I am a Polish American. Both sides of my family, Topor and Furmanski, came to this country in the late 1800s to advance themselves. My grandfather on my mother's side, told me his story:

As a young man (about 18) he packed up his belongings and headed out (alone) from his native Poland for the "promised land." He found himself on Ellis Island, where he said he was scared to death. Every line meant a potential denial to enter. Somehow, he passed all the tests, then someone tied a tag on his suit coat buttonhole. You can imagine how he looked, a young kid attempting to appear adult and serious, wearing his strange European clothes, carrying a strange bag, wearing a strange hat and shoes, lost in a strange but beautiful land with a tag tied to him! Soon he found himself on a train to somewhere, he had no idea where!

Occasionally a conductor would come by, look at his tag, and pass on by. My grandfather, Frank, could see people occasionally getting off at stops along the way, but it seemed like he would never get a chance to join them! Finally after a long, long time, the conductor came along, read his tag, and motioned for him to get off the train and to take his bag with him. My grandfather stepped off the train into a cold, upstate New York State winter night. He watched, sullenly, as the train's lights diminished into the night. Snow swirled at his feet. He could see very little through the driving snow, except for the lights of a far off town. He walked on the tracks towards the lights (and my eventual grandmother). That is where most of my family still lives... New York Mills, New York (near Utica).

New York Mills was then a cotton (cloth) bleachery factory community. Big factories, belching smoke, and spewing green chemical colored waters into streams was why the place existed. Wealthy English owners were gaining a labor force by "importing" certain immigrant groups, mostly Polish and Italian, much the way railroad builders here in California acquired Chinese laborers. The company owned the company store, owned the cottages (where my father, his brother and his sisters were eventually born) and ruled with a powerful iron fist from beautiful offices and from weathly, manicured lawned homes. When workers tried to strike for more wages, families were thrown out on the street. It took real guts and perseverance to survive. But they worked hard and fought for their rights, educated themselves and their families (I was the first in my family to go beyond high school. I went to college on a scholarship in painting.) Immigrant families fought in our wars, loved and lived. My mother, to whom I owe a great deal, eventually became a very successful teacher at Singer Sewing Center, then a prosperous business woman, owning her own business (a bridal shop), employing many people, and eventually buying the building she was in! Immigrants all worked together for common good, often very unselfishly. I hope you find evidence of that kind of spirit in this site!

I am proud of my family and my extended family. That's why, when I found my son Mark was gay (the tall dude standing next to me in the above picture of my family) I worked hard to help and support him. My late wife and I joined P-FLAG (Parents, Family and Friends of Lesbians, Gays and Bis), I lecture to high school classes about being the parent of a gay. I have proudly marched, arm in arm down Market Street in San Francisco in the annual Gay Pride Parade with Mark, my late wife Martha and thousands of others. Our P-FLAG group gets the loudest applause, shouts and, occasionally, flowers! Martha, my late wife, Brad, son and daughter-in-law Shannon and I are truly proud!

I have two sons, Mark (who changed his name to "Zak" explaining, " Dad, there are just too many gay guys in San Diego named Mark!") Our other son, Brad, is almost exactly opposite his brother in many ways, but he and his wife Shannon, my office assistant, proudly support their brother and brother-in-law. They are the proud parents of my grandson, Colin James whom I affectionately call, "Bubbola"). He is the joy of our lives!

Unfortunately, Zak was shot in a gay bashing incident a few years ago. Not fatally, thank God, very close to it, but enough to underscore how unfair and discriminating many in our society are. Ironically the perpetrator was, himself, a member of a minority group! It is, by the way, an interesting study to learn how gays were treated in other times and societies (i.e., ancient Greek times). Check it out!

A few thoughts about Martha: When I first met Martha in Syracuse, NY, I was living across the street from her home on Henry Street. One Saturday in 1959, after I had graduated from Syracuse (BFA, '58), I was raking up leaves and burning them in front of the apartment I rented along with my buddy, Dave Rusch. This cute young high school girl came across the street to tell me I could not burn leaves because it was against a city ordinance. She was very friendly and had a super sense of humor. I took an immediate liking to her. That began a long courtship, with many trips to the Syracuse water tower for necking (as it was called then). After graduation from high school, Martha went to "beauty school" and became a hair dresser. Soon, I was drafted in to the US Army and we were separated for 2 and a quarter years. When ever I took military leaves to my home in Utica, I drove to Syracuse to be with Martha, at that time known as "Martie." Our love grew strong over time. We communicated by mail, sharing our love.

We decided to get married. Soon after I was out of the Army we were wed in a Presbyterian church in Syracuse and honey mooned on Cape Cod and Gloucester, Massachusetts. I took a job at Syracuse University Press Printing Division. Soon we moved to Rochester for a new job at the University of Rochester. We lived on East Henrietta Road in a small one room apartment, which was actually a converted motel. Mark was born and we moved to Greece in North Rochester in a new town house to have more room for our new son Mark and his new brother, Brad.

