OUR NAME

“FULLER, FULLER, FULLER?” said my fiancée’s grandfather, stroking his chin, when she introduced me to him for the first time. “I’ve known some sorry ones and I’ve known some good ones. Most of them were sorry,” he concluded.

MY FUTURE GRANDFATHER-IN-LAW (AND WHO KNOWS WHO THE LADIES ARE)

I never did figure out which category he finally sorted me into. If it mattered to him that his beautiful grandgirl was about to become a FULLER, he didn’t show it.

I’ve never minded being Fuller; and by that I mean having that word as a last name. I’ve also never minded being a Fuller family member. (Hopefully the feeling is mutual.) Oh there was that time that a P.E. teacher/frustrated coach gave me a knickname, as he liked to do for all of his P.E. protégés. He liked to use his knicknames for us when he called roll. The guy before me, Doug Filmore was “Feel less”. Then came “Fulla-crap”. That was me. Fortunately, his knicknames didn’t catch on. Although he may have been somewhat prophetic.

Some of our very best friends are Smiths and Joneses. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have a more common last name like Johnson and live on a street like Elm, rather than a name that people surprisingly have to clarify: “Did you say Ford?” “No, Fuller, like the brush man.” Then if they’re under 60: “The what?” It’s Fuller: “F-U-L-L-E-R!” “We live on Chateaux—the X is silent. Have you never been to New Orleans?”

Fuller isn’t an uncommon name, but it’s rare enough that when I hear it, my radar goes up. Could we be related? Is this someone I would be happy to share a name with? In some cases; yes. Often, I’m so pleased to see another Fuller, I talk about it; or, post some newsworthy story, etc.

Take Sarah Fuller for example. If that name rings a bell, Sarah is a soccer player at Vanderbilt U. in Nashville. Poor Vanderbilt did not have a great year in football. In their last few games their roster was COVID depleted including their placekicker. Sarah was called on and became the first female in a “Power 5” conference to kick and score in an NCAA game. Even though I would happy to say we are related; we are not (as far as you know), except we’re both Fullers and two of all God’s children.

SARAH FULLER

My Amazing-Missus and I have two children, both sons. I am proud to share the name with them. If My Amazing-Missus’s Papa had known our boys, he would’ve had to say, “FULLER? I’ve know some great ones!” Our boys, in chronological order, are Corey and Kyle.

Maybe you’ve heard of Corey Fuller who played for the Detroit Lions and his younger brother Kyle who still plays for the Chicago Bears. As far as you know, there is no relation, other than the fact that we’re all Fullers and all God’s children.

COREY FULLER

KYLE FULLER

This brings to mind a song by the Avett Brothers, “Murder In The City” that my son Corey introduced me to. From the lyrics:

Always remember there was nothing worth sharing
Like the love that let us share our name
Always remember there was nothing worth sharing
Like the love that let us share our name

When I was around 7 or 8 or so, my parents owned a bakery. One of their specialties was fried pies. I remember the slogan printed on the packaging of those pies—sweet marketing genius: “Fuller Pies, Better Because They’re Fuller!”

Without fail, at a table, at the end of a big meal, if anyone at all would say, “I’m full!” My Dad would reply, “I’m Fuller. Glad to meet ya.”

My Dad made being Fuller funner; and sometimes serious. He bore the name proudly as did my Mom and as does my little brother, Dr. George Edward (Rusty) Fuller.

That Avett Brothers song, that I mentioned earlier, also has a verse that goes like this:

I wonder which brother is better
Which one our parents love the most
I sure did get in lots of trouble
They seemed to let the other go
A tear fell from my father's eyes
I wondered what my dad would say
He said, "I love you and I'm proud of you both
In so many different ways

I love all of our Grand-Girls immensely, so don’t get me wrong here, and I know it sounds old-fashioned, and could be construed as diminishing, but I am so glad to have two little Grand-Boys, Malachi David and Jeremiah Kent, who will always be known as FULLER… some of the good ones.

2020 gets blamed and battered a lot, as if all this crap we’ve lived with these past months has been its fault. I do hope 2021 will be better, healthier, more peaceful, more hopeful.

Here’s my wish for you: A FULLER New Year.

CLICK HERE TO LISTEN TO THE AVETT BROTHERS SING THEIR SONG.

PAST PRESENT FUTURE

IT’S CHRISTMAS DAY 2020. Our Grand-Kids aren’t here, the pandemic is—well not right here in our bunker, but it’s just outside our door.

This is Christmas Past—1951. In two weeks I will be One.

My Christmas memories are a full sensory kaleidoscope made up of real trees, lights, tinsel, parades in downtown Tulsa, visiting Santa at Utica Square, music, candy, happy happy times.

Looking back, I know that Dad & Mom didn’t have a lot, but there was always an abundance. I remember waking and running into the living room on Christmas morning to see what Santa had brought. By about noon our eyes would be able to focus on the gifts. You see, Dad had an 8mm movie camera and attached to the top of that camera was a bank of blinding flood lights that literally made seeing what was under the tree an occasion of deferred gratification. He would position himself and his camera and light array so he could capture our expression as we came in the room. All of our Christmas morning movies are of me and my little brother trying to shield our rods and cones from the harsh rays.

