About a year ago I tackled the task of integrating version control into my coding practices. I had spent a frustrating amount of time either recreating my code base as I started on new projects or backtracking and rewriting code when I would get a flash of inspiration to try something new. Also, I have both an iMac and a MacBook Pro and I use them interchangeably and wanted to be able to have the most up-to-date code on both of machine. Plus, it seemed all the pros were doing it—and since I consider myself one—I should join the gang.

Why Subversion?

Usually I do quite a bit of research, compare features and discover the value of one product over another. In choosing SVN, however, all I knew was that the WordPress Core Team used it. That, in and of itself, was a strong enough testimonial for me to dive right in.

Getting Started

When I know nothing about a topic, I buy a book, which is the first thing I did. I picked up Apress’s Practical Subversion, second edition, plopped down and started reading. I read chapters one, two and six completely as they provided an overview of version control in general, a “crash course” in Subversion and best practices in using Subversion. (By the way, Subversion is also known as SVN.)

Although clearly and plainly written, I was still confused as to the best way to get started and the best way to integrate SVN into my current workflow. I asked folks how they used it. I tweeted about my confusion consistently. I read blog entries and articles ad nauseum. I definitely hadn’t had my “ah ha!” moment yet.

Integrating SVN into My Workflow

As it turns out and after some starts, stops and stumbles, I realized that my current workflow wasn’t so much a “workflow” as much as it was a “jumble-of-tasks-that-stumbled-over-themselves” to get a project done. So I began to map out two workflows: one for managing Brettro web properties and one for creating and managing client web properties. This was really helpful as it:

• Clarified the basic SVN concepts of trunks, tags and branches, and
• Formalized how I create, produce and maintain website code.

Creating a Foundation: My HTML ‘Codebase’

With a better understanding of the basic SVN terminology and process, I decided to start with a fresh series of HTML, CSS and JavaScript files that would serve as the basis of all my website code from hereon out; and I’d call it my “codebase.” This seemed to be a great time to:

• Make the switch from HTML 4/XHTML 1.1 to HTML5,
• Adopt HTML5Boilerplate, a well-maintained framework established to ensure HTML5 code worked fairly well on legacy browsers (like any version of Internet Explorer before IE9),
• Adopt 960.gs, another well-maintained framework established to ensure CSS consistency across browsers, and
• Create the Brettro website design style manual.

Repositories, Trunks, Branches, Tags and Working Copies

Let’s get some basic terminology out of the way:

• Repository: the “repository” (or “repo”) is the container where your SVN-managed code is kept;
• Trunk: the “trunk” is the main codebase of a project where most of your development will occur;
• Branch: a “branch” is an offshoot of the trunk (do you see the tree metaphor?) whereby you might want to try out an idea or a feature that may not actually make it into production;
• Tag: a “tag” is a copy of either the trunk or a branch frozen at a specific point in time, such as a release (the tree metaphor comes to a screeching halt here); a tag is never modified once it’s created;
• Working Copy: the “working copy” is either the trunk or a branch copied to your computer from the repo to allow you to make changes.

After all this reading, contemplating, starting, stopping, deleting and creating, I settled on a basic structure that works for me. I’d like to think it’s a pretty common structure because it is based on my understanding of how WordPress organizes their SVN repository (and I like to use best practices because there’s no need to reinvent the wheel):

Trunk

This is where I do my “next major version” development. For example, right after I finished my HTML5 codebase, HTML5Boilerplate released version 2 of their product. Rather than integrate those changes into version 1 of my codebase, I’ll integrate them into version 2 and do that development here.

Branches

When I imported my initial HTML5 codebase into my first SVN repo, I immediately created a branch and named it “1.0.” The “1.0″ branch is my working copy of my HTML5 codebase code where I squash bugs and make minor fixes, then release them as dot releases. These releases are merged back down to the trunk so that they are included in the next major version codebase release.

Tags

After creating my “1.0″ branch, I also created a “1.0″ tag. This gives me a complete capture of version 1 of my HTML5 codebase so that I have a stable, working copy to use to create new projects.

