In My Own Words At My New Desk

I OWE A DEBT TO CORNELIUS CRANE CHASE. In fact, every guy who has ever over-attempted to be, well, hero-like, owes Mr. Chase for teaching us to not take ourselves too seriously.

If you’ve ever tried to plan an epic family vacation that turned into a disaster; Cornelius taught us to laugh it off.

If you’ve ever attempted to orchestrate a family Christmas that Norman Rockwell would return from the dead to paint, only to have it turn bad faster than an under-cooked turkey; take heart. C.C. Chase showed us that the effort was worth it.

No doubt about it. Cornelius Crane “Chevy” Chase has been an important role model for me and all of us Men Of A Certain Age.

Emily Dickinson wrote nearly 2,000 poems on this desk.

Emily's niece described it as Emily's "only writing desk: a table, 18-inches square, with a drawer deep enough to take in her ink bottle, paper and pen. It was placed in the corner by the window facing west." 

It’s 7:38 on a Friday night. I’m sitting at a new desk typing this post. The desk was made for us by my Amazing-Missus’ twin brother. It is fashioned from four cast iron legs from an old drill press. It is amazing and so are my Bro-In-Law's welding and creative skills.

I feel, as I’m sitting here at the new desk, listening to Simon and Garfunkel through my Grado Labs headphones, a new burst of creativity. I feel like I could write the next great American novel.

But wait. Images of Chevy Chase in his film “Funny Farm” run through my mind. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen “Funny Farm”!?
Chevy plays a sports writer in NYC. He and his wife move to an idyllic little farm in Redbud, Vermont, where he’s finally going to write that novel he’s been outlining in his head for years.

In true Chevy Chase style, the story turns to hilarious disaster. And I’m reminded to keep things in perspective.

When our oldest son was in pre-school, thirty some years ago, his teacher called his mother aside and whispered, “Do you mind if I ask what your husband does for a living?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, today we were sitting in a circle and each child was sharing what their daddy does for a living. When it was Corey’s turn, he started crying and said, ‘Don’t ever ask me that again.’”

It wasn’t that I was a drug-dealer or human trafficker per se. It’s just that he didn’t know how to explain exactly what I did for a living. In fact, I had a hard time explaining it myself. At that time I was what they call a youth ministry consultant. See what I mean?

Also, at that time I was an aspiring writer. I had majored in journalism at the University of Tulsa. I really wanted to be the next J.D. Salinger.

But it’s hard to tell people you’re a writer. It’s one of those jobs that will make your kid cry and say: don’t ever ask me what my daddy does. It’s not like farmer, mechanic, teacher, race car driver, rodeo clown, fireman, you get it.

How do you even know when you’re a writer?

Chuck Sambuchino in Writer’s Digest magazine: “The truth, and you know it down deep, is that it’s not the published book that makes you a writer. You’re a writer because of the things you notice in the world, and the joy you feel stringing the right words together so they sound like music. You’re a writer because you can imagine something in such detail that it comes to life. You’re a writer because you’re obsessed with making your ideas clearer, tighter, fiercer. You’re a writer because you have every reason to stop (it takes too much time, pays too little, and the rejection hurts too terribly), but you can’t do it. It’s not that you love to write so much as you need to write.”

If Chuck is right, I’m going to say it out loud: I’m a writer (at least as an avocation).

After all, I do now have a really cool writing desk. Maybe someday there will be a picture of it on Wikipedia along with an article about some guy known as Pops that wrote a beloved novel called, “That Gone Girl Killed The Mockingbird”.

And then I hear Chevy Chase as “Andy Farmer”, his character in “Funny Farm” say, “As a novelist I turned out to be a pretty good sportswriter.”

The Idea Man

WE DO WHAT WE CAN.

I realize, and reluctantly admit, I can't do a lot things I used to do. Age has a way of sneaking in and stealing our capabilities. But here's something cool--age also brings us new stuff and opportunities, like: the benefits of experience, richer insights, depth of relationships, a pace that allows us to be more observant, to drink a little deeper from the cup of life.

I wanted to find something credible to back me up on this idea of us "mature" dudes having an essence that makes us vital in a very significant way. So I searched the ancient scriptures and found Joel 2:28, which basically says that while the young girls and guys get to prophesy and have visions, us old guys get to dream the dreams. What would the world be without the dreamers?"

You know that color that has always been known as "baby blue"? The color for little boys? Well, I am hereby announcing the official color for us Men Of A Certain Age (drum roll; trumpet herald): COBALT BLUE! Be careful about making assumptions about cobalt blue when you see a just printed sample of it. You really have to see it in glass, porcelain, watercolor, etc. to get a real sense of the depth and mystery of this color. Same for us older guys. Over time, that baby blue has become much deeper with a certain mystique about it.

So what brought on this defense of aging, or as I like to call it: living the Second-Coming-Of-Age?

