Free At Last

Years ago I was in Pineville, Louisiana, to speak at Louisiana College. They put me up for the night in a wonderful old hotel in downtown Alexandria, The Hotel Bently. To enjoy the wonders of historic buildings you have to endure their old quirks and failings. Sort of like you have to do to enjoy the wonder of us old "men of a certain age."

Unfortunately, for the Hotel Bently, while it had undergone some rehab and modernization, the elevators were still on the to-do list. So, returning from my speaking engagement, I returned to the hotel and boarded the elevator. It made it up roughly two and half floors and quit. I was stuck on an old elevator; tired and hungry.

Fortunately, a phone had been added and it worked. The rescue took 30 minutes or so, which seemed like three hours or so. The doors were manually separated and a ladder was lowered into my little prison. I climbed free. The Freedom was sweet indeed. 

The hotel manager was on hand for the rescue, full of apologies he was ready with vouchers for free drinks in the hotel bar. "Oh, that's okay," I said. "It wasn't your fault and anyway, I don't imbibe." He asked what they could offer for the inconvenience. "How about some of those little bottles of shampoo and conditioner." I said with a smile. He looked at my bald head, but missed the irony. We finally agreed on a room-service burger and fries.

Just a few weeks later I was scheduled to speak at an event in Tulsa. Again I was staying in a downtown hotel, but a modern one. I don't remember the name of it but it involved two trees. (a Mitch Hedberg joke.)

I remember using my recent elevator saga in my talk to illustrate the sweetness of freedom. The next morning I was at breakfast in the hotel restaurant. At a table near me, were three older men and two women. The men were wearing military style caps and I noticed POW patches on the caps. Then I noticed many more in the restaurant. Turns out it was a reunion of a group who had been prisoners of war together.

When their breakfast arrived, the fun, rowdy conversation stopped. They joined hands and one of the men lead them in a prayer. He was thankful for the food, the company, but most of all for FREEDOM. I watched and listened and thought: how could I possibly think I could understand freedom from the context of being stuck in an elevator. 

I learned that a heart, truly grateful, has truly known hopelessness, emptiness, fear and despair. 

I can't truly empathize with those who have made, as we say, the ultimate sacrifice, because I never have. But I can remember them; and the lives of their loved ones left behind, fractured by their passing and injuries.

The price is so high.

This Might Sting A Little

ONE OF THE COOL THINGS about the world-wide-web is the ability to google medical stuff and diagnose your own maladies. And I'm sure doctors love it when I go to the office and start the conversation with, "I Googled my symptoms and..."

Say what you will, I love being able to get a second opinion for free. Here's an example. A recent bit of online research yielded this bit of wisdom from a doctor I trust a great deal:

When at last we are sure
You've been properly pilled,
Then a few paper forms
Must be properly filled,
So that you and your heirs
May be properly billed.

--Dr. Seuss

This is highly relevant to my world the past few weeks, all leading up to tomorrow's big event.

First let me say this: Some kinds of bragging I celebrate, like Kevin Durant talking about his teammates, or parents and grandparents sharing pictures and the exploits of the kids. (Here's an excellent example)

The Grand-Girls. I'm not sure even the flowers are as lovely--but that's just me.

There are some kinds of bragging that further turn my messed up belly, like: people trying to impress you with how busy and significant they are by telling you how many emails they have in their inbox. Or, those who want to talk about how many surgical procedures they've endured, which inevitably includes a Show & Tell for each of their scars. Unfortunately, this kind of stuff is a staple for conversation of us mature adults.

That said--a couple of weeks ago after a few days of stomach uneasiness, my gall bladder attacked me. I went to the ER where this pretty little girl, that I'm guessing was 15 or so, squirted some kind of jelly all over my stomach and then rubbed a probe all over, like she was hunting for coins at the beach with a metal detector.

The doctor studied images from her procedure on the monitor. They looked something like a Rorschach test. "It's time for you and your gall bladder to part company," said the Doctor.

I wanted to argue; we've been through so much together. But this sucker had betrayed me, and I realized that if I said, "No thanks, Doc, I'll keep it," it would only be the drugs talking.

So tomorrow, one of those spare parts that only God knows why He put in the mix, like tonsils and appendixes, is coming out. 

Remind me next time we meet and I'll show you the scar. ;-)

Graduation and Tarzan

Our Alma Mater,
Thou art strong and true
Thy name shall live in the deeds thy children do.
Thy gift will be in life our guide,
We will be true to thee,
Will Rogers High.

Remember graduation? Here's my ode to graduation day:

A GRADUATION POEM
By POPS

O' the thoughts that ran through
The mind under that mortarboard
The emotions that quickened the heart
And stirred the butterflies
In the belly beneath that robe.
Mission accomplished! Oh, crap; what now?!

