Two Coats, One Reminder

What’s on my mind?

Two coats. One reminder.

I took a photo this week wearing the coat my team at the State Farm office gave me, standing in front of my desk… with another coat framed above it.

That framed coat has been hanging there for years. It started in my Grandpa Levi Swensen’s closet. Every summer I’d spend a couple weeks on my grandparents’ farm helping with chores, then later we’d watch the Iowa State Fair recap on public television like it was a tradition. When Grandpa Levi passed, my Grandma Jeanette and the family cleaning things out saw the coat and thought, Adam would appreciate this. They were right. They gave it to me.

The twist is what the coat actually is: a promotional jacket from the Schechinger Seed Company—my other grandparents’ business. Elmer and Margaret Schechinger owned and operated it, and based on the logo, I think that coat is from the early to mid-1980s.

I kept it for years. Then my wife surprised me by having it framed as a gift. It’s been above my desk ever since. I point to it all the time in conversation with customers and with my team, because it represents something I struggle to put into words: the time, effort, and energy people poured into me—directly and indirectly—that I get to carry forward in the life I’m so blessed to live.

Levi, Jeanette, and Elmer have all passed. I haven’t talked with Margaret in a few years, and I don’t even know if she knows this whole story, or what she would think of it.

And honestly… the thought of anyone admiring the work I’m doing now (or in the past, or in the future) is pretty foreign to me. I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it for me.

As I write that, another thought hits me: I hope my grandparents didn’t “do it” for me either. I hope they lived their best life for themselves—and that I get to benefit from what they built, what they valued, and how they showed up.

Because even though I don’t feel like I interacted with my grandparents that much… just like my kids, I watched. I learned. I took away what I thought was important. I saw how they lived, and I’m using those lessons and tools in my own life.

I also keep looking at the last sentence I typed in last week’s message:

“I can promise to be me. Authentic me that shows up every day with an attitude of service and for the benefit of all living beings. I can walk into a room with a strong back and an open heart, ready to listen with intent, stay curious, and see anyone as they are. These things will remain true, no matter what the future holds, and where I go from here.”

What does that have to do with a coat? I’m not totally sure, but I’m going to try to connect the dots.

Jett and I are developing a new game on Roblox. I’m doing my best to let him make the decisions, but my influence is obviously in there.

The basic concept so far: you’re a scientist who gets shrunken down to the size of an insect, and you find yourself in the backyard (think Honey, I Shrunk the Kids). You “wake up” a few tiny sprouts—dandelions—that follow you around like little helpers. Eventually, they help you pick up trash and clean up the backyard so it can regrow into something beautiful again.

While we were brainstorming, Jett said: “It’s like learning that very little things can make a big difference.”

I didn’t realize that was something he would say—or even something he was aware of. But it’s exactly where my brain has been lately.

I’ve struggled with the realization that no one will remember me, and that what I do doesn’t really affect the big picture. And yet I still feel compelled to do the little things… because they make a big difference to me.

So how does this connect to the coat and my grandchildren?

Someday my grandchild may have one of these coats hanging above their desk. Someday they may not.

Either way, I’ll leave something behind—whether they can name it or not.

That’s what’s messing with me in a good way: the idea that legacy is often built without an audience. It’s built in the small choices. The quiet consistency. The way we treat people when it would be easier not to.

In our little Roblox backyard, the dandelions aren’t big. They aren’t dramatic. They just show up and help—one tiny action at a time—until the place starts to look different.

Maybe that’s the whole thing.

“If my kids were watching this moment… what would I want them to see?”

The coat will keep asking me that question every time I see it.