Committing to SVN (See what I did there?)

By finally having an understanding of basic SVN techniques, by documenting my SVN structure and practices and by creating my first version controlled codebase, I was ready to take a deeper dive. Next I created branches of my codebase for both my WordPress codebase and my ExpressionEngine codebase. Stay tuned to the next three parts to learn what software I use and what workflow I use to manage sites built with either of these content management systems.

I knew Steve because he put so much of himself in the very machines I used to capture my deepest, scariest, saddest, most ambitious, craziest, looniest, cleverest, funniest, ham-handed-est, ridiculest (yes, I know it’s not a word), dreamiest thoughts, fears, ambitions, goals, concepts, drawings, visions and ideas.

I have owned or had assigned to me somewhere near 20 Macs since the first one arrived at my house on a Friday night in 1985. With those Macs as markers and if referenced by name, I can tell you where I was living, what music I liked, the software I used and owned, the friends and crushes I had, who I was talking to online (or if the Internet even existed) and the things that were going on in my life. That I can do this with a product easily dismissed as “consumer technology” is amazing. I mean, who can do this with a VCR?

That Steve taught me to respect polish and perfection, to look outside of “what everybody else is doing,” to amplify that little voice in my head and to respect how humans interact with technology all through the design and presentation of his products is nothing short of astonishing.

I do not idolize people. I think doing so is unfair to them. But I very much model my business and my professional behavior after Steve. He saw both the value of and opportunity in the personal computer and he knew that if he made the most perfect product possible, then he would truly achieve something.

While I know I am no Steve Jobs, I suspect that he would say, “good, you shouldn’t be. You should be Brett Bearce. And you should work to make insanely great things.”

But nine months?!??

Yep. While it did not take an actual nine months to develop the design, write the code and move the content into WordPress, the Brettro website always took a back seat to both my client work and my full-time job.

The good news is, that in that time period, I really focused on developing better coding practices and on developing a solid codebase from which I can tweak and grow. I have integrated the 960 grid system and the HTML5 Boilerplate frameworks into a very solid HTML5 codebase. For customers, this means fast-loading, search-engine-optimized code. For me, it means quicker development times.

What’s Next?

While I have a solid code foundation and a great look-and-feel, this site is not yet complete. I still have a ton of content left to add. Brettro is not just a web design company, it also does identity, print and video work, plenty of which I have left to add to the Portfolio section. Stay tuned every week for updates.

Looking Back

Truly one of the most fun things about moving forward in any design is taking a look back at what was. So, of course, we’ll do that here. The images below are of the three previous Brettrospective website design. Laugh, smile and enjoy!

The third iteration of brettro.com

The homepage for the second iteration of brettro.com

The homepage for the original brettro.com

Like most people on Capitol Hill, I had a TV at my desk, but I must have just been settling in as I hadn’t turned it on yet when my phone rang.

Me: “This is Brett…”

My Friend Bob: “Did you know a plane just hit the World Trade Center?”

Me [incredulously]: “WHAT?!?? Did it bounce off??” (I could not conceive that the airplane was a large, passenger jet. It had to be an accident by an inexperienced small plane pilot.)

Bob: “Uh…NO. People are dead. Lots of people. You need to turn on your TV…”

Me: “Ohmygod! Oh no! Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

The World Trade Center

We hung up, I turned on the TV to see the north tower of the World Trade Center on fire. I watched—riveted. I had just visited the World Trade Center for the first time a few months earlier.

About 10 minutes later I watched the second plane hit the other tower on live television. “Disbelief” does not quite do justice to the utter confusion, quiet panic and lack of comprehension I experienced. I walked down to my staff’s cubicles and asked them to come quickly to my office. My first thought was that I wanted to know where they were. My second thought was that I did not want them to be alone when they saw what was going on. And my third thought was that I could not figure out how exactly to verbalize what I just saw.

We sat, huddled around my little 13″ TV for several minutes, each of us asking unanswerable questions or making exclamations, then quietly each of my staff members shuffled back to their desks.

My friend Meredith called—scared and unsure—and we agreed that today would not be a good day for a Capitol tour.

