AND COUNTING

Each January 8th since 1951, I have a birthday. I'm grateful for each one. Today I've celebrated with My Amazing Missus--just the two of us. We went to one of our favorite burger places, got our food by curbside delivery and ate in the truck. For dessert, we went through the drive-thru at Andy's Frozen Custard. I had a Tin Roof Sundae and she had a kid's size strawberry sundae.

Then we drove to a community where we spent our early married years together and the place I had birthdays 24-40. I guess this is what birthdays are like at this age and in this age: a slow drive and remembering with the one you share it all with.

Numerous friends and family have texted, called and posted on Facebook with happy wishes. It worked. It has been a wonderful day.

"Do you remember what we did on your birthday last year?" My Amazing Missus asked. I didn't. She reminded me that we went to the funeral home to collect the remains of my mom who had passed a few weeks before. Covid 19.

It's hard in a way and essential to remember your mom on your birthday; even your 71st; even if she's no longer here. But, she was quite a celebrator and wouldn't want this to turn dark.

I'm not big on those over sweet cherries that are dropped on top of a good sundae. So today, I gave the one on my Tin Roof from Andy's to My Amazing Missus, who loves them. I am however, a big fan of the metaphorical cherry-on-top. You know the ones that are that extra special something. Mine was a phone call from our kids and hearing the grandkids say, "Happy Birthday Pops!"

NATURE. NURTURE.

IT’S NOT: EITHER/OR; as far as I know.

This is one of those arguments that wears me out, so I’m not going to fall down that rabbit hole if I can help it. I will throw this out there though and alienate one half or the other. Isn’t it strange that those who tend to come down hard on the side of NATURE (sort of a predetermined superiority of some kind) also want to claim they’ve pulled themselves up by their proverbial bootstraps. I don’t know that you can have it both ways. At best it’s a blend.

I’ve dug to the bottom of the last box of my parents’ treasures. There was this—probably a Vacation Bible School project—a picture of a childhood-me glued to a Mason jar lid, glued to a chunk of two-by-four, adorned with letters from letter-shaped pasta spelling: A Chip Off The Old Block, which explains my giant ears and hopefully speaks to my character a little bit. I see it as a strong statement for NATURE.

Another item in the box—a sepia-toned photograph of me, all spit & polished up. This photo, and others from my early childhood, indicate that apparently my mom liked to get my hair cut just right. She probably new that NATURE would deal me my dad’s hairline and she thought, “Let’s live it up while we can.” But, what’s up with the bow tie and spiffy little houndstooth blazer? Was she trying to NURTURE me into becoming a game show host or maybe the owner of a children’s bookstore? I’ve often thought that the fact that she had enrolled me in accordian lessons as preschooler meant she wanted me to be the next Lawrence Welk. Or maybe she was trying to NURTURE me into being a little dandy and in the meantime cultivated the kind of kid that gets beaten up at recess. Or, maybe she just had a coupon for a free 8x10 at some photo studio.

I think sometimes we’re tricked by a kind of optical illusion, sometimes NURTURE looks like NATURE. You would think for instance that because my parents were kind, gracious, humble people of integrity I might be too—just naturely. Maybe though it’s just that they worked so hard to instill those kinds of values in us that some of it stuck and has a natural feel about it. There are chinks in my armor though. Sometimes my curiosity, incessant dreaming and occasional irreverence gets me in trouble—always has.

One of the verses in the Bible I relate to most closely is in the middle of a story of a boy with an evil spirit. The boy’s father tells Jesus, “I do believe, but help me overcome my unbelief!” In other words, I’ve been nurtured but help me deal with my nature.

Even though I am flawed and maybe too open-minded for my own good, I still want to nurture. It’s in my nature because my parents were nurturers. For many years I had the privilege of nurturing young people. NOTE: To all those I may have mis-nurtured; I am sorry. Now I’m at the age where maybe the best of what I’ve had to offer is less needed and more narrow, which on the bright side means it’s also more focused.

If you’ve been around me for more than a few minutes you know I love to quote the movie “A River Runs Through It.” These lines in particular:

“Each one of us here today will at one time in our lives look upon a loved one who is in need and ask the same question: We are willing to help, Lord, but what, if anything, is needed? For it is true we can seldom help those closest to us. Either we don't know what part of ourselves to give or, more often than not, the part we have to give is not wanted. And so it is those we live with and should know who elude us. But we can still love them - we can love completely without complete understanding.”

I believe we are built to love. The Greatest Commandment wouldn’t be: Love God and love yourself, if we weren’t given full capacity to do so. Love nurtures and it’s in our nature to do so.

THE V WORD

IN THE CHURCH OF MY YOUTH, we observed a couple of ordinances: baptism and communion, which we called “Observing the Lord’s Supper.” These ordinances are pictures, and to this day I love them. They are metaphors for remembering. In fact, at the beginning of the communion sevice, the elements—the bread and the “wine”—were set on a table at the front of the sanctuary. Engraved in the front of the table in a sort of gothic typeface were the words of Jesus, “Do this in remembrance of me”.

At the end of the observance, the pastor would read Matthew 26:30, a verse in the narrative of the last supper:

“And when they had sung an hymn, they went out into the mount of Olives.”

In the church of our tradition that song was the first verse of “Bless Be The Tie that Binds.”

Blest be the tie that binds
our hearts in Christian love;
the fellowship of kindred minds
is like to that above.

