THE END

I GREW UP in a tradition that was facinated with End Times speculation. Preachers, waving their King James Bible, painting a picture, predicting and prophesying about the return of One who said, without irony or stammering, "But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only," found a sure-fire way to pack the house on Friday night of the revival meeting. Announcing all week long that Friday would be the night to look at signs of the end times was sort of click-baity; as is this first paragraph teasing readers to read on.

However, this post isn't about THOSE end times, but... Let's continue.

Kids these days with their acronyms. KWIM? In this little essay, I'm going to try to have some fun, make a point, and procure a silent "amen", all without getting too cute or fatalistic.

I worked for years in an industry with a 55 gallon drum full of alphabet soup of acronyms. It's an industry highly regulated by the "government". [And we all know those Feds love themselves some acronyms--FBI, CIA, HUD, BOP, DOJ, DOD, just to name a few plus that crowd favorite the IRS.

Our company has several departments and each of those have their own set of acronyms. Today's lesson is about one of those departments known by the simple acronym of IT. You know the one who's first answer to any computer issue is "Have you plugged it in?" followed by, "Turn it off, wait 30 seconds and turn it back on."

Two of their favorite acronyms are used when they want to buy some new equipment: EOL and E0S.

Our clothes dryer is having issues. It will heat and run all day. That's the issue: it will run all day. The timer/sensor/really expensive part is broken. So to keep from burning the house down we have to set a timer to remember to check on the dryer. As it goes with things like appliance life these days, you can call a repairman, add up his trip charge, his minimum charge and the cost of the part, plus the Trump Tariff upcharge. Then crunch those numbers together and realize that for another 5 or 6 bucks you can just buy a new one.

For me: Pops—a 1951 model—I have not reached EOL, yet. Ask My Amazing Missus and she might tell you that she suspects that I have reached EOS. [In case you're still guessing: EOL is End Of Life, and EOS is End Of Service.]

Last Saturday we found ourselves in an appliance store. She was politely listening to the salesguy talk about the features and reasons for jumping up from the TD5 model to the DEEEluxe TRD7 "which is heavy duty yet gentle (kind of like your husband here) with an all-metal transmission for years of quiet dependable service."

Years? That's the operative word here. I was quietly figuring in my head our EOTIOOHBMTTLRUHFS. Of course you'll recognize that acronym as the End Of Time In Our Own Home Before Moving To The Last Roundup Home For Seniors.

Haskell the salesman had now transitioned to explaining the heightened quality of life we will have because of owning the TRD7 to extolling the TRW7--the washing machine of this made in heaven pair.

The 7 in the model apparently stood for seven year warranty. "Do we need anything with a seven year warranty?" I wondered quietly to myself, pondering end times scenarios.

I scanned across the rows of shiny appliances. I became terror-struck. Our freezer in the garage is more than 25 years old. Our refrigerator--more than 20. Our mattress? Who knows? Under the threat of prosecution from some federal agency I ripped the tag off of it years ago. Crap! Now I'm fearful that Kristi Noem might show up with a van load of goons to haul me off to Aligator Alcatraz. What an ending that would be.

Can I count on these old appliances to see us through to the next phase? "Just out of curiosity Haskell, the appliance salesman, what does a refrigerator like that one there run these days with tariffs and all?"

"Let me show you one with a chest freezer below, double doors up top and a frozen snack drawer for the grandkids, Plus ice and water in the door!" "This one is three-grand, but if you don't mind a dent and ding special, we can fix you up for under $2500."

Having a few dents, dings and leaks myself, I can relate. And why not give one of these, which is a little marred through no fault of its own, a nice home.

We've sort of been saving up for a storm shelter, given we live in tornado alley. The thought crossed mind that if we're going to have a shelter and thus take a big step in potentially extending our lives, maybe we will need the W/D pair with the 7-year warranty. Could we outlive them? Sure. Could we live without them? Sure. If only we had a spring-fed stream running through our backyard; with a box of detergent, a couple of smooth rocks and a clothesline we could do our laundry like our grandparents before us.

I'm confident a pair of rocks have a very distant EOL. And, after all, isn't that what we're all hoping for? For us and our appliances?

MASQUERADE

A FEW OF THE GRANDKIDS were visiting this weekend. The subject of "what are you going to be for Halloween" came up. A couple of thoughts quickly rattled around my mind like a spook house skeleton: 1.) What would I "be" if I were a kid on the eve of All Hollows Day in 2025.? 2.) Wow, there are a lot more costume options these days.