Flashback to July 2001: A Foreboding Feeling

At the time, my friends and I stepped out of the cab, I looked up overwhelmed by the sheer vertical size of the north tower and an odd, overwhelming sense of dread and fear overcame me. It was so odd. I didn’t understand at the time why I was so scared in that place, but I emphatically determined for us that we were not going to go up to the observation deck. I remember saying, “c’mon guys, this place will always be here. We can go up next time.”

The Pentagon

As I watch the World Trade Center burn, MSNBC breaks in with the announcement that something has exploded at the Pentagon. A good friend of mine worked in the Pentagon and, oddly enough, a week or so prior I’d asked where in the Pentagon he worked. He told me that he worked in the Command Center which was somewhere along the side that faced Arlington Cemetary.

Not knowing where “the explosion at the Pentagon had occurred, I actually lunged for my phone. In fact, I think I knocked something off my desk en route to it. After mis-dialing my friend’s number three times, my hand finally stopped shaking enough to get it right. I got his voice mail. I shakily, but emphatically, told him that I needed to know that he was okay and that he needed to call me as soon as he possibly could to let me know.

Meredith calls again to ask about our friend. I told her I didn’t know anything. We promised to keep in touch.

Evacuating

The quiet murmurs of “do we stay or do we leave” had begun to burble through the cubicles and offices. Nobody knew what to do. My boss had decided to work from home that day, my boss’s boss was in a meeting in the Capitol. The decision was made for us: evacuate.

Now!

Get out. Run for your lives. There is a plane headed for the Capitol!

I bolted for the elevators, but as I got there, I thought, “do I take them? We don’t take them in an emergency.” In the background two Capitol Policemen were emphatically pushing us to leave and one was completely hysterical: bawling and completely lost her composure. I took the stairs.

I walked across the front of Union Station to another federal building where I parked. I had decided that I needed my car out of that building. My insurance did not cover acts of terrorism and if they blew up that building, I could not afford to replace my car.

The ten minutes it took me to cross from one side of Union Station to the other on foot took over 45 minutes to do the same in my car. There was panic everywhere. People were running red lights, driving on sidewalks, anything to get ahead of the crushing traffic to get out of the city. There was no order, only chaos. And I feared that people would start to get violent in their panic.

I parked my car on 2nd St at Massachusetts Ave. NW. It had taken about an hour to go about a quarter of a mile. I fed the parking meter. I thought, “the world is ending and some ambitious meter maid will be out ticketing.”

I set out to my friend’s Ron’s and Jackson’s house in Kalorama thinking I’d rather be with people than try to get to Arlington. I debated taking the subway versus walking. Walking won. Not knowing what was going to happen next, I decided I would rather be above ground than stuck underground in a tube.

Water and Margaritas

My walk—only about 3 miles—took me through central DC. People were everywhere: walking, dazed, panicked, but most of all, they were polite. Strangers were speaking to each other.

Halfway to my destination, I stopped at a bar to get some water. I tried leaving with it and the bartender, in all seriousness, tells me that I cannot leave the bar with my water. It’s the law. I am sure the look on my face betrayed how absolutely crazy I thought he was. My God, the world as we knew it was ending and he was worried about a customer walking out of a bar with a bottle of water at 11 a.m.?!??

This gave me a good opportunity, though, to catch up on what had happened since I fled Capitol Hill. In those days, the Internet on mobile phones was not commonplace. And the mobile network had collapsed under the weight of the volume of people trying to use it.

Every 15 minutes or so I would get voice mail alerts telling me I had new messages. I couldn’t check them, but once I finally did, I had messages from friends I hadn’t heard from in years and from concerned loved ones.

I finally arrived at Ron’s and Jackson’s door and was greeted with a smile and a margarita. The three of us spent the afternoon glued to the television and drinking margaritas. Ron and Jackson will never know how grateful I am to have had their friendship on that day. There just aren’t words strong enough and meaningful enough to thank them.

‘We’re Open Tomorrow’

I had spoken with my mother at least twice to let her know I was okay. I know she was very, very concerned. And I was relieved and comforted to hear her voice each time we spoke.

