BOO!

MAKING SCARY FUN. Halloween is today. It's one of my favorites because we get to make what should be scary, eerie, sinister and creepy; fun.

The are some other notable days coming up that also have the potential to be scary, eerie, sinister and creepy. I'm hoping for some fun in their midst, but I'm skeptical. Here's the list:

November 1: Sign up for Medicare and choose a plan. I don't know whether to put my trust in Tom Selleck or Joe Namath.

November 6: Fall Back. At my age I'll take any opportunity to "gain an hour" even if it is the one we lost last spring. But I don't like that fact that it will be dark before "Wheel of Fortune" comes on.

November 8: Election Day. This is the scariest of all. I realize I don't live in Georgia, but the fact that Hershel Walker could actually become a U.S. Senator--one of the 100 most powerful, unrepentent people in the country, makes my skin crawl. Which brings me back to Joe Namath. No offense meant, but Joe and Hershel, I loved watching you play football, but I think I'll look to someone who's been hit in the head a few less times to guide my Medicare choices and to sit in the Senate casting policy-making votes.

November 10: Dental appointment. If you can't see the inherent terror in that...

November 11: Veteran's Day. My fear here is that we are forgetting. Forgetting the sacrifice. Forgetting the worth of a democracy worth fighting for. Forgetting the beauty of civility and common causes.

November 17: My oldest Grand-Girl will be 14. Please can we slow this down a bit. I'm scared, I'm in awe of the beautiful young lady she is. I'm daunted: how can I be the best Pops I can be to a 14 year old?

Here's a picture of her at four years old sitting next to her Mimi, anxiously waiting on the curtains to go up on "The Nutcracker" ballet.

The next picture is of her a few nights ago sitting next to her Mimi, anxiously waiting on the curtains to go up on "Lady of the Camellias" ballet.

November 24: Thanksgiving. Not much to fear here other than the power of gluttony. I do fear that the scale has tipped to ingratitude in our culture today. Arrogance seems to be valued over humility; power over servanthood. Hope is giving way to despair.

In an essay by David Brooks he notes a study of headlines published between 2000 and 2019 by 47 news outlets popular in the United States. "The headlines grew significantly more negative, with a greater proportion of headlines denoting anger, fear, disgust and sadness.

"The General Social Survey asks people to rate their happiness levels. Between 1990 and 2018 the share of Americans who put themselves in the lowest happiness category increased by more than 50 percent. And that was before the pandemic.

"Each year Gallup surveys roughly 150,000 people in over 140 countries about their emotional lives. Experiences of negative emotions — related to stress, sadness, anger, worry and physical pain — hit a record high last year."

TODAY IS HALLOWEEN. Really the only thing to fear is that we will all be judged by some little witch, princess or Spiderman on the quality of the offering we drop in their bag or bucket. Sure the days are getting shorter. I'm going to pay the dentist mightily (because Medicare doesn't cover dental) to learn I need to floss more. All of our Grand-Kids are getting too old for Pops' antics and stupid jokes. I miss my Dad, one of the last WW2 vets. The election will come and go, some will accept the results, some won't. But, at 6:30, Pat and Vanna will still be there. Thankfully, the political ads will be gone for awhile. And when the Medicare ads run, I will have that settled.

After Thanksgiving we will go to Utica Square in Tulsa with all of our kids and Grand-Kids and they will sit by Santa for a picture just like I did when I was a little boy and the world seemed simpler.

Before your treat bowl is empty this evening, turn off the porch light and eat the last few Snickers by yourself in the dark. [You are giving Snickers aren't you?]

GROOVY

Slow down, you move too fast
You got to make the morning last
Just kicking down the cobblestones
Looking for fun and feeling groovy
Ba da da da da da da, feeling groovy

59th Street Bridge Song by Paul Simon

LET'S FIND THE GROOVE. Tap a foot to the beat. I'm playing around here with a mix of ideas: a musical groove and finding a state of pleasing consistency, a flow, sort of like a needle of a turntable on a vinyl disk, or ink rubbed into an etched incision of a metal plate.

Maybe you've been in the groove before. Here's one way to look at it: Maybe you had a spell where you weren't feeling great, disjointed, bewildered; but now you're getting "back in the groove."

Maybe you've been in a rut before, that ditch of a lifeless routine. I heard someone say that a rut is a "grave with both ends knocked out."

How do you know if you're in a rut or in the groove? If you're in the groove, you're feeling it. At a minimum you're tapping your foot to it (even metaphorically). Because apparently it's part physiological:

The urge to move in response to music, combined with the positive affect associated with the coupling of sensory and motor processes while engaging with music (referred to as sensorimotor coupling) in a seemingly effortless way, is commonly described as the feeling of being in the groove.

In a rut there is no sound, or if there is, it's a hum, a droning, without rhythm or melody and certainly no harmony.

I love jazz. Often people say they don't. I think it's because they can't find the groove. People like a good four-count rhythm with a hefty downbeat: ONE, two, three four. ONE, two, three, four. And repeat.