Soon we had saved up enough money to buy a house on Castleman Road, our first real home, ( for $27,000). I worked at Rochester for 11 years, during which time I got my master's degree in Art History. Martha was a super home soulmate...we were in love! After a while, I wanted to broaden my experience, so I took a job in Princeton as an art director. We sold our house in Rochester to buy one in Pennington, New Jersey. We lived there for only one year. My job was a bad experience so I moved on to Dayton, Ohio where I worked for Wright State University and Martha was a study hall monitor in the high school. We had a beautiful house.... a so called "executive home."

From Dayton, we moved to Cornell in Ithaca, New York. There I worked as Assistant Director in Media Relations. Martha was the typical housewife, making friends with neighbors and attending the local Christian Science church. Martha was a very compassionate mom. Her favorite saying was "love is reflected in love," an idea from her church.

From snowy Ithaca we moved to San Diego. Martha worked as a receptionist at a computer medical firm. She was very successful. When I got the call to take a job at Stanford, Martha was right at my side and ready to support me. We moved to Mountain View, my current home. Unfortunately, in the summer of 1998, Martha died very suddenly. I lost my soulmate!

That is why this site is dedicated to her memory. Thank you for taking this "trip" with me down my memory lane. Love, —Bob

I spend most of my time learning, researching, studying, monitoring my stock portfolio, traveling, listening to music that ranges from zydeco to Beethoven, rock to organ pieces, opera to native American, talking with former staff at many places I have worked, helping my Stanford staff (who were all laid off at one time, soon after I volunteered myself for layoff rather than cut into staff I had developed). Most of them are now successful entrepreneurs offering services back to Stanford and to others here in the Silicon Valley!

I worry about how people are treated in organizations and spend time helping nonprofit organizations work more compassionately and effectively together. Watch this site for how these new services might help you at your activities.

My daily companion is my pet cockatiel bird, Sydney (he may be a she! I'm not sure! How do you tell?). We named him (her?) Sydney because we were told at the pet shop that he (maybe she) came from Australia. Sydney sings a happy tune. (My grandparents always kept canaries in their home).

My grandfather (the guy from the train) did too. As a young man he bought (for $50-big money then) by mail order, a large cookoo clock from Sears. It is a hand carved one from the Black Forest. I am sure he must have had one in his native Poland. If this guy had an education he could have been a great engineer. He could design and make incredible things. As a kid I used to sit on his work bench, lined with jars of clock parts, and watch as he disassembled and assembled clocks. It was fascinating to a little Polish-American boy. That damp cellar also included the cabinet where my grandmother kept jars of canned fruits, some plums producing the most wonderful cold fruit drinks in the hot summer. She would work in her garden, often picking potato bugs off plants in her garden. Her wood burning stove always had pot of coffee going for guests and family. No wonder I start each day with a latte espresso... typical Californian, but still a Polish-American kid at heart!

Grandfather's cookoo clock had an Aesop's fable carved into the face plate, remarkably all out of one piece of wood! It described the fable of the fox and crow, illustrating the idea of vanity. The story goes, the crow had a grape in its mouth, about to enjoy eating it, when the sly fox came by. The fox, wanting the grape for himself complimented the crow. The vain crow, to return thanks for the compliment, opens his (her) mouth to reply, dropping the grape to the waiting hungry fox below! I think we can all learn lot from that story! I think there may be a marketing morale there too!

Since I am second generation born in this country most of the people with whom I work are much more far removed from their original roots and heritage. But I think it is important to put in perspective where we have all come from in order to better understand where we are going! We must look back in order to look forward! Don't you agree?

I started, long ago, collecting coins...first American, then Canadian, then ancients. I love ancient coins, especially ones from 4th and 5th Century Greece (the so called "classical" period of history). My geographic focus is Syracuse, Greece (since I went to Syracuse University and my late wife was from Syracuse (New York; not Greece!)

Many claim the coins of a period, especially ancient ones reveal more about a civilization than many other forms of human expression. Why? Because they reveal, through their iconography, many of the successes, achievements, failures, problems and opportunities of history. Political, economic, spiritual, and aesthetic ideas are communicated through images pressed into metal. These "markers" (some would call them miniature tombstones of history) communicate today as much as they did eons ago, powerful and interesting ideas. We hope this site does that too! That's why I chose it to represent this site. The name, Agora, of course has powerful meaning. If you don't know what it means look it up and think about why I chose it!

Classical Greece represents a high point in human history. Many beautiful things come together at one time. Recently, when I was in Athens, then Crete, I scoured the island for evidence. I found some wonderful pottery shards. One of the pieces still had the fingerprints on it from the person who made it in the 4th or 5th century! I find that exciting. I have tried to leave my "fingerprints" on this web site in a hope that this is a shard that is even slightly as wonderful as what I found in Greece!