I clearly remember three other phone calls from that afternoon:

• My friend who worked in the Pentagon left me a rushed message telling me he was okay. This is only the second time in my life I felt my knees buckle from under me. This time it was the relief that he was okay overtaking the dread that he wasn’t.
• My boss calling to let me know that we would be open for business the next day. We were allowed to take the day off, but I clearly remember him telling me that, “our nation’s leaders want the world to know that the U.S. government is functioning, open for business and not going to let the terrorists win.” It sounds almost cavalier now, but on that day, it was an important message.
• My friend who worked in the Pentagon called again to let me know he was okay. I have always found the second call odd, but I can only assume he was overwhelmed and making sure he returned all his phone messages. Hauntingly enough, I found out later, he had been working in an office where the plane hit the Pentagon, but had recently switched jobs. He was actually walking towards that office when the plane hit. He lost many colleagues and friends that day.

Home

Jackson drove me to my car about 6 or 7 p.m. through a deserted Washington. I drove across the Potomac on I-395 south towards my apartment. The interstate looked abandoned. I was the only car.

I had heard that The Washington Post had published an extra and I wanted a copy, so I pulled into the nearest grocery store. It was closed as was every other store in the shopping center. In fact, everywhere I looked, I saw a modern ghost town: no cars, no people, no lights, no commerce. Just the shell of an economy, a population and a world changed forever.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I realized for the first time how hazy Arlington was. Then I realized it wasn’t haze. It was smoke from the Pentagon. That was a horrible realization. It made the terror, death and destruction so real to me. I hoped to drive out of it before I got home.

Unfortunately, I walked in to a smoke-filled apartment. I was mentally exhausted. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to sleep, but I was still keyed up (from adrenaline, I guess). I parked myself in front of the TV for a few minutes. Then decided I needed to physically exhaust myself. I walked over to the apartment complex’s gym, hopped on an elliptical machine and rode it until I couldn’t ride it anymore.

Epilogue

There are countless others whose story is much more tragic, heart-wrenching and horrifying than mine. But this is my story. I have been a writer all my life, it seems, and because of that it is important to me to document this.

It has taken me ten years to finally sit down and put these thoughts together. It took me nine years before I could watch United 93 and eight years before I could watch World Trade Center.

I drove by the Pentagon every day as it was being rebuilt. I visited Ground Zero in April 2002. But I still have yet to go to Shanksville. I’m not sure why.

I am lucky, I didn’t lose anyone in any of that horror.

But like everyone, I lost something that day. My emotions run raw every time I think about September 11 for so many reasons: for the loss of countless innocent lives, for the gut-wrenching agony so many people felt knowing they’d lost a loved one, for the impossible decisions people had to make about jumping or not jumping, for the first responders who ran in, not out, for the passengers on Flight 93 who chose to fight back, for the sheer terror I felt for that entire day and for months and years to come.

Writing my story helps me both to remember all that and to heal.

Shot 1: June 5, 2011

Shot 2: June 11, 2011

Platforms and Coding

My skill is in coding, my passion is in creating meaningful, usable user experiences and content, my “superhero strength” is managing projects and my “weakest link” is my design chops. Recognizing this, I decided it was time to step up my game and create a plan combining my skill, passion, “superhero strength” and “weakest link” into a functioning business strategy and workflow.

Step one:

• professionalize my internal processes,
• document coding standards for Brettro,
• develop a sustainable platform for client documentation, and
• really sink my teeth into merging my “mad coding skills” with the best practices for developing websites using both WordPress and ExpressionEngine.

In that time, and largely through Twitter, I have found an incredible and helpful community surrounding both EE and WP. I started more professional code management using Subversion (and an amazing Mac client called Versions). I have launched my HTML5 codebase. I have created nearly 13 WordPress plugins (and, in many cases, had to completely scrap and re-create them as I learned more and more about WP coding best practices).

In short, I’m well on my way to achieving my goals of becoming more familiar with and better at coding for two brilliantly executed, powerhouse web publishing platforms.