Back in the day we had clowns and bunny rabbits and princesses along with the darker options like ghosts, witches, monsters. If you were lucky enough to have parents that would spend "good" money for a store-bought costume your options opened up to cartoon characters, super heros and such. The most dreaded question for those of us whose costumes were created with love from the stuff on hand was, "What are you supposed to be?" (That questions still haunts me.)

Reality broke my reverie when one of the grands asked, "Pops, what were you for Halloween when you were a kid?" I replied, "A Hobo was always my go-to."

"A what?!" I explainded the concept. They set it in the context of their world: "So, a homeless guy?" Yes, I suppose that was the idea. But we didn't mean it in a mocking way, I tried to explain to them.

For the zero percent chance that anyone under 50 is reading this, your basic hobo costume was pretty easy to throw together at the last minute. A few patches would be loosly stitched to your jeans. A sleeve would be cut from one of dad's old flannel shirts. While this was going on I would find a good stick. On the end of the stick a bandana would be tied with a few hobo essentials inside. A beard would be applied using a burnt cork. Since we were Baptists we didn't have a cork so we borrowed one from the Catholic lady who lived a few doors down, who "enjoyed an occasional glass of wine, just like Jesus probably did."

I didn't mind being a hobo, but it was hard to be incognito without an actual mask. "Aren't you the little Fuller boy?" the neighbors would ask, holding out the bowl of treats. Being unrecognized and unidentified seemed--and sometimes still seems--important although I'm not sure why.

Masks offer an air of secrecy, but those of us wearing the mask know full well who is behind our mask--if we're honest with ourselves. Masks are the essential element in any masquerade. Think about the verb version of the word: masquerading. "To assume the appearance of something one is not; an act of pretending or disguising oneself to conceal the truth about something."

Remember when masks became a cultural touchpoint: sickness and health, life and death, right and wrong, right and left, to mask or not to mask, friend vs friend, families divided, churches split. Of course the masks of the pandemic were not the masks of our childhood, unless you were masquerading as a doctor or a nurse or a biohazard first responder. Somehow masks of any kind seem like a veil of sorts, separating two things or states-of-being, along a vast spectrum; whether it's the innocent fun of a four year-old taking on the identity of a Ninja Turtle for an evening or the horrid hood of a klansman camouflaging a life shattered by hate, and wanting to shamefully hide somehow.

It's not always the bad guys that wear masks. Remember The Lone Ranger? Every episode he would do good deeds and then ride off to the horizon, leaving people to ask with admiration and wonder, "Who was that masked man?"

But now we have the masks of federal agents, camouflaged, engaged in an onslaught of the ends justifying the means, even when those ends are unjustifiable things like meeting quotas and quenching the insatiable thirsts of the power hungry. Sometimes it takes hiding behind a mask to dehumanize ourselves enough to strip the humanity of others.

I am not saying that every agent or officer or soldier is motivited by meanness. I know many of them have hearts to serve and believe their mission to be an important one. I too long to see unrepentant criminals removed from society. And, I am in no position to be throwing stones let alone casting the first one. My mask often hides a coward and hypocrite. I hope it completely hides the worst of me. I don't want anyone to see me at my worst and say, "Aren't you that Fuller boy?"

Please don't ask me: "What are you supposed to be?"

A P.S. if you're interesed. In a story on NPR about the creation of The Lone Ranger character it was decided that he would live by a moral code. Here it is:

I believe that to have a friend, a man must be one.

That all men are created equal and that everyone has within himself the power to make this a better world.

That God put the firewood there but that every man must gather and light it himself.

In being prepared physically, mentally, and morally to fight when necessary for what is right.

That a man should make the most of what equipment he has.

That 'this government, of the people, by the people and for the people' shall live always.

That men should live by the rule of what is best for the greatest number.

That sooner or later...somewhere...somehow...we must settle with the world and make payment for what we have taken.

That all things change but truth, and that truth alone, lives on forever.

In my Creator, my country, my fellow man.

AUTUMN LEAVES

IT WAS AROUND 1968, The Zombies sang about a "Time of the Season". The song asks:

What's your name? (What's your name?)
Who's your daddy? (Who's your daddy?)
(He rich?) Is he rich like me?

The song has little to do with the crux of the matter of this post. (If there is a crux to this one.) (As I'm typing, this feels like just putting words out there about something/anything, to avoid saying out loud those words that weigh most heavy.)

So let's get to that crux--the essence: Autumn is my favorite season, and it starts today: Monday, September 22, 2025, at 1:29 CDT here at About Pops HQ. Although, with a forecast high of 90, it's not feeling like sweater-wearing season just yet.

