Movies.  That’s my secret.  When faced with a long plane ride, what I most depend on to pass the time are movies.

Earlier this month I traveled to Tokyo.  One movie I turned to was A Star is Born, the recent remake staring Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper.  I gave it a whirl for a couple of reasons.

First, Shannon was talking about it.  Second, it featured the song writing of Jason Isbell, of whom I’m a fan.  Shannon and I had the opportunity to see him headline one evening of Hinterland in the little town of St Charles, Iowa this summer.  It was the best concert I’d ever seen.

The song he wrote for the movie is called, “Maybe It’s Time.”  He played it that night, and I guess it rooted its way into my brain.  At the time I thought it was a song about personal growth.

Somewhere halfway through the flight to Tokyo, just coming off the tip of Alaska, I got to the crux of the movie.  To say I found the moment depressing would be an understatement.  It hung over me overseas, and I find it something I still brush up against today.

I thought the storyline would parallel Isbell’s own experience, himself a recovering alcoholic.  Instead, Cooper’s character seems to end all hope of a future because he doesn’t believe he can escape his past.  Isbell’s song found a much darker meaning.

Now enter Carson King and the Des Moines Register.

King has raise somewhere around $1.5 million dollars for the University of Iowa Stead Family Children’s Hospital.  It’s a remarkable accomplishment for a college student.  Most of us will never do anything like it.

The Register certainly helped promote the story.  Then their efforts to expose offensive social media posts King made when he was 16 got them in the midst of a public relations nightmare.  Many have removed the Register from their social media feeds.  The reporter of the story has now had his own past Twitter posts come to light.

If you must direct your disgust, try and keep it to the Register.  The paper has a staff who are meant to act as an intermediary between a reporter and their story and the public.  Repeating the missteps of the reporter doesn’t absolve us from making the same mistake.  Maybe it’s time to let the old ways die.

I hope you also direct yourselves to something affirming.  You can donate to Stead Family Children’s Hospital.  You can contribute to King’s fund.  If you do so, I’d mention an often untold part of what your dollars will do.

You are going to help give the kids an opportunity to make their own bad decisions.  To end relationships in crappy ways, to be ignorant or insensitive to the people around them, and to spend years convinced of things that simply aren’t so.  That’s part of what it looks like to grow up.

As they grow up, they will hopefully discover what we might someday discover:  our undignified moments can be part of a dignified life.  They shouldn’t keep us from working good in the world, and they shouldn’t let us get in the way of others doing so.  Someday, if we can find that true for ourselves, maybe we can find it true for others too.

“Where the hell is the ocean at?  The lights seem to be all around us.”

“I know,” came the voice of a young, North Dakota corn farmer near me.  “It’s crazy.”

“The channel makes a dog leg.  See that flashing light right there behind us?” a Nebraska hog farmer asked, as he pointed his finger among an array of lights.  “That’s a navigational beacon.  That’s how you find your way.”

With his help I could see them.  Yet when I looked ahead, into the heart of a city of 40 million, I couldn’t pick out one.  Still, I knew they were there.  I had confidence in the hog farmer.

Were on the rear of the upper deck of a small cruise ship.  We been out in the bay for a few hours, and we were headed back.  As we went out, a seminar was going on.  It featured the American farmers who grew things, and the Japanese importers, retailers, and processors who brought those things over.  The end had been celebrated with heavy hors d’oeuvres featuring products new to the Japanese market.

With the festivities over, I made my way for the rail on the far side of the ship.  We were passing a cargo vessel.  It was carrying goods people would spend their lifetime making, and headed to where they would collide with a lifetime of desire.

Planes had been leaving the airport across from us like clockwork, and one barreled over that vessel as it approached us.  It was surreal.  The lives of people and the movement of things seen from a ship preoccupied with the topic of trade.

The theme of the trip for me, what the retailers and processors were all striving for, was branding.  What is a brand, other that the product of a good product meeting a good story?

“It’s amazing isn’t it?” said a former Iowa farm boy behind me, gazing at the same scene that I was.  “What a view.”

I thought of taking a picture, though I knew the picture would look only like a moment I was trying to hold onto and remind me only of the fleeting passage of time.

I was still thinking of that view the next morning, on the way to our first meeting of the day.  We were driving past the Imperial Palace in the heart of downtown Tokyo.  In a city of such density, the green of the Imperial grounds hits you.

Tokyo’s area is half of greater Chicago, yet its population is quadrupled.  Cut Chicago in half.  Stack eight of those halves on top of each other.

“This is Imperial Palace,” the Japanese voice said in English, with the English ‘r’ giving the speaker trouble.  “The Emperor lives here, Naruhito.  The Emperor has no family name, only one name.  His father was Akihito.  His father was Hirohito.  Naruhito is the 126th generation.”

“Hear that? 126th generation.  You guys thought being a 5th generation farmer was something,” joked the man with whom I had admired the view the night before.

At the height of Tokyo property values in the 1980’s, some estimated the half square mile the palace sits on had a real estate value greater than the entire state of California.  The fact that it remains is a testament to the fact that one thing was of greater value:  its story.

Amid the bright lights and pulse of the news today, in sailing our own ships out and in, we produce what others desire.  The quality might be exceptional.  The products may be uncommon.  In and of themselves, though, they aren’t enough.  To navigate the years it needs to tell a good story.

We have one that’s timeless, better than any picture, and capable of bringing us into any port and into places we’ve never dreamed.  Let’s not forget it, and let’s tell it ourselves.