But there’s more to do…

Design, Design, Design

If anything has suffered through all this, it is the design of the Brettro web properties. They are certainly not horrible—and definitely don’t rank amongst the legacy 1996-era sites with all the visual appeal of an avocado green refrigerator—but they are my weakest link.

With comfortable knowledge of HTML5, Subversion and WordPress under my belt, it is time to focus on Step Two: creating a visually rich, responsive, usable, compelling interface for our websites. (The Brettro web properties use WordPress, but that’s a different discussion for a different time. Coming soon, though.)

I’m excited by this next step. Design has always been the biggest struggle for me. I understand the basic concepts, but the crippling self-doubt (which apparently plagues most of the design types I follow on Twitter) about the elegance and visual appeal of the concepts I develop keep me from executing my best work. It’s in there. I know it is. I just need to take a deep breath, walk away from time-to-time, and push through the doubt.

Soon enough you’ll see those efforts come to light. And your feedback will be important.

But there’s still more to do…

Content, Education, Engagement

This is the point where I become so overwhelmed by the sheer volume of things I need to do, learn and participate in. But then I recognize how excited I am by all of it! And really, this batch of “more to do”—also known as Step 3–is really best done by intertwining it throughout the other efforts on a day to day basis:

• Education in this arena never stops. And that’s one thing I absolutely love about it.
• Strategically writing content for the web is such a compelling activity, especially with advocates (and professional heroes of mine) like Kristina Halvorson and Erin Kissane making such strong showings for its benefits
• And Washington, DC has some absolutely brilliant programmers and designers with which to engage. I look forward to becoming an active and beneficial part of the community.

So, guess what? It’s time to get busy. Come back to read about and see the progress as it unfolds. It’s going to be exciting!

But in my life plan, I expected to end my career there, not start it.

Let’s just say that a funny thing happened on the way to adulthood…

The Backstory

It amazes me how I can look back on the friendships I’ve made and see how those friends have directly affected the course of my life. The road to Capitol Hill started in the summer of 1988 when I attended my first Hugh O’Brian Leadership Seminar. I met the most amazing woman named Jennifer C. (no last names folks, sorry). There just isn’t enough space on the Internet to adequately describe the intelligence, passion, charisma and charm of this woman. Suffice it to say, she’s something.

A few years and lots frank discussions about finances later, I was off to New Mexico State University. (Aggies, oh Aggies, the hills throw back the cry…) My big sister convinced me to sign up for fraternity rush (in fact, she may have sent in my registration for me). Upon hearing this, Jennifer C. took me under her wing and guided me through it. I pretty much had mapped out what fraternity I was going to join, but through Jennifer’s completely non-biased, even-keeled, no-pressure guidance, I ended up pledging another fraternity: Alpha Tau Omega.

It was there that I met Louis V. (among a truckload of other very cool men, most of whom I am still friends with today). Louis is a character. He is the perfect combination of wit, intelligence, charm and devilish mayhem. There are many stories here. Many, many, many stories. Mostly (if not completely) focused on devilish mayhem. But that’s for another time. Right now we just need to know that Louis graduated, moved to Washington, DC and began working for a congressman from New Mexico.

And in the spring of 1995, I would discover just how the path of HOBY-Jennifer C.-NMSU-Jennifer C.-ATO-Louis V. would take me right to…

The Elevator

I had lived in Washington, DC for less than two months before I found myself heading to the U.S. House of Representatives for a job interview with a U.S. Congressman. Being the ripe, old age of 22, I had a few interviews under my belt already, so I knew all the basics: be dressed appropriately, be early, have a copy of your resume with you, smile, sit up straight, relax, blah…blah…blah. What I didn’t know is all that I didn’t know about how a Congressional office works, which is like this:

• They run at a frenetic pace;
• The Congressman’s schedule is absolutely packed with no room for slippage; but,
• The Congressman is always running late and he’s usually not happy about it;
• Votes trump everything;
• The reception area is the combination of a Scooby Doo chase scene and an interstate highway interchange: doors opening and closing, people running in and out, chatter, movement, orchestrated chaos and mayhem;
• The House is a lot like high school in that there are bells constantly ringing (to alert Congressmen and staff to events on the House floor);
• Expect the unexpected.

