The author, Dr. Becker, poses with his family. In the middle is his late mom, Virginia, who taught him to always “choose nice.” Photo courtesy Dr. Marty Becker Probably 99 percent of the people who read this article will agree with the adage that your parents’ and grandparents’ advice became much clearer, more valuable, and life-altering about the time you were in undergrad or vet school. I have traveled the globe, and in many parts of the world, the sage advice of parents, extended family, and even tribal elders is sought out, revered, and followed. Not so much for North America, where far too often we discount the elderly; markets still focus on the 18-34 demographic. We value independence over interdependence and can be dumb enough to follow an influencer over an expert. When my mother died at 90 years old and my mother-in-law at 96, they thought they had blessed us by keeping and gifting us their collections of Hummels, Lladro, and Roseville pottery, fine china and crystal, Reader’s Digest Condensed Books, old photos with no captions, oak furniture, wall clocks, not to mention balls of string and tons of aluminum foil. We did not want hardly any of it aside from some very sentimental or historical items that were precious beyond measure and worthy of keeping, looking at or using, and passing down for generations. While their homes were not worthy of the TV show Hoarders, there were truckloads of clothes, records, dishes, photo albums (3/4 of which we did not know who the people were or the context), and bric-a-brac. We could not use 78 records or eight-track tapes, display black velvet Looney Toons pictures with burnt wood frames, or wear an armadillo purse out in public, not to mention my mom’s human hair wigs. We started out with five piles as we went through their homes and prepared them for sale: definitely keep, maybe keep, sell, donate, toss. Before noon struck on the first day of sorting, I can tell you the five piles became three (keep, donate, toss), with donate or toss dominating. As with my old steelhead fishing days, where it was an average of three to five days of fishing per fish hooked or the times I have tried panning for gold in the streams of Northern Idaho, where a full day of slogging around a stream can produce a little color and one tiny nugget, I would put aside some things I had found during that week’s worth of 10-hour days digging through the detritus of my mom’s nine-decade life that later ended up being precious beyond measure and helped me do a hard reset on my life. Just this year, in doing a deep clean on our own house, I found boxes from my mom’s estate (more than 10 years after her death and the initial purge) that we had shipped up to our Almost Heaven Ranch. I’m not talking about finding a flawless canary diamond, stock certificates, or bearer bonds worth millions; I’m talking about three specific things: 1) Mom’s life story. A typed biography of my mom’s life. My mom graduated from college at age 16—a true genius—and wanted to be a doctor but ended up a farmer’s wife. I do not think she ever expected this manuscript to be published, and I wonder if she even wanted us to read it because it was real, raw, and seismic. 2) Dad’s life story. Inside of a dresser was a life journal my dad had completed. The book was filled with stimulating questions and prompts, such as his childhood best friend, favorite teacher and class, favorite sport and did one game stand out, favorite recipes his grandma made, a time he feared for his life, what he thought he wanted to be growing up, the first time he was in love, the first time his heart was broken, did he believe in God and why, why did he not go into the service in WWII, did he love my mom, a motto to live by, etc. A baby boomer born in 1954, my parents did talk about their past, so I knew not very little about their early lives. 3) Message in a wallet. My mom’s wallet (yellow with a coin purse on the outside) contained photos (of the four kids’ baby, graduation, and wedding, and grandkids’ elementary school pictures), an old Social Security card, some expired credit cards, a lucky $2 bill, a few small bills, some change, and a piece of paper that looked like it had been folded and unfolded hundreds of times. In pencil on a piece of what looked like old schoolbook paper were two powerful words: “Choose Nice.” Growing up on a small family farm in rural Southern Idaho, I remember many times when mom simply said, “Choose nice.” When Dad, who was an alcoholic and manic depressive, would be screaming at us. When I would d be in a word battle with my older brother, Bob, or get in a physical spat with a friend. When we were upset with a teacher, coach, or opposing team in sports. When someone in school would call me names (“Marty Farty” was the go-to), spread a rumor, or tease me (I was in a car wreck in high school and had bad facial scarring). When I would be upset about low commodity prices (I rented my own farm and had a few dairy cows) or upset my springer heifer had a bull, not a future milk cow. Mom would usually put a hand on my shoulder, look me in the eye, and say, “Choose nice.” In my childhood, early adulthood, college, marriage, practice, and career as a veterinary medicine correspondent/writer/lecturer, school board member, and volunteer, I followed my mom’s mantra and mostly chose nice. My mom, Virginia, died in 2013, and especially the past few years, I have found myself slipping, seemingly forgetting my mom’s words. Not so much the words themselves but the action behind them. Honestly, politics and religion have been trying for me, and I found myself choosing spite far too often. I don’t know if it’s getting older, depression, some chronic pain, or a sign of the times, but I have less and less patience. As Carrie Fisher wrote in the movie Postcards from the Edge, “Even instant gratification takes too long.” Putting something in the microwave for a minute seems like an hour. Finding that piece of paper had a well-needed awakening in me. I stopped seeing another political party to fight against. I stopped seeing my neighbor as a religious extremist and someone I had described as so narrow-minded they could look through a keyhole with both eyes open. I stopped finding fault with corporate vet med. I became more patient in heavy traffic, even when someone flipped me off. The long TSA lines did not exasperate me. In practice, clients who wrote nasty online comments about me no longer made me want to curse them. Privacy of mind is a crazy thing when you think about it. Truth serum did not work. With torture, men and women can be broken to reveal basics but not the deep truths. Nobody, not parents, spouses, closest friends, colleagues, or personal physicians, knows what you think: your self-talk cycle. America has become increasingly tribal. Us against them. Compromise in politics seems forgotten. Religion becomes siloed. Racism is rising, human rights are slipping, and equal opportunity is at risk. Some people portray DEI as a business liability. Worst of all for me—a husband, father to a daughter, and granddad to a granddaughter, I am seeing women’s rights slipping. I tried convincing dear friends who were at risk to get vaccinated during COVID-19; I was 0 for 10. During the 2016 campaign, I wrote letters to the editor of our local paper against the apparent blending of church and state (local churches allow political candidates of one party to campaign from the pulpit). I physically stood up to folks bullying migrant workers in our town (they come to work in the hop fields). From 2016 to 2023, I was literally trying to attack my perceived enemies by poisoning myself with hate. Call it providence. Call it serendipity. Reading my mom’s words on the slip of paper she carried with her, “Chose nice.” gobsmacked me and brought me back to the kinder version of myself I authentically presented to the world for over 50 years. The result was like coming out of the darkness to the sunny side of the mountain, eager for each day’s sunrise. I looked again for ways to show patience, understanding, generosity, and a servant’s heart. Call it preventive care for health and happiness and a treatment plan for the world’s ails. Marty Becker, DVM, writes regularly for Veterinary Practice News. Dr. Becker is a Sandpoint, Idaho practitioner, and founder of the Fear Free initiative. For more information about the organization or to register for certification, visit http://fearfree.com/. Columnists’ opinions do not necessarily reflect those of Veterinary Practice News.