I was a member of the Class of '69, Will Rogers High School, Tulsa, Oklahoma. I wasn't much of a member really; I only went to school there my senior year. Prior to that I was a Jenks Trojan!

BTW: the term Alma Mater is Latin, meaning "nurturing mother". Obviously it is used most often these days to refer to the school one attended, but it also refers to the school song or hymn, as in the case of the lyrics at the beginning of this post.

2014 grads of Oklahoma Baptist University. (borrowed from the OBU Facebook page without permission)

Though my time at Will Rogers High was short, I grew to love that little song. The tune is as nice as the lyrics. It's kind of cool that it is literally the school's Alma Mater--the song, it's about our Alma Mater--the school, and it's written using the literal meaning, "nurturing mother", as a metaphor of the school as mother and the students as the "children."

If you're still with me, which is probably unlikely, how about digging through whatever box might contain the old school tassel, or grab a school yearbook. Reminisce a bit. Then say to yourself, "Life is full of transitions and graduations, I survived that big one and I'll survive the next." Now move your tassel to the other side (figuratively of course), and let's take the summer off.

Tarzan and the fam.

Oh, one more lesson before we go: My friend Grady Nutt observed an important life lesson from Tarzan. For those who don't know Tarzan lore, his favorite mode of travel through the Jungle was swinging from one vine to the next. Grady pointed out that if Tarzan had been afraid or unwilling to let go of one vine to grab the next, he would have been known as a real swinger, but would have never gotten anywhere.

Congrats to all you grads wherever you are.

Playing The Glad Game

I'm man enough to admit it: I like Facebook. And, as every delusional, fibbing dude SHOULD have admitted when he bought a copy of Playboy back in the day, claiming he liked the magazine for its insightful articles; I like Facebook for the pictures. It's a great way to keep up with old friends, their kids and grandkids.

Lately I've really been enjoying posts of prom pics and spring sports and kids I feel connected to who are doing well--like a young pole vaulter named Brenon winning regionals, advancing to state, accepting a scholarship and signing with a great school, with a stellar track program.

For many years, I had the privilege of working with teens, watching them grow and discover. I got to be friends with some very creative, fun, wacky people. It was a blast walking with them, seeking some hope in the despair. 

I am a very proud dad of two sons. The youngest serves in a role that brings him in touch with some of the ugliest, cruelest, most tragic elements of our society. I don't know how he does it, but I'm grateful to him for serving in a way few of us would.

Do you see the ends of the broad spectrum I'm trying to paint here? On the one end: happy, healthy kids in photos with prom dates or their winning teammates. On the other end, photos of people often in a drug-addled state standing against a wall with height markers, holding a number. I know it not as clear cut as that, but...

Does it seem sometimes like the floor is tilting the wrong way?

Best I remember, my first movie star crush was with Hayley Mills in the movie Moon-Spinners. I was thirteen. She was eighteen. It didn't work out.

Ms. Mills was probably best known though for her portrayal of Pollyanna in the movie of the same name. Pollyanna was an eternally optimistic little girl who would NEVER have had a "SH#T HAPPENS" bumper sticker on her car. She liked to play a game called "The Glad Game" where she could turn every negative into a positive.

If Pollyanna were still alive, and if she had somehow insulated herself from the infectious, slimy ooze of the 24-hour A Day TV news shows, and if she had somehow found a place for herself in the hateful, vitriolic, political rhetoric that has become the norm for us citizens of the not-so-United States; it would be fun to follow her on Twitter and Facebook. Would she still be playing The Glad Game? Would she post selfies of herself smiling from ear to ear after realizing she wouldn't have a date for the prom? (But she would of course--she's Hayley Mills.)

It got me to thinking about the roles I play. (BTW: the plural "roles" is appropriate for all of us because we do play many.)

If you follow this blog (bless you), you know that I am known to my Grand-Girls as "Pops." Here on this blog I also use the term as an umbrella term for the roles of grandfather.

As you know, the prefix for "many" in our language is "poly." So, I'm hereby branding the persona of a grandfather who plays many important roles as: PolyPops. It will remind me that one of the roles we  must play is Pollyanna-like; to play a version of The Glad Game when the need arises, to help find things to celebrate.

Hayley Mills as Pollyanna

Occasionally, in the midst of all the mistrust and oneupmanship and bullying and bitterness and bad news so pervasive in our world, maybe the highest calling for grandparents is to bite the bullet and go to Chuck E. Cheese's, or to say, "Yes, let's do jump on the bed, but be careful because all we have now is Obamacare which apparently is the end of life as we know it," or "bedtime; schmedtime, let's have some fun, because life is short and your parents can time-out-chair you back in to shape when you get home." PolyPops to the rescue.

"Youth is the period in which a man can be hopeless. The end of every episode is the end of the world. But the power of hoping through everything, the knowledge that the soul survives its adventures, that great inspiration comes to the middle-aged." --G.K. Chesterton