Kathleen The Muse

If you've followed this blog for awhile, you've heard me mention my muse, Kathleen. Kathleen and her sister are owners of an amazing business called Braid Creative. As a service of their company they broadcast an e-letter with helpful tips and inspiration for young, creative entrepreneurs. I will readily admit that I am neither young nor entrepreneurial, but occasionally I feel creative, but can I call myself creative?

As I've said before, Kathleen as a muse can be very challenging--in a good way. With her, you don't get by with anything. You can only do so much talking before she begins to expect results. This blog, About Pops, for what it's worth, wouldn't exist if it weren't for her challenge to me.

Anyway, a few days ago, she sent this e-letter (I've edited it some): 

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HAVING A GOOD IDEA IS NOT ENOUGH | from Kathleen Shannon

You all know that Tara and I are sisters, right? Well, our dad often tries to make a bid for a position in our family business as our “idea man”. He outlines his job description as having a space in the corner of our office with a single bare light bulb and chain hanging above his elementary school-style desk. He might have a pen and yellow legal pad for notes and sketches. Any time he has an idea he pulls the chain, turns on the light bulb, and declares his idea – it might be an idea for our own business or an idea for our branding clients. Then it’s our responsibility to capture his ideas and do what we will with them. 

As ridiculous as this may sound a lot of aspiring creatives and young freelancers have the same dream job as our dad. They’re so great at coming up with good ideas they basically want their job title to be “idea guy”. But having a good idea is not enough, because guess what? Most people have good ideas – what makes a creative stand out from most people is their ability to make it real. Sitting in the corner of a room with a light bulb hanging above your head does not make you creative. Being able to bring the idea into the world as an actual service, offering, or product is what makes you creative. (Sorry, dad!) 

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See what I mean? When it comes to muse-like encouragement and inspiration, she cuts even her dad no slack. But a few days later, overcome with pity, remorse, or something, she sent this (somewhat edited):

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I’M NOT A CREATIVE… | from Kathleen Shannon

A couple weeks ago I sent out an email saying that just because you have ideas does not make you a creative. That being creative means you’re able to take action on your ideas to make them real. I used my dad’s dream job as our “idea man” as an example and you guys… I really hurt his feelings.

So it was a Friday afternoon, just after I had sent out that letter proclaiming that having a good idea is not enough, and I was hanging out with my sister after work. My parents stopped to pick up my sister’s kids for the night and my dad comes in the house with a big frown and sideways glare in my direction. He also had a bloodshot eye which made the whole thing that much more intimidating. He gruffed at me, “I never said I was ‘A Creative.’ I never said that.” 

And then I felt like a terrible person. While I was kind of just poking fun at his expense and obviously didn’t mean harm, I realized I had made a big mistake. 

Because the truth is… Everyone is creative. It’s just another label that either you identify with or you don’t. My dad is truly brilliant. He’s kind of a big deal at his government job in air quality and has his masters degree from the University of Hawaii in earth science. But beyond that he tells really funny stories and writes limericks for his retiring buddies. He makes a mean deviled ham and eggs on toast. He is a state champion at catching bass and can remember where the fish are biting at lakes he hasn’t been to for years. If that’s not creative, I don’t know what is.

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Yes Kathleen, sometimes you have to look deeper and longer at us cobalt blue guys, but it's worth it.

So maybe on the surface we look like whimsical old relics, living off the stories of our virile youth years. But as I said, the scriptures promise us the dreamer role--the Idea Men; "So we've got that going for us, which is nice."

Recognize that line? It's a classic from one of our Second-Coming-Of-Age brothers: Carl Spackler (played by Bill Murray in the film treasure, Caddyshack).

Here's the text and the clip from the film. 

Carl Spackler: So I jump ship in Hong Kong and I make my way over to Tibet, and I get on as a looper at a course over in the Himalayas.
Angie D'Annunzio: A looper?
Carl Spackler: A looper, you know, a caddy, a looper, a jock. So, I tell them I'm a pro jock, and who do you think they give me? The Dalai Lama, himself. Twelfth son of the Lama. The flowing robes, the grace, bald... striking. So, I'm on the first tee with him. I give him the driver. He hauls off and whacks one - big hitter, the Lama - long, into a ten-thousand foot crevasse, right at the base of this glacier. Do you know what the Lama says? Gunga galunga... gunga, gunga-lagunga. So we finish the eighteenth and he's gonna stiff me. And I say, "Hey, Lama, hey, how about a little something, you know, for the effort, you know." And he says, "Oh, uh, there won't be any money, but when you die, on your deathbed, you will receive total consciousness." So I got that goin' for me, which is nice.

And it shall come to pass afterward, that I will pour out my spirit upon all flesh; and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions. Joel 2:28.

Buckle Up Buttercup!

Remember back in the day when wearing seat belts was optional? 