The Autumnal Equinox is the time where the hours of sunlight and darkness are roughly the same. I'm not crazy about the days getting shorter, especially now when it feels like our cultural darkness grows longer and deeper. It is true that the darkest hour is just before dawn, and now dawn will be taking its sweet time bringing light and hope and newness each day. But, like that little girl sang: "The sun'll come out tomorrow."

Fall reminds me of one of my favorite songs. It's one of the "standards" as the music industry says. It's called "Autumn Leaves". It paints a picture, as good lyrics always do. We see the epitome of Autumn, not a pumpkin-spiced latte, but the leaves of red and gold. We're reminded of summer's passing and time marching on. With a twist: even though the daylight hours grow shorter, somehow the days grow long.

Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I'll hear old winter's song
But I miss you most of all my darling
When autumn leaves start to fall

Here's a little background to save you the googling:

"Autumn Leaves" is the English-language version of the French song "Les Feuilles mortes" ("The Dead Leaves") composed by Joseph Kosma in 1945. The original lyrics were written by Jacques Prévert in French, and the English lyrics were by Johnny Mercer. An instrumental recording by pianist Roger Williams was a number one best-seller in the US Billboard charts of 1955. --Wikipedia

Since its introduction "Autumn Leaves" has become one of the most recorded songs by jazz musicians. More than a thousand commercial recordings are known to have been released by mainstream jazz and pop musicians. I've played in a few jazz bands in my days and in each and everyone "Autumn Leaves" was on the set list. It has been arranged and rearranged in so many styles that it can sound like many different songs, but always with that haunting melody. One of my favorite versions is by the jazz pianist Bill Evans.

For a different take on it, listen to this YouTube video of it being played by a drum and bugle corp —The Bluecoats— who have made the song their official anthem. CLICK HERE FOR A LISTEN.

NOW FOR MY FAVORITE: This is a live recording of Eva Cassidy. She was in her young 30s at this performance. She died of cancer not too long afterward. When you watch this and hear her sing I think you'll agree with me that's it's almost like the song was written to be sung by her. CLICK HERE TO SEE EVA’S VIDEO.

Happy Autumn All. Enjoy. The Winter Solstice will be here soon when Autumn leaves until next year.

HORIZON

THERE WAS A TIME when I could water ski. Today, with arthritic hands and carrying extra ballast, I doubt that I could hold on to the rope tight enough and long enough to pop out of the water. That's okay. I have no desire to be on skis anyway. It's not the proverbial sour grapes; I've moved on to other thrilling endeavors--like reading a newspaper or two each morning and tuning in to hear of the latest antics from D.C. Sometimes that feels like trying to hold on tight while being dragged face-first through the wake of long boat powered by two big Evinrudes.

I loved being around my Uncle David. He was oh so funny and fun. I remember being his caddy for a few rounds of golf when I was a kid. One summer, during college, I worked in his concrete construction company. But the best memory of all was going sailing with him on his sailboat. Skimming across the water without the roar of engines or the smell of fuel exhaust, the sails full of wind; this was the boating life for me. That day I vowed that one day I would have a sailboat.

Decades later, My Amazing Missus and I set sail for the first time on our Catalina sailboat, named (by the previous owner) "Trust Me II". People often asked, "What happened to Trust Me I?" I would explain that I covered that in my marriage proposal to her.

my amazing missus battening down the hatchs after a sail aboard trust me II

Sailing and marriage do take some trust; and repentance and forgiveness and courage and teamwork. You have to balance the white-knuckling, fraught, terrifying moments of changing winds and choppy waters with those that are blissful, serene and sublime. Occasionally, in precarious sailing moments, I would remind her and myself that I had three sailing certifications including costal cruising and navigation. But certificates don't matter when the boat is heeled over, keel up, and on the edge of its beam, speeding across the waves. The combination of thrills and terrors demands a return to calm. So a gentle turn into the wind puts on the brakes.

Once nerves and winds calmed, I might quote Captain Jack Sparrow just to reassure her: "The seas may be rough but I am the Captain! No matter how difficult, I will always prevail." She would give me a look as if to say, "Whatever floats your boat 'Captain'."

In the first sailing class you learn that a boat under sail (no engine running) always has right-of-way over a "power" boat. I raised my hand and asked the instructor if a guy with a six-pack or so of refreshing beverage in him, driving his boat full throttle across the lake, is aware of that rule. "Absolutely not!" our instructor warned.

Moral: You can know the rules, you can seek to follow the rules, but watch out for the guy whose t-shirt reads: Boats-Booze-Babes.

