Easy As ABC? Sometimes.

You went to school to learn girl
Things you never, never knew before
Like "I" before "E" except after "C"
And why 2 plus 2 makes 4
Now, now, now
I'm gonna teach you
Teach you, teach you
All about love girl
All about love
Sit yourself down, take a seat
All you gotta do is repeat after me

That’s right. Today’s blog post is a lesson from Old Pops, The Love Professor. For those that know their Jackson 5 lore you’ll recognize that the lyrics above are from their song “ABC”. The song continues:

Reading, writing, arithmatic
Are the branches of the learning tree
But without the roots of love everyday girl
Your education ain't complete
Tea-Tea-Teacher's gonna show you
(She's gonna show you)
How to get an "A" (na-na-na-naaaaaa)
How to spell "me", "you", add the two
Listen to me, baby
That's all you got to do

A B C
It's easy as, 1 2 3
As simple as, do re mi
A B C, 1 2 3
Baby, you and me girl

This cute little number debuted in 1970 on American Bandstand. I was a freshman in college and had no intention of taking advice on Love from an 11 year-old kid. Looking back on Michael’s answer to Love, I still don’t like his solution.

Valentine’s Day looms. Last February, I did a series of posts with unsolicited advice for guys on how to make the most of the opportunity. This year, I already The Gift taken care of, so I’m just waxing philosophical about Love.

Several years ago I read an essay on “systems”. I wish I had made a copy of it or could remember who wrote it so I could give credit, but I don’t. Basically the author’s point was that we have reduced everything to a system.

In our own bodies we have systems: the nervous system, the circulatory system, the digestive system, etc. In society we have systems: legal systems, political systems, economic systems. Even our cars have systems: the fuel system, the braking system, the electrical system, and so on.

Here’s the thing about systems, when they work they’re wonderful. I’m using a system of ones and zeros, computers, wireless signals, servers, etc. to write and share this blog with the masses. It’s mind boggling to think that anyone around the world could read this if they are in the System.

Another thing about systems, sometimes they break… We have things like the postal system and the healthcare system. The thing about systems is when they do break, we can just blame the system and no one gets hurt. “Who is to blame for these problems?!” “No one really, the system failied.” Do you ever get the feeling that sometimes we create systems so we’ll have something to blame and no one is really accountable?

I’ll be conducting another wedding this Spring. Very soon now I will meet with the beautiful young couple for some “pre-marital counseling.” I hope they are not reading this because I’m going to confess that I don’t have all the answers to Love.

I am pretty sure though that I know a lot more about it than Michael Jackson did at eleven (God rest his soul). I do know that it cannot be reduced to system or a formula like ABCs and 123s.

Several years ago our marriage survived a conference we attended on how to have a successful marriage. I say “survived” because looking back, it was a system some guy had put together. He discovered he could take his show on the road and people would pay money to get the “keys” to marital bliss. And, also a coupon  for the advanced seminar where you got even more secret stuff.

Maybe I shouldn’t be too quick to judge, because actually me and My Amazing-Missus were marriage school dropouts. We ditched the last few sessions and did some Christmas shopping for our boys.

It may sound like I’m taking our 42 years of marriage for granted. I’m not, really I’m not. Nor am I saying I haven’t learned anything. I think I will tell this young couple that there are no magic formulas; there’s not a system. Sometimes it as easy as A-B-C or 1-2-3, sometimes its as complicated as H-E-L-L. Just ask my wife. I will tell them that Love is just the opposite of systematic. It is organic, it is natural, it is beautiful and it is eteneral.

Valentine's Day will be the 43rd anniversary of the day I proposed to My Amazing-Missus. I would do it again in a heart beat. I can only hope she would say, YES! But I would settle for a, “What the heck.” 

The Peacock Vow

IT'S THE FIRST DAY OF 2015. I’m throwing caution to the wind, again, and not eating black-eyed peas. However, I do feel compelled take part in some new-year traditions, to make some sort of resolution(s).

Resolution-making has a long, rich tradition. For centuries people have been setting themselves up for failure with promises to eat less, exercise more, blah, blah… According to www.usa.gov the most popular resolutions in 2015 will include: Lose weight, Volunteer to help others, Quit smoking, Get fit, Eat healthier, Manage debt, Take a trip, Drink less Alcohol, and Reduce, reuse and recycle.

But let’s go back a few hundred years, in the Medieval era, knights took the "peacock vow" at the end of the Christmas season each year to re-affirm their commitment to chivalry.[Lennox, Doug (2007). Now You Know Big Book of Answers.]

