buck rhyme

  Buck Rhyme BIO With deep roots in small town Wisconsin, I grew up peacefully as the 2nd of ve children in Portage, WI. My parents, proud graduates of the University of Wisconsin, encouraged me to ex my wings by attending college in Madison, WI. There I learned more about life, love, and the importance of protesting injustice than in any of my classes as an elementary education major. It is no exaggeration I was ill prepared when I accepted a job teaching 6th grade at an inner city school in Baltimore, Maryland. My early career as a teacher proved to be unfullling so I returned to get a master's degree in counseling back in Madison. My attraction to working with juvenile delinquents was still strong so I took a job back in the trenches helping teens pay o their restitution obligations. I was soon promoted to the position of Executive Director and I thrived as a nonprot CEO, motivating others to perform small miracles with struggling teens and their parents. Nearing fty, I honored my entrepreneurial calling and became an independent consultant focused on leadership development and organizational eectiveness. I have been fortunate to work all over the United States, for organizations large and small, some thriving and most struggling to make changes. Now on the bright side of seventy, I take great pleasure in coaching 1 on 1 with leaders interested in growing their condence, skills and ability to motivate others to achieve their goals and make a dierence.  

When you come from three generations of golfers, you take up golf at a young age. It’s

an outdoor sport in a scenic environment, and time with your father is a precious

commodity when you are growing up in a large family. It also mattered that my family

was a longtime founding member of the Portage Country Club. I sometimes thought

most, if not all, families played golf and went swimming to cool off afterward. It was an

added benefit that the putting green was near the club restaurant, so rambunctious boys

had a play space while waiting for their parents to finish their coffee and socializing.

This love affair lasted only until I was about 14, when an incurable slice and the lure of a

paycheck picking pickles set me on a new course.

During high school, girls, wrestling, and working a summer job in the enticing Wisconsin

Dells filled my hours outside of school, so there was no time for golf. My teenage

résumé was filled with varsity letters in sports other than golf, keeping the game a low

priority. It was simply something my mother, father, and brothers did—certainly not a

lifetime pursuit.

Fast forward 20 years, and I returned to Wisconsin with a bride and an infant son. I

wanted my family to experience the wonders of Swan Lake, the same lake where the

Portage Country Club conveniently resided. We began with visits to my grandfather’s

house and regular trips to Friday Fish Fry at the nearby country club restaurant.

At my father’s suggestion, I began to accompany my grandfather when he went out to

play golf. As his forecaddie, my job was to find his ball once he had taken a swing. At

86, with failing eyesight, he could no longer follow the flight of his ball beyond 25 yards.

Before I knew it, I was throwing balls down and swinging along with him.

My father was only too happy to help me find some clubs and offered a few lessons to

get me motivated again. My slice was still there, though not as frequent, and other parts

of my game, like putting, showed promise. As a father of young children, I started

getting up before my kids were awake to play a quick round of golf. As a dew sweeper, I

discovered the joy of playing with a small cadre of fathers in similar circumstances.

Frequent gifts of donuts kept me in the good graces of my young family. And so, with

little fanfare, my golf career began again in earnest.

The desire to play grew stronger, and I played more often. Not wanting to become a golf

widow, my wife decided to take up the game. My father made her a set of clubs, and we

established a regular routine of playing together. We also started playing as a foursome

with my parents. At the end of his career, my father was still a good golfer, and I worked

hard to play at his level. Despite practicing, I never quite achieved that goal.

Over the past 40 years, I have attended golf school four times, taken lessons from four

different instructors, and sought advice many times from my brother, who remains a

mid-handicap golfer and a fine teacher. I have played courses in California, Florida, and

all over Wisconsin. My goal of improving my score beyond bogey golf, with more than

occasional highlight-reel shots, remains unrealized. And so I ask myself: Why do I still

play this game?

The answer is simple. Every time I play golf, no matter the course, I think of my dad and

remember the many things he taught me, off the course and on. On a good day, he

walks alongside me. And so I continue to take that walk every chance I get.

What’s in your Wallet

   Maybe is my currency before breakfast

   Does mrs. robin delighting in her bath, take me for a voyeur?

   Will the reclusive oriole couple feast on jam or oranges?

   When admiral heron glides by, will he stop for tea ?

Possibility is my currency before lunch

   Rain might come, quenching my tomatoes thirst

   My golf swing may magically appear sparking a resurgence of

confidence

   When the dinner guests arrive, wine, wit, and no talk of

procedures will be the menu

Reflection is my currency as the sun begins to set

   Checking my wallet, emptiness greets my eyes

   Did I spend wisely? Am I still ok?

   What will fill my wallet tomorrow?

Love is my currency before I sleep

   My breathing slows, remembering the joys of the day

   The warmth of today’s memories leads to a smile

   Fueled by the smell of the good woman next to me

   My wallet begins to fill 

Buck Rhyme

June 2025 

Parts I  and II of Buck's Life Story follow.