I learned all of those things very quickly. I was five minutes early to my interview: pressed, dressed and confident. The Congressman was running 20 minutes late. Just as the door to the Congressman’s office opened and he walked out to introduce himself and begin the interview, the bells rang announcing a vote. He looked exasperated. I hoped that my facade of calm collectedness was not chipping away as my frustration mounted.

He looked at the clock. He looked at me. He looked at his scheduler. And looking back at me he said, “you’re with me” and bolted for the elevator. (Votes in the House are open for 15 minutes, which seems like a long time until you consider that 435 people have to descend on the House floor from three different office buildings situated about two blocks away from the U.S. Capitol.)

I followed him to the elevator marked “Member’s Only.” He hopped in the already Congressmen-jammed car, looked at a wild-eyed me and said, “get on; you need to stick with me.”

Smashed into an elevator full of men and women who are elected by people all over the U.S., my guy starts the interview. I couldn’t tell you the questions he asked me. I couldn’t tell you my answers. All I know is that the quick, five-floor elevator ride seemed to take about 3.5 hours. And then we got to…

The Trolley

We unload off the elevator like kids leaving school at the end of the day. The herd descends onto a trolley platform that looks straight out of the early 1960s. I had no idea such a contraption existed.

The questions have stopped for the moment and Congressman is moving fast. A smile, a subtle nod to his Member’s pin on his lapel and a quick (but friendly), “he’s with me” and the Capitol Policeman lets me sidestep security.

The trolley car loads up with Congressmen and Congresswomen and me, the car sputters to life and the questions begin again. Again, I don’t remember questions or answers, but I do remember being in the first seat in the car, facing backwards towards 15 to 20 U.S. Representatives, many of which were very interested in my responses to my guy’s questions. He was to my left and former Rep. Patricia Schroeder (D-CO) was to my right. Staring at me. Absorbing the entire conversation.

What is normally about a 30 second ride under Independence Ave. between the Rayburn House Office Building and the U.S. Capitol seemed to slow to a crawl, much like a snail stuck in molasses. But then we arrived at the other platform.

My God, we’re in the U.S. Capitol! It’s so exciting! It’s so amazing! It’s the basement. And it screams “I was built cheaply in the 1960s.” But there’s no time to reflect. We’re still on the move to yet another…

The Elevator (Redux)

At this point only about 7 minutes has passed, at most. But I’m feeling very seasoned, like I’ve been exposed to this kind of complete craziness for years. Heck, I’ve just ridden down the Member’s elevator (crammed full of members), traversed between buildings in a trolley (crammed full of members) and given an incredible interview (to about 15-20 members).

I’m confident verging on cocky.

We’re in another elevator. Been here. Done it. The rest of this is going to be a breeze. And then we arrive on the second floor of the U.S. Capitol.

The doors open. Members scamper down a small hallway, through a set of open double-doors flanked by two menacing looking Capitol Policemen. Okay…wait…what?!?? I’m standing at the doorway to the floor of the U.S. House of Representatives. The place where laws are debated and made. The room where the President of the United States gives his State of the Union speech. Things have happened here!

The Congressman stops me and says, “stand here, you can’t go on the floor. I’ll be right back.” And he’s gone.

Confidence: shattered. Cockiness: eviscerated.

Minutes pass, Members come off the elevator or off the House floor, take note of me, make funny faces, glance at the menacing Capitol Police and move on. I’m blown away. I’m seeing the machinery of democracy up close and firsthand. And I’m in a job interview.

He walks off the House floor after voting and casually suggests, “let’s go to this small, quiet room just around the corner where we’ll be able to talk.” As I follow him, I’m soaking in the beauty of the Capitol: the small, delicate paintings, the woodwork, the busts, the statues, the marble floors. I am overwhelmed by it all, but I have to keep collected because I’m still in the middle of a job interview.