Now there’s a resolution I can get on board with: reaffirming my commitment to chivalry. It’s vague enough to make it difficult to measure success (or lack of it). It’s enigmatic enough to sound well-thought-through without knowing what the heck I’m talking about.

If Chivalry Is Dead, Don’t Blame Me

It was in the midst of my first coming-of-age that the feminist movement made chivalry obsolete, even an affront to some women. I do remember, however a time in junior high. I held a door open for a new and very pretty young teacher at our school. She said, “Thank you. It’s good to know that chivalry is not dead.”

I was very happy to be seen by her as chivalrous even though I didn’t know what chivalry was. I tried to look it up in the dictionary but I didn’t even know how to spell it. Apparently, though I was helping keep it alive and that was appreciated by some.

So what is it? The sum of the ideal qualifications of a knight, including courtesy, generosity, valor, and dexterity in arms. From my Oxford American Thesaurus for Writers, other words for chivalry include: gentlemanliness, courtesy, courteousness, politeness, graciousness, mannerliness, good manners.

Sounds to me like that’s some stuff we could use today, but is it dead?

The pronouncedly masculine virtues of chivalry came under attack on the parts of the upper-class suffragettes campaigning for gender equality in the early 20th century, and with the decline of the military ideals of duelling culture and of European aristocracies in general following the catastrophe of World War I, the ideals of chivalry became widely seen as outmoded by the mid-20th century. [Wikipedia]

I know this about myself: if nothing else, I am at least outmoded. So, I’m going to embrace the Vow of the Peacock and resolve to be more chivalrous in 2015.

Of course I will need the help of my maiden, the Amazing-Missus, in stitching me up a pennant to bear as I go forward on my quest.

Depiction of chivalric ideals in Romanticism, Stitching the Standard is a painting by British artist Edmund Leighton. It depicts a nameless damsel on the battlements of a medieval castle making the finishing touches to a standard or pennant with a black eagle on a gold background, preparing for a knight to go to war. In a time of peace the woman has taken her needlework into the daylight away from the bustle of the castle.

I Used To Be Pretty

Several years ago, a friend and I would have breakfast most every morning at a little joint known for their good breakfasts. As a rule, we sat at the same table, ordered the same thing from the same waitress: a young Vietnamese girl named Kim.

Because I really like to know people’s stories, I would ask Kim about hers. She came to the USA, as many have, to study. Her story was particularly interesting to me because she came from North Vietnam. Her father was a professor and taught for a time in Moscow.

Anyway… we went from the usual customer/waitperson conversation like, “Want the usual?” “Yes, please.” to a wonderful friendship. Kim came to our house where I tried to fix comfort food for her. I went to the Asian market with a recipe for pho that I found on the internet. Two elderly asian women, detecting my ignorance, helped me find the right ingredients and gave me instructions—none of which I could understand. Kim appreciated the effort; I think. She suggested that the next time we should have burgers, and we did.

The friendship grew. It grew to the point that when we collaborated with some other friends to start a house-church, Kim joined us. She asked if she could invite a few friends and I told her, yes, that’s what this is about.

So the next Sunday she showed up with friends. I was surprised; not that she had actually brought friends, but to see that her friends were an older, anomalous couple named Page and Dicksy. This was great because we were a pretty eccentric bunch anyway.  We were age diverse, culturally diverse, socio-economically diverse, politically diverse and so on.

As it turned out, all of these weird ingredients came together to make a pretty good stew. I didn’t know though, just how powerful this little tribe was until just lately.

I’ve watched them bring compassion, knowledge, expertise, gifts, talents, time, determination and sheer willpower to bear in a situation that desperately needed a solution.

I wish I could tell you all about Page and Dicksy, but for now, you need to know this: they were basically only-children and had no children of their own. For the most part, our little band of believers became their clan.

I wish I could tell you all about the players in this saga; people, that life and God have equipped in ways that have made them a Dream Team for times such as these.

Recently, Page passed away. Dicksy instantly became alone and essentially homeless.

(Oh, believe me it is a story.) The Dream Team stepped in, became Dicksy’s family, planned, funded and conducted Page’s funeral. They found Dicksy a home in a retirement living center and set her up very nicely indeed.

Photo by Molly Hennesy. Taken at Fort Reno, Oklahoma.

They continued to visit her and care for her which was no easy duty. Dicksy’s mother as it turns out, was apparently a colorful character in her own right, at one time married to a country music pioneer. On her deathbed she charged Dicksy with the responsibility of caring for all her worldly treasures. Dicksy took that very, very, very seriously. In her new little retirement home she continued to worry and fret about her stuff. Always the stuff.