Life on the Edge III

Redefining Success

Making it to seventy means you have experienced periods of frustration, bouts of indecision, and a level of material success. It’s guaranteed that unexpected events offered new opportunities, potential failure, and avenues for growth. Add a dose random luck and you have the ingredients for a life on the edge.

After 17 years as a non-profit CEO, I was an accomplished leader who ran a large agency that touched the lives of 1000 kids annually. My voice was respected on matters of public policy and our agency culture was a model for others to emulate. But that was not the whole story. When the lights were out and the covers offered warmth, a quiet voice whispered, “ It’s time to move on. Say good-bye to this job.” I was restless. My current job offered few opportunities for an emerging entrepreneurial spirit, and I felt stuck. Inertia, a powerful force, tied me down, providing regular reminders about how comfortable my life was.

When I got caught in a power struggle with our major funder, anger was my growing response. Unable to convince the board of directors to back my principled stand, that quiet voice took over and I submitted my resignation. Butterflies in my stomach caused me to forget the careful words I had planned to say when I shared my decision with my executive team. It was an emotional meeting and hard to say goodbye to people who were responsible for achieving much of our agency’s success.

Jumping without a net, I became unemployed, without local job prospects and a hefty reluctance to leave the comforts of a life in Madison, WI. I soon learned my success as a CEO did not transfer beyond the confines of Dane County. While I had a few interviews, no one showed much interest in a human services leader with a major in juvenile justice.

After a short hiatus, I accepted a gig as an interim CEO for a small statewide non-profit. Initially, I thought the universe was smiling down on me. That turned out to be a hasty assessment. I soon learned that the board had selected me over a popular staff person. That meant the office climate was chilly at best and the staff person who was passed over could barely look me in the eye or be polite. I was an unqualified interloper and challenged at every turn. Against my advice, the board looked first at only internal candidates for the executive director position. The women who had been passed over was adept at lobbying key board members, aced her interview and was offered the position. I left soon after, happy to leave a dysfunctional situation.

That left me with an emerging cash flow crisis, a nervous wife and nothing on the horizon. A consultant who I had worked closely with in the past offered me an opportunity to join his solo firm. There was no salary, no benefits, only the prospect of success if I was willing to hustle. And that’s what I did. Ten years passed quickly as I honed my marketing skills, dusted off my teacher training, and I learned to conqueror my anxiety about entering the consulting world. I worked with architects, engineers, sales reps, lawyers, health care professionals and a diverse array of public employees. I learned how to create invoices, build a website, network, and prepare winning proposals. Along

the way I snagged a opportunity to provide executive coaching to leaders attending seminars at the UW School of Business Executive Education Program.

It was that experience that helped me to realize my true calling involved engaging one on one with leaders who wanted to hone their skills and make a difference in their chosen field. That led to creating a leadership academy model which offered a sustained opportunity to engage in leadership training with a group of leaders in a specific field.

The leadership academy model afforded me the opportunity to work with my son, an actor, as part of the Communications Course. Working alongside him, I watched, captivated, as he shared stories and tips on how to be fully present and authentic when working with a group. It was one of the great joys of my life. I also looked forward to graduation at the end of an academy. Listening to people talk about what they had learned and how they planned to practice their new leadership skills was deeply satisfying.

Now, in the waning days of my consulting career, I provide coaching and support to an array of friends and relatives. I say no, more often than yes, to paying opportunities that come my way. Life on edge means it doesn’t matter whether work for pay or no pay, as long as the engagement offers an opportunity to help people hone their leadership skills. 

Life on the Edge Part I

The Beginning 

In April of 1973, I was weeks away from college graduation with no particular plan. Spring time in Wisconsin offers warm afternoons, visitors and new beginnings. SucH was the case when Anne showed up with a bare midriff, hair down to the middle of he back and Rupert the Dog to make a neighborly visit. The attraction was immediate, mutual and completely unexpected.   The following six weeks were the best of my young life, with kisses, bike rides, tree climbing, and a date to the rodeo. A pact was hatched to join her in Ecuador in August. My challenge was to make money, get a passport, and fly to meet her in Washington, D.C..  

Ecuador was my first encounter with life on the edge. Meeting up after bein separated for 14 weeks was electric and confusing. Were we lovers, friends, or fellow travelers in a country where we did not know the language or the customs? On my first visit outside the US, I learned how to barter, why it's important to drink bottle water, and there's magic in the stars when the lights go out in a beach town. In a small, remote village on the Atlantic coast, Anne and I talked and circled each other like wary predators before settling back into a passionate romance.    

When we returned to the states in September, we made a short stopover to meet her parents. I passed a suitability test with her mother, and flunked my paternal intervie A long haired, unemployed teacher was simply not good enough for his wonderful daughter. Fortunately, Anne felt otherwise and together we put a new plan in motion. I would go back to WI, put together a grubstake, and return to be with her in Baltimore as soon as possible.   

