people of my childhood church, smoking — along with movies, cards, dancing, etc. — were glaring and sinful examples of the big W, worldliness.

So it was edging up on radical when Dad said, “I’d rather have a man who smokes a big black cigar and loves people than someone who acts righteous but doesn’t love people.” They taught me that. In that case I caught something very good.

Of course, I also caught something subversive. That would eventually edge me out of the world where I grew up. But we all have to leave home sometime. If we don’t do that, well, that’s another subject.

I miss my mom and dad today — in the best possible way. Hope you’re having a good “season.”

Respect now. Hold the hell 'till later.

When I saw the name Sarah Vowell on one of my audio book offerings, I picked it up. I’d seen some of her stuff, but knew virtually nothing about her.

The book, The Wordy Shipmates, is about the Massachusetts Bay Colony and the persistent thorn in its side, Roger Williams, who they finally ran out of town. You may remember he ended up living with the Indians in Rhode Island, founded Providence and is often credited with introducing a serious reading of separation of church and state into the colonists' thinking.

Reading history and social commentary should always be this much fun.

But that’s all background. Tracking down more of Sarah Vowell's stuff, I watched a video of her on the Daily Show, talking about the book. She said Roger William was a problem for the Puritans in Massachusetts Bay Colony because he was more serious about his religion than they were, not an easy feat.

But the line I liked most was her description of Williams’ basic religious approach, “He thought most of the people he met should be damned to the fires of hell after their death because they were so sinful, but until they died, you had a duty to treat them all well.”

That’s not exactly what she said, but it’s close. And I was thinking it's pretty intriguing. Because it generally works the other way around. We treat most of the people we bump into with indifference while they’re living, then say, “He was a really nice guy,” after they’re dead.

Reversing that — the more I think about it, the more I like it. Although I don’t think I’d like to have a long dinner with Roger Williams.

It looks like an ad, but it isn't.

It strikes me that some companies think they want to do advertising, when what they really want to do is PR.

PR, done right, serves a company extremely well. It spreads the word about the company's goals, accomplishments, aspirations and values. It clearly describes their products' features and benefits. It talks to world in a very clean and direct way.

Advertising, done right, interests customers, draws them in, chats with them about needs and dreams and troubles and feeling, and suggests, in some charming way, that they try the product. It might be good for them. It's clear about what it's doing, but it says a lot less than PR and implies a lot more. And does it all in a befriending way.

So when I see a PR piece in an ad formate, I wonder if someone knew the difference and, if they did, why not just do a great PR piece in that space. I think it would have a more authentic voice, maybe even be more effective.

A superior product.

I just saw it again in some sales materials that drifted across my desk. Doesn’t it seem to you that the phrase “superior product” really says, “Do not pay attention to this, it’s just marketing”?

I’m not sure I ever see either of those two words outside of an overreaching sales presentation or PR piece.

Flip on the TV at any 2 a.m. and catch the infomercials. You’ll hear “product” over and over again. This product, the product, our product; that’s where you hear it. And the guy with the badly produced, 30-second spots for his computer-learning DVDs constantly calls them “my product.”

And “superior” — that’s a rating bubble you blacken with a number 2 pencil, right? When do you ever, in an authentic conversation — which is what advertising is supposed to be having with viewers, readers, target markets, etc. — hear someone say anything is superior? Possibly, “Your child is a superior student.”

Anywhere else, it’s just one of an unfortunately long list of expressions that are meant to sell me, but instead signal me.

They say, “The following is a paid announcement which no one outside of the marketing department and a group of sadly needy 2 a.m. shoppers pay serious attention to.”

I’ll bet you could list a dozen of those words and phrases. Yet there they are. They survive.

You've got to write it wrong.

I was just telling my boss that I don’t like to write and he said, “Nobody does.” The only thing interesting about this exchange is that he’s the Chief Creative Officer here and I’m one of his senior (make that old) writers.

I mention this because (watch out, whiny confession coming) I haven’t been living up to my end of the blogging contract.

As a pledge of faith, here’s the saying I developed to explain successful writing to my kids: You’ve got to write it wrong before you can write it right.

When people say, “I don’t understand how you can write,” it's usually a case of misunderstanding how writing really works for writers. If you see something that’s well written, it’s never — well, hardly ever — the first draft.

Another of my deeply wise sayings: writing is rewriting. You just put something on the page, dump it all out, then rewrite it. And rewrite it. And rewrite it. Until it’s presentable.

That’s why I don’t like to write. I like to think great thoughts. (The inside of my head is a wonder to behold.) But I don’t like to write them down. Not a good stance for a blogger. I’ll do better.