The Sam Rayburn Room

We come to a room that is neither small nor quiet. It is the Sam Rayburn room just off the House floor where Members congregate to talk to and lobby each other, to make phone calls, to read or to avoid going back to the office. (Staffers can be a demanding bunch.) And at the moment we walked into the room, all of this is happening.

The room is ornate. There’s a (5′ tall) vase that was a gift from Italy. There’s a painting of—I think George Washington (I can’t remember anymore)—above a fireplace. Highback chairs. Carved wood tables. Small, quiet room my left foot!

He chooses two wingback chairs in front of a fireplace. We sit down. He says calmly, “please call me Steve and you have no reason to be nervous. I was in your shoes once, too.”

We weren’t allowed to make phone calls or send emails about the bad news until key press had been notified, the press release had been published and the Speaker announced it on the House floor.

Once that happened, the phones went bonkers and the emails poured in to our individual work accounts. (We didn’t have a public office email yet.)

Between the phone calls and the emails, my colleagues and I watched the House floor, paying attention to the remembrances and condolences from Steve’s colleagues. It seemed to go on for hours, which was equally as pleasing as it was brutal. And all the while we shuffled through letters, planned meetings and plodded through the mundanity that was the work of a congressional office.

Imagine repeatedly having the wind knocked out of you and having to repeatedly reply and respond to condolence phone calls and emails and knocks at the office door. That’s the irony of those left in the wake of death: everyone wants to extend their heartfelt sympathies. And that’s incredibly nice. But hearing the same thing over and over and over again just keeps the sucker punches coming fast and furious.

Tangent

I haven’t thought about this day in a long time, though there’s honestly not a week that goes by that I don’t think of Steve. And watching the assassination attempt on Rep. Gabrielle Giffords and the brutal murder of her staff and constituents dredged up these memories and emotions.

Unrelated, but oddly intertwined in my life: I lived for several years in the district that Rep. Giffords represents. She replaced Rep. Jim Kolbe, who happened to be a gay Republican and also happened to be one of the key players in establishing the agency where I now work. That’s my six-degrees-of-separation sidebar for the day.

Several Hours Earlier

Congressman Steven Schiff–my employer for three years and my congressman for longer–had been in Albuquerque for several months recovering from cancer surgery and treatment. He had been remarkably open with the local press about it, but things had been quiet recently. Both the staff in DC and in Albuquerque were stressed because working for a member of congress is like working for a close member of your family. You believe in them, their policies and positions, and the way they conduct business. To some degree, you become them as you answer letters, write speeches, follow legislation and meet with constituents. And it’s tough when someone that close is sick.

For some reason, I’d had a salary review that day and was not happy with the outcome. (And, to be completely honest, Steve was fair with salary to the point of ridiculous, so I suspect I asked for more than I knew I’d get.) In an unusual move, I didn’t eat at my desk, rather, I got my lunch and parked myself on a bench in front of the U.S. Capitol. This would give me time to be angry in my own space. And, in a blatant act of passive aggression, I stayed at lunch a little longer than the hour I was supposed to.

As I stepped off the elevator onto the fourth floor of the Rayburn Building, I knew something was wrong.

From the elevator, I could see two Capitol Policemen standing outside the office door. Keep in mind, this was years before Sept. 11, so Capitol Police weren’t quite as “present” as they are now. And to see one standing outside a Member’s office was unusual. In fact, I think they checked my ID as I tried to enter the office.

When I walked it, there was an agitated, sullen silence and a random person sitting in the office.. My colleagues had been waiting for me to be able to declare the DC staff “gathered” so we could start an all-staff meeting. I had clearly chosen the wrong day to be purposefully late.

Minutes later, without mincing words, our Chief of Staff told both the DC and Albuquerque staffs that Steve had died a few hours earlier.

Gasps. Silence. Crying. Sniffling.

Then a knock at the door and a fidgeting with the doorknob.

We were reassured that the Capitol Police stationed outside would keep visitors away, so we ignored the intrusion. Except the intrusion kept getting more insistent. Being closest to the door, I stood up and started walking towards the door to “handle this.” Oddly, my legs buckled as I crossed the office. That had never happened before and has only happened once since. Righting myself against the reception desk, I lurched towards the door and threw it open ready to give the interloper a piece of my mind.