It feels like these days, the rules made by men are applied arbitrarily and only as they suit the desired ends of the power-brandishers. But when it comes to the ultimate, unshakeable rules of nature: the winds and the waves will have the final say.

A bit of sailing wisdom from a crusty old sailor named Scully, who ran a floating seafood joint/sailboat rental on a decrepit ship called the "Barnacle", to a guy named Jack (played by John Candy) renting a sailboat in a movie called "Summer Rental".

Scully:
She'll make ya rich, or she'll feed ya to the fishes. If she wants you to dance, sonny boy, you've got to follow her lead.

Jack:
Didn't I read that on your bathroom wall?

Scully:
Yes. And it's as true today as when I hung it there.

There was a guy whose boat's home slip was near ours. Even when he wasn't sailing, often times you could find him on his boat there at the dock, maybe doing some cleaning or straightening up the lines. Sometimes he would be sitting, reading and smoking his pipe. When we would pass by whether going out to sail or returning home he would say: "Fair winds and following seas." It's apparently a sort of sailor's blessing for well wishes. If you've been on a sailboat, it rings true. It's something I long for at this stage of the journey.

Once more, a quote from the quotable Captain Jack Sparrow: "The problem is not the problem. Your attitude about the problem is the problem."

I know, I know, Captain Jack. But these days it sure seems like the problem is the problem.

You've probably heard someone say, "This too shall pass." It's a very future focused sentiment isn't it? While I tend to get mired in the muck of the moment, I'm fascinated by that thing artists call the horizon line. Being on the water makes the horizon line so clear and straight. Depending on where the line is--high or low--in a picture, it gives us the feeling of being near or far from that moving target of a line. And even though it keeps its distance from us we still move toward it and all that it promises; over there beyond the horizon.

“Now bring me that horizon. ”

— Captain Jack Sparrow

Billy Collins is one of my favorite poets and one of his poems that I've been reading a lot lately is "Aristotle". Each time we would go on a sail, there was a pushing from the dock and raising of the sails--a beginning. There was middle part--the adventure, the fun, the drama. And there was the return to the harbor and the routines of life. Mr. Collins in this poem pays homage to Aristotle's observations of well-told stories having a beginning, a middle and an ending. So, I'm thinking for a moment about each of our stories and our Story.

---

Aristotle
BY BILLY COLLINS

This is the beginning.
Almost anything can happen.
This is where you find
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page.
Think of an egg, the letter A,
a woman ironing on a bare stage
as the heavy curtain rises.
This is the very beginning.
The first-person narrator introduces himself,
tells us about his lineage.
The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings.
Here the climbers are studying a map
or pulling on their long woolen socks.
This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn.
The profile of an animal is being smeared
on the wall of a cave,
and you have not yet learned to crawl.
This is the opening, the gambit,
a pawn moving forward an inch.
This is your first night with her,
your first night without her.
This is the first part
where the wheels begin to turn,
where the elevator begins its ascent,
before the doors lurch apart.

This is the middle.
Things have had time to get complicated,
messy, really. Nothing is simple anymore.
Cities have sprouted up along the rivers
teeming with people at cross-purposes—
a million schemes, a million wild looks.
Disappointment unshoulders his knapsack
here and pitches his ragged tent.
This is the sticky part where the plot congeals,
where the action suddenly reverses
or swerves off in an outrageous direction.
Here the narrator devotes a long paragraph
to why Miriam does not want Edward's child.
Someone hides a letter under a pillow.
Here the aria rises to a pitch,
a song of betrayal, salted with revenge.
And the climbing party is stuck on a ledge
halfway up the mountain.
This is the bridge, the painful modulation.
This is the thick of things.
So much is crowded into the middle—
the guitars of Spain, piles of ripe avocados,
Russian uniforms, noisy parties,
lakeside kisses, arguments heard through a wall—
too much to name, too much to think about.

And this is the end,
the car running out of road,
the river losing its name in an ocean,
the long nose of the photographed horse
touching the white electronic line.
This is the colophon, the last elephant in the parade,
the empty wheelchair,
and pigeons floating down in the evening.
Here the stage is littered with bodies,
the narrator leads the characters to their cells,
and the climbers are in their graves.
It is me hitting the period
and you closing the book.
It is Sylvia Plath in the kitchen
and St. Clement with an anchor around his neck.
This is the final bit
thinning away to nothing.
This is the end, according to Aristotle,
what we have all been waiting for,
what everything comes down to,
the destination we cannot help imagining,
a streak of light in the sky,
a hat on a peg, and outside the cabin, falling leaves.

---

Fair winds and following seas to you and yours.