Grand-Fathering

PICTURE WITH ME an idyllic, mythic tableau of grandparenting. You know the ones that look like the “after” picture of prescription medication ads, not the ones where he’s plagued with those pesky side effects like: constipation, diarrhea, rash, swelling of hands, feet and face, wheezing, irratibility, increased appetite, night sweats and visions of Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton in the Whitehouse.

In the first frames of these ads, gramps is relegated to the porch with an elephant sitting on his chest while the rest of the family is frolicking in the yard. But, then he takes his meds for HBP, COPD, ED, ADD, RA and XYZ. Now he’s splitting wood, and throwing another log on the campfire, where the kids are roasting marshmallows for s’mores. He gives grandma a knowing wink and a nuzzle, and thinks how much better the whole scene would be if he could light up a pipe and have a scotch. Then he notices something at the edge of the campfire’s glow: it’s Norman Rockwell and Thomas Kinkade painting the whole scene. “I’m so glad I put on my clean cardigan and remembered to zip up!” he thinks to himself.

When you are of a generation that grew up with programs like Father Knows Best, Ozzie & Harriett, Leave It To Beaver, etc., you think of things like this.

Perhaps you’re aware that I am the grandfather to three grands; all girls. AKA, Pops and the Grand-Girls. It is a role I cherish. But, I will admit that sometimes I don’t feel adequate to this high calling. It has to do with gender roles. Don’t panic! This isn’t veering off to some weird place.

I know it’s old fashioned, but my culture has created in me some expectations and understandings—right or wrong. For example, when I think about rites-of-passage, the connections between a grandfather and grandson seem really obvious. A grandfather can teach the boy to shine shoes, oil his ball glove, bait a hook. He can buy his grandson his first pocket knife and teach him how to play mumbley peg or “dissect” a frog.

But who are we kidding here? There is nothing a granddad could pull out of his bag of tricks that will break the trance-like spell an iPad or video game has on a wee lad.

The fact is, I wouldn’t trade my three Grand-Girls for all the boys in the tri-state area. Turns out I love going to the ballet with them. We all love to read. And even though I don’t know an Elsa from an Anna, I’m still invited to sit in the floor and “play” Frozen. We go to museums together and weirdly enough we all like Chick-fil-a and dark chocolate. Who knew?

Sometimes, when spending quality time with the girls, I will suggest an activity, a game, or maybe a plot line and characters for an evolving make-believe story.

Sometimes, my ideas are met with enthusiasm.

Sometimes, not so much.

Sometimes, the creative juices are running way ahead of me.

Often times, our best times together are where memories are made.

the grand-girls at uncle kyle's graduation

That's The Story of My Life

In my day job, from time to time, I interview prospective employees. Usually they’ve submitted a résumé: you know that bulleted list of stuff like education, work experience, etc. I seldom even look at their résumé. I don’t want to know the list. I want to know their story. Maybe that résumé includes some plot points of their story; maybe not.

If you ask someone to tell you about themselves, they do not say, “Bullet #1, I was born in Walla Walla, Washington in 1969. Bullet #2, graduated Walla Walla High School… They tell you a story.

“When people tell others about themselves, they kind of have to do it in a narrative way—that’s just how humans communicate. But when people think about their lives to themselves, is it always in a narrative way, with a plot that leads from one point to another? There’s an old adage that everyone has a book inside of them.” --from The Atlantic

Think about your narrative, the story of your life, the setting, the characters, the plot and the twists in the tale. Some chapters may be comedy, some undoubtedly are tragic.

Is your story like a book that starts, “Once Upon A Time…”, or is it more like a series of short stories lined up on a shelf, somewhat connected but each could stand on its own?

Here’s something scary cool. We are the characters in other people’s stories. The crazy uncle, the teacher who cared, the loving spouse, the creepy boyfriend, the spoiling grandmother, the doctor bearing bad news…

It seems like on every coffee table, in every barber shop and doctor’s office in my first coming-of-age I remember seeing a copy of Reader’s Digest. One of the features of the magazine was called, “My Most Unforgettable Character.” People submitted storis about the real “characters” of their lives.

Thinking back, who are your most unforgettable characters.

For most of my growing up years we lived next door to my Uncle Bob and Aunt Betty and their four kids. They were wonderful people to live next door to. Our families did everything together; everything except go to church. We were Baptist, they were not. Church and the characters there have always been a huge part of my story. While I loved all of that, I was so glad to learn from my Aunt Betty that you could go to dances, and that boys and girls could swim in the same pool at the same time and you would still go to heaven.