Living rent free, I painted 2 houses and spent $150 hard earned dollars on my first car a 1948 Ford F150 pick-up.   The brakes were suspect, there was no radio, but I declared it road worthy after constructing wooden side rails to increase the cargo space.   My new vehicle needed to hold Anne's Madison possessions and a few possessions that I considered necessary to start a new life on the East Coast. 

Early one afternoon in mid-October, I set out for the East Coast after loading the truck and securing Anne's, favorite St Vinnie's wing chair, to the top of the truck cab. I made it about 40 miles before I had to stop and completely retie the plastic I had fashioned to cover the truckload of possessions. Life on the edge may not be apparent when you are in love. Acknowledging that you have no idea how to pack a vehicle exposed to the elements or that a 1000-mile road trip might not be wise in an aging, gas guzzling truck are not a source of concern. You are only considering the upside.   In a short twenty-four hours, you will be lying next to the woman of your dreams. 

The sharp edge of reality reappeared before long.  In the darkness of the Indiana Tollway, I was stopped by a state trooper because he noticed my truckload of valuables swaying as I moved down the road at 55 miles per hour. He basically thought the truck was unsafe.   When I told him my story, he backed off a bit and urged me to pull into the next rest stop and take a nap.   Which I promptly did. The next day, I was just into the Pennsylvania hills when I noticed it was time to stop for gas. On a whim, I checked the oil and the dipstick was dry as a bone.   10 gallons of gas and a case of 10W30 oil later, I hit the road again. I did not realize how close I had come to destroying the engine or that a diet of lemonade and Keebler sandwich cookies were inadequate energy sources for a road trip. New to life on the edge, I did not sweat the small stuff. By late afternoon the next day, I reached Laurel, Maryland where I found Anne smiling and eager to see me.  Holding her again after our separation was a marvelous feeling.  The magic of her touch masked the reality I was lucky to arrive in one piece with all our possessions intact. 

Basking in the glow of our reunion, I gave little thought to what adventures lay ahead. If someone had told me that I was about to embark on a 50 year adventure with a wonderful, dynamic woman, raise 2 children, live in a house on the lake, have 4 grandchildren, 6 jobs, and a regular winter's rest in Palm Springs, CA, I would have been astonished. Both my father and grandfather led full lives in the small town where they were born and never left. Clearly, I was destined for a different life. Life on th edge is guaranteed to provide unknowable twists and turns. 

LIFE ON THE  EDGE  Part II

 I greet the dawn in the Palm Springs desert with a sense of wonder.   As the sun rises, it casts the mountains in a golden glow while the full moon sinks slowly in the west. My coee, hot and creamy , warms my hands as I oer a few thoughts of gratitude to start the day. I am 74, it's Thursday, and I am ok. Shortly, two small energy bundles, masquerading as angels, Evangeline, age 7, and her sister, Lola, age 6, will rise to oer hugs, smiles, and all matter of giggles. What could be better?

As residents of Los Angeles, they are here with their parents to escape the smoke and ash generated by the great conagration that is currently ravaging many parts of the city. Their neighborhood, downwind from the Eden fire, is not in danger but scarred none the less. Ashes are everywhere, it is hard to breathe when you are outside, and schools are closed.   It is not a pleasant place to be. 

Conflicting emotions spark and rumble as I struggle to make sense of my current reality.   Time with grandchildren and your adult children is to be celebrated, despite not enough space, conflicting schedules, and mandatory pool time morning and afternoon. However, they would not be here if there were not wild fires devouring many parts of Los Angeles. Even without the benefit of television news, my sense of sorrow and disbelief about this tragedy is deep and persistent. How did the fire start? What will happen to the people who lost their homes? What about people in the service industry (including my son) who are likely to be out of work Will my daughter-in-law,  new to her real estate career, merely survive or thrive in the devastated real estate market of Los Angeles? Why are we arguing about fault and not paying more attention to the climate change warnings? 

I am slow to grasp the idea that both these feelings are connected. The world is a complex place, with happiness and sorrow present in equal measure. It is not for me to judge or get too attached to either circumstance.   Life on the edge allows me to experience both of these conflicting emotions without being consumed by either. I live a charmed life with good health, a beautiful partner of 50 years, a stone house with a view of the lake, and many other privileges accorded to my income status. At the same time, my California children's future is far less secure with drought, wildfires, and earthquakes on the horizon. When asked about the prospect of moving away to a more secure, greener location in Wisconsin, they respond with the conviction the charms of California outweigh the disadvantages.   Go figure.   Today, I feel lucky and blessed with family, friends and a view of the mountains.   Tomorrow, it is likely I will wake worried about the state of our democracy, the grim future facing California, or our collective failure to live peaceably side by side with our neighbors. Life on the edge always offers a choice.