Instead, I found myself staring at the Speak of the House, Newt Gingrich.

He walked in, put his arm around me like a father comforting a son and walked with me back into Steve’s office where we had assembled. I remember thinking to myself, “I just don’t know how this already surreal moment could get any surreal-er, but the third most powerful man in the United States has his arm around me, is walking with me and is consoling me.”

Back in Steve’s office, I crumpled back into my position on a sofa. The Speaker said some very nice things about both Steve and us. And love him or hate him, in this moment, he was incredibly genuine and I was very moved that he came to give us his condolences.

After about ten minutes, he left and that’s when the stranger started talking. He explained that our jobs were safe, that we were employed by the House for three months and that our responsibilities were to prepare Steve’s things for archive and continue the work of the First District of New Mexico until a new member was elected. At the time, I thought that it was all incredibly insensitive, but looking back, I feel like knowing that I had a job and that we would be responsible for the disposition of Steve’s history gave me some comfort.

That One Phone Call

Flash forward to the muted chaos of handling press inquiries, condolence calls and emails, my personal phone line rang and I hear the voice of one of the best friends I have ever had (and still have to this day), “whatever you need, whatever you want to do, whatever…I am here for you tonight, tomorrow, whenever. I’m really sorry about Steve.”

“I need to buy a suit,” I responded. “Tonight.” (It was my first thought and to this day, I find the practicality of it astonishing.)

He worked for one of Steve’s colleagues on the Senate side, so he knew how tough this day was. I don’t think he will ever know how much those simple, elegant words meant to me. And it’s absolutely what I needed to hear. I don’t think I ever thanked him for that.

Leaving the Office

I don’t remember what time I left the office that day, but I do know it was later than normal. I didn’t want to leave. And neither did any of my colleagues. It felt to weird to leave, like leaving would somehow validate all the bizarre and sad happenings of that afternoon and make them real. But finally I did.

My good friend gave me a ride home and promised to come back in a hour or so to go suit shopping.

I got out of the car and walked into my house. One of my roommates was home and upon seeing me said, “I’m really sorry about your boss. I bet this was a tough day.” I was surprised he knew because he was in grad school and not particularly plugged in to politics.

I schlepped up the two flights of stairs into my bedroom, threw myself on my bed and stared at the ceiling, reflecting on everything that had just happened.

I heard my other roommate come home, noted some hushed talking, then heard him stomp up the two flights of stairs. He stopped, pushed my bedroom door open and said to me, “so your boss died. Get over it. It happens.”

And turned and walked into his room.

My Final Words to Steve

Each staff member wrote a remembrance of him. I have not read mine–until tonight–since 1998. But I wrap up this entry with it as it truly captures what it was like to work for him.

As I sit in the room where we met for my interview — just off the House floor— I feel just as anxious as I did that day.  It is time for me to say goodbye to you and I struggle to embody the emotions I feel into words that will properly express how deeply you have affected my life.  I hope I can find them.

I came to this room for inspiration, for focus, and maybe even for closure on an adventure I always dreamt of and an adventure you allowed me to live.  As the adventure comes to an end, I reflect on those things that constantly amazed me about you:  your memory of things about me and other staff;  the patience you displayed for my continued nervousness and idiotic mistakes I made as a legislative assistant;  the chance you took on hiring and uneducated, inexperienced young man; the encouragement you gave me to return to school; the accommodation of my school schedule.  Steve, you never overstepped your bounds and I took all your advice to heart.

It is all the things that you never said, but did, that will live the longest within me.  Your integrity is unmatched and honorable.  Your unflinching fairness and allegiance to objectivity always gave you a clear and unique view of a situation.  Your impeccable intellect and intelligence caused me great trepidation, although unfounded through your patience and ease of manner.  I see Congress — and life — through the unique perspective provided by a man unaffected by his power, yet whose power affected so many.

Thank you Steve.  Thank you for giving me my adventure.  Thank you for taking me on the tough roads of integrity and objectivity along the way.  And most importantly, thank you for the chance.