This year will be the first Christmas without either of my parents. Dad passed in the summer of 2019 and Mom just a few days ago: pneumonia from COVID-19. I say that COVID took my Mom, which is medically true but also humanly speaking. My Mom loved Christmastime, all of it. The forced aloneness of the pandemic was slowly draining the life from her. I’m not sure she could have tolerated a Covid Christmas. As I’ve watched news of people in nursing homes getting the vaccine I can’t help but wonder: if she could have made it just a few more weeks…

This is Christmas present.

The only wrapping paper strewn across our living room floor is from the present my Amazing-Missus gave to me. We watched the unwrapping of gifts for the Grand-Kids via Facetime®. It’s not the same. Maybe I will tune in to Peppa Pig later, just because. In the meantime, I’m writing this essay while listening to The Beatles’ “Revolver” album. As I said, This is Christmas present.

That gift that I unwrapped, the one my Amazing-Missus gave me! I have to tell you about it.

I have always had a tendency to dream big and do little—sort of like Clark Griswald, dreaming of a pool in the backyard and a Norman Rockwell Christmas. Here’s an example: I have a dream house—sort of like Barbie’s but bigger and less pink. I have pictures of this house. I have chosen the rock for the exterior and all the stuff for the interior finishes. The only things lacking are a lot to build it on and any intention of actually doing so.

This morning I unwrapped my gift. It was a round tube. She said, “This is a gift you will never use.”

“A treadmill?” I guessed.

I have a good friend who is one of Oklahoma’s best architects. When I opened the tube, inside were blueprints for my dream house. My amazing Amazing-Missus had contacted my friend and now I have a set of plans for the house that may very well always remain just a dream.

That’s characteristic of Christmas Future. Sort of uncertain. This holiday season has reminded me that life is fragile. Oh! Don’t get me wrong! I would love to one day see our Grand-Kids opening presents in the living room of that dream home.

So, 69 Christmases have come and gone for me. Past, present and future, I know this: that story the one about that baby born in Bethlehem? That’s what matters. I’m not trying to sound holy. I’m telling you what I know, what I’ve experienced. The only lasting peace, the only enduring love, the only truth; is in THAT story.

In the meantime, want to see POPS’ DREAM HOUSE? Maybe you could pretend to come and visit us there.

DON’T BLAME THE MAILMAN

USUALLY BY THIS TIME the Christmas cards I’ve designed have arrived from the printer and we’re sending them out to friends and family whether they want one or not. Not this year though.

a few custom cards from years gone by

It’s not a delay in the printing process, nor a failure of the postal service. It’s not that we’re in despair from this quarantine quagmire. We decided last year—Christmas 2019—would be our last year to send out cards. Had we known what Christmastime 2020 would look like, I might have gone on with a card design—something apropos and uplifting. The cover of it might have looked something like this.

merry christmas 2020 from dave & Arlene

With text on the inside that might have said something like this: Q: What do you call 3 guys in robes and turbins, riding camels and maintaining safe social distancing? A: Wise Men.

But, I didn’t have those printed and we have nothing to mail. I received a call from my dear Aunt Betty to inquire about our card, maybe concerned that her’s was lost in the mail. When I told her we decided not to send cards this year she said, “I don’t blame you. A call is just as good.” I agreed with her—in spirit—but I don’t intend to call all y’all.

“You want a Christmas Card!? All right. Here; here’s your Christmas Card.”

— Elaine Benes

Seriously and sincerely, let this be our Christmas wish: That you and yours will know peace. That you will discover wonderful ways to celebrate safely, because the season calls for the celebration of hope and joy, now more than any other time in a long, long time.

Fear not!

TIME TO REDECORATE?

ON A SUNDAY NIGHT, a man, along with his soul, stumbled into a church. A friend of mine was the music director at this church which was located downtown, a stone’s throw from the bus station. He was telling me the story, which was not unusual; this was not the first wayfarer to venture in to this church.

The man was clearly under the influence of something: jug wine, mis-taken medication or maybe a spirit of some kind; holy or otherwise. This was a Baptist church, and a time, back a few years ago, when Baptist churches gathered on Sunday night and each service ended in an alter call. On this night the wanderer wandered down the aisle and announced to the church that he was there to “redecorate his life!”

He wasn’t far off. On the little card designed to note any and all alter call responses, you would write your name and check the box for the type of decision you were making, one of the choices was: Rededication.

Redecoration / Rededication… There’s probably room for both.

The other day, I received a message from an e-magazine, one I had written for a few times called “The Curator”. I clicked through to the magazine and read a couple of those old articles. One in particular, written ten years ago brought back memories and surprised me with how real it seems to me still and how relevant the themes of restoration, redecoration, rededication, recreation and renewal are, and how maybe I’m in need.

I thought about copying and pasting the piece here for those who might want to read it, but I may have given sole publication rights to the magazine. So, I’ll include the link to the article here in case you would like CHECK IT OUT.

The Call of the Mud Angels by Dave Fuller