Isn’t it funny how treasures become stuff, that becomes junk, that becomes crap, that becomes dust.

Following her husband’s death, a couple of things happened: one, Dicksey became a liberated woman; again (it was not the first time though, that she had become liberated. I’ve seen the pictures). For those of us that knew her, she always wore a wig, a very unflattering one. As soon as Page passed, she took off the wig and threw it away. “I never liked that old thing. Page wanted me to wear it because it made me look younger.”

I’m no expert on grief, but weirdly enough the guy that wrote the book on grief—literally, is the leader of our little band. As an observer, it seemed to me that for Dicksy there was a mix of grief, obsession over her stuff, and fretting, that all combined, bringing her to a sort of defeat.

My Amazing-Missus, who has truly been amazing by being herself in all of this, was with Dicksy when she had her 89th birthday, just a few days after Page’s death. By this time Dicksy had been moved to a rehabilitation unit. A physical therapist came to her room. Arlene told the young man, “Today is Miss Dicksy’s birthday.” “Happy Birthday,” he said.

Dicksy’s reply to him was, “I used to be pretty.” In a few days she was dead.

Her funeral is tomorrow. Once again the Dream Team is busy taking care of details, planning what will be a beautiful memorial service. Afterward, we will gather and remember Page and Dicksy. We’ll laugh at the craziness. And we’ll marvel at the Providence of God. And hopefully we will understand, a little more deeply, that to God: we are all still pretty.

---

Earlier I mentioned that our leader, Doug Manning literally wrote the book on grief. This is the book I’m speaking of. I highly recommend it.

The Interrobang

There is no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation of it. —Alfred Hitchcock

Harper, our middle grand-girl

Interrogatio is Latin for "a rhetorical question" or "cross-examination";
Bang is printers' slang for the exclamation mark. 

Symbols—those little marks that represent something, that tell a bit of a story, that create identity.

For example, if you see a little stylized fish on the back of someone’s car, you assume that they (or the car’s previous owner) professed to be christian. You don’t assume though that the person’s religious convictions extend to more courteous driving or less road rage than their non fish bearing counterparts. And to be fair, we can’t really ask “WWJD” when it comes to driving, because we don’t have any record that Jesus ever drove anything (except the occasional evil spirit—from a person to a pig).

I like symbols. I think they’re interesting. I’ve yet to find a symbol however, that I was so affiliated with that I would have it tattooed on my person, but I have held allegiance to a few symbols over the years, enough at least to wear them as jewelry.

The Peace Sign was one. (Or, as it was called by “rednecks” back in the day: “the footprint of the American chicken.”)

For me, the symbol probably had something to do with my adolescent need to “belong.” It was like the brand of the 60s counter-culture movement and a tribe that was very accepting. Maybe I wore it out of wishful thinking—hoping that somehow if we rallied around the dream of peace I might not get drafted and end up in a jungle in Southeast Asia fighting in a war I didn’t understand.

When that war finally ended, I put the peace sign in a box with my “McGovern for President” button, and my idealism. I still have that box and occasionally drag it out and remember the old days “better than they were.”

Today, if I were to wear a symbol or give serious consideration to symbol-style tattoo, it would be an interrobang. The interrobang has an interesting history. You should Google (v.) it. The interrobang is a punctuation mark that actually appeared on Remington typewriters briefly. It really never made it’s mark though. (Although it is still included in many fonts on your computer.) It was a combination of a question mark and an exclamation point.

As I hinted at the beginning of the post the interrobang would be used at the end of a hypothetical question, being asked with a sort of gusto, like: “Wow, did you see that?!” or “What the what?!” You get the idea, right?!

Just as the peace sign was a good symbol for me in my first coming-of-age, the interrobang serves me well now, in my second.

There was once a day of youthful confidence; swagger, if you will. Today it seems like everything I used to feel certain of, in an exclamatory kind of way, also has a certain question to it. For example, say we’re trekking across country, my Amazing-Missus might ask, “Do you have any idea where we are?” And I reply, “Of course I do! I think?” Or the doctor asks, “How are you doing?” “Great!” I exclaim. “Aren’t I?”

That picture at the beginning of this post, of our middle grand-girl, Harper; her dad took that and commented about her “eye of the tiger” look. She will be 3-years old Saturday. I hope she always keeps her eye-of-the-tiger, strength-of-her-convictions swagger. Some will see it and call it "strong-willed". Her Pops will see it and will remember a day when he had it. A day when he thought Peace was attainable. A day when he was less squishy about his certainties.