One of my favorite jazz tunes is Dave Brubeck's "Take Five". It makes a good example of how irritating jazz can feel. It has five beats to a measure. Finding the groove is tricky but so fun when you do. My advice is to pay attention to the rhythm section: the bass, the drums and piano. They will almost always give you the groove. But even if you miss it, it's way more fun than a rut.

As I move closer to retirement, I fear the rut; not the rhythm, but the rut. There's a difference. Here's an example: My Amazing-Missus and I have discovered a little diner where we live. On Monday nights they have half-price burgers. We say to heck with the diet and cardiologist's warnings. She has the old-fashioned w/o cheese and fried okra, I have the ultimate patty melt. So, for now, our Monday rhythm is burgers out, get home in time to watch "The Voice", then she goes off to another room to sew or watch to see if they're going to LOVE IT or LIST IT, I watch what's left of the Monday Night Football game to see which team will WIN IT and which will LOSE IT.

At some point, if at our little diner, we're just stuffing greasy beef and bread down our gullets without even tasting it or enjoying the danger, we've fallen into a rut. If we miss an opportunity to do something else because of the routine, we're in a rut.

I played drums in some fine bands. That included marching in a bunch of parades including one presidential inaugural parade (the one for the infamous Tricky Dick Nixon). During a parade, the drummers never rest. In between songs they play a cadence. It provides the groove allowing the members of the band to march in unison and unity. I can still play the cadences from those days. Those memories are still in my old muscles. We played those over and over and over again. We were in a rut? NOPE. We were in the groove. Heck, we were the groove.

It it's quiet where you are right now, pay attention to the beating of your heart. Concentrate on your breathing; in and out. That is your groove, your cadence. Groovy! Right?

When I was much younger I heard a guy, a guy I had a lot of respect for, say that "maturity is learning to play the hand you've been dealt." That sounded so right to me when he said it, and I accepted it for fact. Now, it sounds like selling-out, or at least, settling; to me.

The thing about being in the groove is that it moves us forward. It's consistent but dynamic. Along with the groove there is a melody and harmonies. AND, there is the chance to ad-lib. You can riff. You can change keys or tempos, but the groove is always there.

I was visiting about these ideas with my oldest son/drummer/art professor. "It's like Intaglio printing," he said.

In Intaglio printing, ink is rubbed into grooves created by etching a design in a plate made of copper, zinc or other materials. Under pressure the paper is embossed into the grooves picking up the ink and producing a range of printed effects.

This picture of grooves being cut and inked; impressions created under pressure to produce a final product which can be replicated over and over, is rich in application to living in the groove.

There is a verse to the Paul Simon song "The Boxer" which didn't make the radio version of the song. It goes like this:

Now the years are rolling by me
They are rockin' evenly
I am older than I once was
And younger than I'll be; that's not unusual
Nor is it strange
After changes upon changes
We are more or less the same
After changes we are more or less the same

As I'm writing this I'm listening to "Portrait In Jazz" by the Bill Evans Trio. If this blog post doesn't make any sense, play the 6th cut called "Peri's Scope" and see if you don't find yourself in the groove and just a little bit happier.

Here's to a rut-less and groovy day.

SHALL WE GATHER

THIS IS ABOUT: coffee and commas; pauses and places; gatherings and gauntlets.

Okay, let's get this straight, right from the beginning: commas (and their punctuation buddies) are important, especially in our societal drift to writing where the only function of punctuation is to share emotion ;-(

For example, consider the possible outcomes of these words from a man to his beloved, based solely on the placement of punctuation:

A woman, without her man, is nothing.

Or, more wisely put:

A woman: without her, man is nothing.

This example is from a wonderful book by Lynne Truss called, "Eats Shoots & Leaves". The title comes from this story,

A panda walks into a cafe. He orders a sandwich, eats it, then draws a gun and fires two shots in the air.
"Why?" Asks the confused waiter, as the panda makes towards the exit. The panda produces a badly punctuated wildlife manual and tosses it over his shoulder.
"I'm a panda," he says, at the door. "Look it up."
The waiter turns to the relevant entry and, sure enough, finds an explanation.
"Panda. Large black-and-white bear-like mammal, native to China. Eats, shoots and leaves."

Truss says of punctuation's function: "To point up -- rather in the manner of musical notation -- such literary qualities as rhythm, direction, pitch, tone and flow... It tells the reader how to hum the tune."

A comma helps us find a rest, a place to breath.

What does this have to do with coffee and gathering? Check out this from the web page of a little local coffee shop I frequent:

"We’re grateful to be a part of your coffee rhythm today, whether you’re here for rest, work, or play and we hope that you can pause for a moment. It’s the pauses that provide us the opportunity to rest and reflect, celebrate what’s come before, and to prepare for what’s next.

"Every day needs a Comma."