In fact, for us "men of a certain age", the cars we rode in and learned to drive during our first coming-of-age didn't even have seat belts. Now we strap the grand-girls into devices that remind me of something I once saw some cosmonaut in on his way to outer space. The cool thing is, the girls climb into these seats like that's what normal kids do. Of course they have something else we didn't have as kids--miniature TV screens playing their favorite programs.

Here's my point: for them it's just automatic; routine. The car doors open, they climb in. Dad straps one in and mom the other. Big sister yells at little sister because she has grabbed big sister's "special" (fill in the blank): toy, notebook, doll, book... The doors are closed. We stand waving and sighing as the tail-lights of the mini van disappear in the distance. We miss them already, but nap time is calling.

I recall the shift when cars not only came standard with seat belts, but with a warning light and a persistent dinging sound to remind us to buckle up. It didn't work. Hard-core seat belt haters figured out how to disable the warning signs.

The government in their relentless effort to save us from ourselves, put together a catchy campaign to encourage us all to adopt seat belts as normal operating procedure. Remember the little song that was a part of the campaign:

It didn't catch on in a behavior modification kind of way. So laws were passed and tickets were issued. You know the slogan: "Click It or Ticket."

A good thing happened for me once I adopted a Click-It lifestyle. My life got simpler. You see there was a time when it was a decision-making quagmire every time I got into the car. Should I buckle up or not? I'm only going to the grocery store! As if wrecks never happen between your home and the grocery store. I'm not getting on a highway, so my top speed will be 38 or so. How much damage can I do at that speed?

Back to my point. The grand-girls don't have that quandary. They just climb in and buckle up. The don't have to waste brain power on that decision. They can save that mental energy for arguing important issues like who had the doll first.

I'm reading a book right now called, Daily Rituals: How Artists Work, by Mason Currey. It is a summary of the work and life habits of famous artists, musicians, writers, philosophers, etc. gathered from their journals and letters. What I'm learning is that rituals, routines and habits don't necessarily make life boring and predictable, but can in fact free us to be more creative. Sort of like when I stopped wasting time over that silly seat belt decision.

Now, I just buckle up and save my decision-making powers for important, life-decisions, like: should I stop at Starbucks®, drive-thru or go-in, banana-walnut bread or not, eat it all or save half for later, cash or credit, if I use credit what do I say to my Amazing-Missus when she sees the charge come through and deduces that my total charge is exactly the cost of a tall dark roast, black, and a piece of delicious, carb-laden, banana-walnut bread?

Can You See From Where You Are?

I HOPE YOU SAW the segment on 60 Minutes last Sunday night, reported by Wynton Marsalis. The segment was called The Virtuoso: Marcus Roberts. Here's a link to the video in case you missed it.

Marcus Roberts (CBS News)

The story begins:

Marcus Roberts lost his sight as a child, but gained incredible insight into American music -- inspiring a generation of jazz musicians. Marcus went blind when he was 5 years old. And soon began trying to make sense of life in the darkness. He was unusually curious, and even tore his toys apart just to find out how they worked. Roberts developed a powerful, analytical intelligence, capable of producing music that will move your mind as well as your body. The story of his genius begins with a precious gift from his parents: a piano. His mother Coretta is sightless too, blinded by glaucoma. She remembers the pain of having to leave school in the seventh grade because she couldn't see the blackboard.

Don't you marvel? Think of these people who are sightless, but have such keen insight. One of those people, Helen Keller, reminds us that there is something worse than being sightless:

It is a terrible thing to see and have no vision. -- Helen Keller

I couldn't resist adding this photo of our grand-girl Harper. I don't know what she is imagining seeing through her "binoculars" (upside-down, no less), but clearly, whatever it is, is magnificent.

As we age, we seem to lose our vision. I'm not talking about our eyesight, although that happens too. But let's face it; we do NOT see the things a young child or a blind jazz musician does.

My dad will be 90 soon. He has lost most of his eyesight, but it seems to me like he "sees" more than he ever has, and he has always been an insightful man. So maybe there's hope for me. Maybe I won't become visionless. I want to look through the binoculars, or the camera, or the lament of the Blues, or a quiet Saturday morning enjoying a good, strong cup of coffee and the company of my Amazing-Missus, and SEE something I've never seen before.

And ultimately, there is that promise. Remember the verse? “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man the things which God hath prepared for them that love Him.” 

Several years ago now, death came way too soon for my cousin, "Bobby." He always had a toughness and swagger than I admired as a little kid looking up to him. He seemed to see things I couldn't. At his memorial service, he wanted a certain song played. I've never heard it played at a funeral since. Maybe it was just apropos for Bobby. It goes like this:

I can see clearly now, the rain is gone, 
I can see all obstacles in my way 
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind 
It’s gonna be a bright, bright 
Sun-Shiny day. 

I think I can make it now, the pain is gone 
All of the bad feelings have disappeared 
Here is the rainbow I’ve been praying for 
It’s gonna be a bright, bright 
Sun-Shiny day.