I am fully aware now that for our Grand-Girls there is a character in their story that they call “Pops.” It is a role I cherish and I want to get it right. I’m not expecting to get any awards, but if I did, I would want one of those they give to people in “a supporting role.” I want to bring a little adventure to their stories along with a some comedy and maybe mystery. But mainly I want  to be one of the characters that was there for them, with unconditional love, encouragement and adoration.

If that happens, then my story can end: “and he lived happily ever-after.”

The Long & Winding Road

THERE ARE THESE MARKERS ALONG THE HIGHWAY OF LIFE, YOU KNOW?

• First Kiss Ahead
• First Camping Trip—Next Exit
• Approaching First Trip To The Principal’s Office
• Spanish Club Hay Ride—Whoa, Pardner! You Missed Your Chance!

Back in that First-Coming-Of-Age, these metaphorical signs held such promise and excitement, fraught with adventure. Sort of like the real roadside signs on those early family vacations:

• Real Indian Mocassins
• Live Rattlesnakes
• Fudge
• Velvet Paintings
• Fireworks!

Now in this Second-Coming-Of-Age, the signs are more ominous:

• Last Exit
• Bridge Out—Turn Back Now
• Last Chance

If I were going to write a country song right now it might go something like this:

All the Stuckey’s are now Cracker Barrels
Cause all we need are grits and a rocking chair
Sitting and rocking, contemplatin’ life’s perils
No more Pecan Rolls and it don’t seem fair.
La la la, my dog and pick up truck, la la la
My ol’ lady tellin’ me to shut up.

Something else I’ve noticed about the highway these days, it seems like whatever this vehicle I’m in is, it's going faster and faster, and I’m not the one driving. Maybe I never was.

This is all David Lettermen’s fault. We have grown up together, he and I. His deadpan, self-deprecating sense of humor is to my taste. I love those comedians like Letterman: Seinfeld, Mitch Hedberg, and George Carlin who do life-observation comedy.

Letterman is a great interviewer, somehow managing to stay fresh after 30 some years at this gig. Sure he has his flaws, but he has never flaunted his celebrity.

I will say emphatically that his dealing with heart bypass surgery was inspiration to me. I drew courage and determination from him.

Watching his last few shows before signing off is bittersweet. On the one hand, these shows are featuring some of the best comic minds of our time, people like: Steve Martin, Jerry Seinfeld, Martin Short, Tina Fey; night after night.

And then there are the musicians: The Avett Brothers WITH BRANDI CARLILE! OMG (as the kids say). Mumford and Sons. And the performance of Simon & Garfunkel’s “America” by First Aid Kit was amazing.

But, on the other hand, May 20, 2015, David Letterman will take the Last Exit as host of the Late Show. And once again the landscape changes and races by. It is less familiar to me now; like  a road I’ve never traveled.

Going To A DANCE

Sometimes people ask (well, someone did; once), “What does the name of your blog mean, ‘About Pops’”?

It sort of has to do with a stage of life, what I call the second-coming-of-age and all that comes with it, stuff like: looming retirement, senior adulthood, your body committing mutiny. But, then there is the glorius side of it all, being a grandfather, or as I’m known to my Grand-Girls, “Pops”.

This Saturday morning is a very exciting for a Pops like me. I’m going to my first dance recital. While I am excited, I’m also a bit anxious. You see I grew up in the Southern Baptist tradition where evangelist warned that Jesus would almost certainly return during a dance at Teen Town. “Is that where you want to be when The King Comes!?” And in my 13 year-old brain I’m thinking “As opposed to…?” (More than likely I’m thinking how does he get his hair to stay all puffed up in that big hairdo?”)

Looking back, I think I wouldn’t have minded at all if Jesus had come back during a school dance. I think he would have enjoyed it. In fact, I think even the full-time evangelist would have had a good time if he could have chiseled through all the pomade keeping his pompadour in place and let his hair down.

Today’s recital stars our oldest Grand-Girl, Karlee. I think maybe there will be other little dancers there too.

Thats Karlee, on the left. Today she will be the star!

If you have a problem with me unbashedly bragging on her, in the words of Steve Martin: “Well, exxxxuuuussssee me!!!”

You see this tiny dancer is the one who made me POPS. She has patiently turned me in to a dewy-eyed, sentimental, very proud, old man.

I am so grateful that she can dance without shame. That she can know the joy, the freedom, the beauty of being a little artist. 

I could go on and on and on, but I have a dance to go to. And, if Jesus were to be ready, I think he would really enjoy this, because the children will be dancing.