It was written by John Fawcett in 1782, although I would guess that many of the old saints of my childhood probably would have insisted that it is the exact song that Jesus and his disciples sang together at that first Last Supper.

Maybe you know the hymn from reading Thornton Wilder’s "Our Town” in high school where the song makes several appearances including at a wedding and at a funeral.

Do we still have ties that bind? If so, are those ties too fragile, too frayed? Have they been reduced to a thread to which we are barely hanging. What is it that is tearing at the fabric of our society and even our families?

Vaccinations? Surely it’s more than that. But I know people who have secretly gotten the vaccine because their family are so strongly anti-vax that could have severed family ties. And what about Jeffrey Allen Burnham from Maryland who killed his brother, a pharmacist. Burnham allegedly said, ”that his brother was 'killing people with the COVID shot.”

As the days click closer to Thanksgiving Day, it seems uncertainty still looms. The fraught questions will not be white meat or dark (WHITE), roasted or fried (ROASTED), should the offal go into the gravy or not? (NOT) Pecan or pumpkin pie or both? (PECAN) Sweet or unsweetened? (UNSWEETENED) Lions or Bears? (BEARS)

Some are asking should we gather together or not? Maybe rather than having seperate tables for adults and kids we can have tables or seperate rooms for the vaccinated and the un. Or, maybe a table in the garage or backyard for old people like myself. These days I’m a part of the oldest generation at our family gatherings. That puts me in the “Covid will probably kill me if I catch it” category. It also means I’m more likely to be cranky and less sympathetic with those who hold differing views of stuff.

A year ago, we didn’t have the vaccine. It was around this time of year that the long term care facility where my mom lived was shut to outsiders. We did get to have a couple of visits outdoors with her but that didn’t last long. At some point, even with the quarantine measures in place she was infected, and shortly, Covid took her life. Thus, I’m puzzled by the arguments, denials, or theories of the militant anti-vaxers; an emotional response on my part for sure. I do have empathy for those who truly are not able to be vaccinated for various reasons or have already had Covid. See, it’s narrow-minded people like me, who are afraid of death by suffocation that are gnawing away at the binding ties. Still I’m puzzled and saddened by how deep the divide is. I wish I knew what to do.

My Amazing-Missus reminded me that there was a time that the divide in our nation was worse. It was during that time, specifically in 1863, President Abraham Lincoln, at the height of the Civil War, established Thanksgiving Day in a proclamation entreating all Americans to ask God to “commend to his tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife” and to “heal the wounds of the nation.”

Pass me a heaping helping of what President Lincoln is serving up.

SAY CHEESE

“ARE YOU THROWING AWAY FAMILY PICTURES!?”
No. I’m curating my photo collection.

Doesn’t that have a sophisticated, careful, cautious, thoughtful, responsible, artistic ring to it? The result is the same though; sort of.

Nora the Photographer

I’ve committed to “downsizing” and it’s not just photos. It’s books, articles, journals, art, little treasures—seven decades worth of ephemera.

As happens with us daydreaming types, a song came to mind as I was elbows deep in a bin of photos. The song had an immediate impact. All of a sudden I went from a man-on-a-disposal-mission to a sap that couldn’t bring himself to drop another memory in the trash can.

The song is called Bookends by Simon & Garfunkel. It’s just over one minute long but it’s impact is long-lasting. It has been on a replay loop in my mind and heart for a disabling amount of time now. The lyrics are brief but poignant. (Isn’t that the way it is with brevity sometimes?) Here are the words in their entirety:

Time it was
And what a time it was, it was

A time of innocence
A time of confidences

Long ago it must be

I have a photograph
Preserve your memories

They're all that's left you

CLICK HERE TO HEAR THE SONG (at your own risk).

---

Plan B: Put the burden on someone else.

With the trash can back in the garage, but the downsizing mandate staring me in the face, literally in the faces of the most important people in my life at various ages and stages—a light bulb comes on.

Now I have a pile for each of our sons: Corey and Kyle. Let them sift through these memories. It’s sort of a subversive way of saying, “Here, you throw these away. I can’t do it. I’m a Baby Boomer, an archiver, a sentimental old fool.”

Our boys came of age in the big transition of photography: from film, chemicals, negatives and prints to digital images. Sifting and sorting is different now. People don’t edit and curate. They just buy a bigger hard drive or more memory or space on The Cloud.

Now you can take an iPhone and shoot up a storm. Back in the day, we had a camera loaded with 24 shots of pure Kodachrome. Each release of the shutter had to count. We were curating as we shot.

Sometimes our most vivid pictures aren’t printed on photo paper sitting in a box, or in ones and zeros sitting in a server somewhere. Somehow we just have them—imprinted in our personhood. For example, I don’t have a printed photograph of my Aunt Joyce with her camera, but I have vivid, clear images of her looking down into her Kodak Brownie recording family. I don’t have a picture of my grandmother cooking chicken and noodles, but the image is so clear I can almost taste them. I don’t have a photo of my baptism but I can remember the look of joy on my dad’s face. We were married before videotape, but I can remember the wonder of it. I can connect the lines between the photos we do have of that day.

Now the photos I cherish most are of our grandkids. Fortunatley, their parents are wonderful photographers, capturing the unique character of each one them, telling a story with every shot.

On those days when I find myself standing in a room trying to remember what it was I was looking for when I wandered in there, I realize those printed pictures are good to have, because it’s like Paul Simon said:

I have a photograph
Preserve your memories

They're all that's left you