This shop used to be called The Gathering Place. That is until a huge public trust in my hometown of Tulsa, Oklahoma, decided that there could only be one gathering place. After the little coffee shop of that name had been open for people to gather, along came a huge park project along the Arkansas River in Tulsa, to be known as Gathering Place. Apparently, the suits of that enterprise thought people might confuse the two. Imagine: a family from Iowa hears of this amazing park along the river in Tulsa. They load up the SUV and embark on the journey to see it for themselves. But, through some GPS fluke they end up at a storefront coffeeshop in downtown Shawnee, Oklahoma.

Believe it or not, the Goliath-like behemoth charged its attorneys, "Sic 'em!" So, they tell the young families that own the coffeeshop, "Cease and desist! We'll see you in court!" Gauntlet thrown! Or something like that. It's a true story. You can use your favorite search engine to find all the details.

The coffeeshop owners say (in my version of the story), "Hey, pause, breath, have a comma moment."

In defense of the park people, I've been a part of trademark defense, threats, violations and litigation. If your entity has a trademark and you don't defend it, eventually a court could rule that the trademark has ceased to mean anything. Still...

Pushed into a name change, the little-coffeeshop-that-could rebranded and created a better version of themselves. And, guess what, people still gather at their place; now called, "Comma"!!!

Of course, you'll want to visit for yourself. I'm happy to meet you there. The coffee and scones are superb. In the meantime, visit virtually: comma.cafe.

They're right: everyday needs a comma, and for me, most days need a semicolon--just a little longer pause than a comma. Thankfully, at Comma; semicolons are okay too.

---

A Confession: Before you grammarians sharpen your red pencil to show me the errors of my punctuational way, I don't claim to know what I'm doing. Punctuation is both utilitarian and poetic for me. Like a delicious, cold fruit salad.

CHANGE OF ADDRESS

"WE MUST BE OVER THE RAINBOW!" Remember when Dorothy said that to Toto, right after she said, "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore."

At least we're back in the land of the 74___ zip codes.

It's been weeks since I've tried to actually type a sentence or paragraph much less an entire essay. We've been in a sort of self-induced whirlwind. We had often talked about where we might settle for our "golden" years. Tulsa, Oklahoma, is our home. Maybe that's where we should land. But, can you go home again? We left there in the early 70s as newlyweds for parts west, returning to Tulsa often for visits, still feeling like it was home.

The question was not only where, but when.

Then the real estate market blew up and we decided to see if we could step in and get our share of the madness. We reached out to a young man that we've known for years to seek his advice as a real estate pro. He studied our situation and said we should list the house for this amount. "That's crazy" I said, "No one will pay that!" He confidently countered that this would only be the beginning, that in all likelihood, we would get multiple offers for more. The next day his prediction came true. And the next day we were smack in the middle of a Dorothy-esque tornado.

Tulsa called. Reason whispered. Then from the advice of our mentor, we decided to move to Shawnee, Oklahoma. The pieces began to fall into place and peace was restored. We're now in our new home.The only downside, and it was a huge one--the move took us a bit further from our other kids and four grands. It's not like they're in another state. We'll make up for the distance somehow.

I was telling a young friend about our move. "Why Shawnee?" He asked. I explained that our oldest son and his family live there and we've moved there to become a burden to our kids. He told me his parents had just moved near them from Idaho. One day his dad was offering more help than he needed. His dad explained, "Jerrod, remember we've moved here to be a blessing to you."

Blessing or burden? I keep watching episodes of "Everybody Loves Raymond" hoping to learn how not to be THOSE parents.

I'm also hoping to be a good citizen of our new community. This is actually my second shot as a Shawneeite, or is it Shawneeian, or Shawnoid. My first experience here was as a freshman at the university where our son now teaches. It didn't end well. I was encouraged by the administration to find a new school for my sophomore year. I'm somewhat more mature now. Hopefully, I'll get to stay this time.

Over the years I've lived in Tulsa, Jenks, El Reno, Hinton, Oklahoma City and now Shawnee for the second time. Looking back, Dorothy was right: "There's no place like home."

This would have been much easier to write about and celebrate a few weeks ago, before we saw the faces of refugees forced to leave their homes, not knowing where home might be even the next day. How to respond?

Maybe if I'm just really, really, really grateful for a home, the guilt will be lighter. Maybe if I stand atop the shaky soapbox of moral superiority. Maybe if I reflect on a work-ethic, self-discipline, responsibility and a relative frugality. Maybe if I read a Joel Osteen book. Maybe if I give money to the Red Cross or hand a few bucks to the guy on the corner. Maybe if I polish my own bootstraps which I mistakenly might assume I pulled myself up with. Maybe if I pray for the refugees, the homeless, and the least of these.

Questions born out of confusion and desperation are as old as mankind. Here's the answer I always come back to:

"He's already made it plain how to live, what to do, what God is looking for in men and women.
It's quite simple: Do what is fair and just to your neighbor, be compassionate and loyal in your love,
And don't take yourself too seriously—take God seriously."
--Micah 6:8.

Hopefully it is also okay to wish for the demise of evil, dehumanizing tyrants.