My Thanksgiving Table Pledge

I would be lying if I said I didn’t suffer an occasional case of schadenfreude. Maybe it’s just human nature. Maybe that isn’t a good excuse. Maybe I need to grow up. Maybe at 60-something, that’s unlikely. I’ve probably done all the growing up I’m going to do. Maybe, in fact, my state of maturity could be in regression.

Still, every time the wind catches that crazy comb-over, so beloved by our P-elect-OTUS, I can’t help but enjoy it. Now there’s a discussion topic for the Thanksgiving Table: Bad Hairdos of Famous People. Speaking of orange, let’s include HFC@OSU Mike Gundy. Don’t get me wrong, I am very happy for the success of his Cowboys, but seriously does he not have a friend anywhere who can explain that mullets fall deeply in the category along with comb-overs as Most Riculous Hair Styles Ever? I know, I know, I’m BALD. But at least I can blame my do on genetics.

Back to the subject of appropriate table conversation—I was at a department store the other day buying a new shirt that might not show the gravy and cranberry stains that will undoubtedly be on it post-meal. I overheard a couple of salespersons:

SP1: I’m hosting our family for Thanksgiving. I plan to meet everyone at the door with a big glass of wine for each person.

SP2: Why?

SP1: We’ve got Trump Lovers and Trump Haters and I’m going to try to mellow them all out before the topic turns to politics.

SP2: I hear ya.

Hear Ye. Hear Ye. I have a proclamation to make. I do hereby, proclaim and promise that I will not talk politics at the Thanksgiving table.

You go first Louisa and get thine turkey started.

I realize how problematic that is given that the Day itself is fraught with political stuff. So, I’ll adjust my pledge to not talk about politics after 1863, the year President Abraham Lincoln, at the height of the Civil War, established the 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.”

Now that’s a proclamation I can get behind.

Also, off the table, so to speak, for me at the holiday table, is the topic of ailments, afflictions, infirmities, syndromesand other medical maladies.

Let me quickly add a clause to my official proclamation: my pledge doesn’t have to be your pledge. Of courseeveryone is free to talk about whatever they choose. Just don’t count on me to enter in to a discussion of American politics after 1863 or what hurts, leaks or needs to be replaced, and if the government (taxpayers) are going to pay for it. If the talk turns to those topics however, I won’t be offended, and certainly will not walk away from the table. I am fully on board with the cause to Make America Stuffed Again.

In preparation for the event(s), and in the event I’m called on to liven the discussion, I’ve been considering topics that might make for good conversation. Some ideas so far:

What does “Mary Had A Little Lamb” have to do with Thanksgiving? Did Mary still love her little lamb once it grew to be a cranky adult with patchy, yellowy fleece?

What is schadenfreude? Harmless fun or a manifestation of deep bitterness, and if so, can giving thanks cure it?

Best Christmas movie (not counting Hallmark movies) and why. Who would win the award for best actor in a holiday movie? Best actress? Best quote from a holiday movie.

Food Fun. Tryptophan: friend or foe? Myth or fact? Jello: why did anyone ever decide to put carrot shavings in orange Jello. Did someone say, “Hey, they’re both orange. Let’s combine them.” I am trying so hard to not make a joke about our first orange POTUS.

Black Friday vs. Football: Where do you stand? Is this Thanksgiving the way the Pilgrims imagined it? Could it be that they are mutually beneficial to family harmony? She says: “Fine sit around all weekend and watch football. I’m going shopping! He says: “Fine, bail on the family and go shopping. I’ll sit around all weekend and watch football.” Everybody wins.

Like I said, this is a work in progress. Feel free to make suggestions.

Perhaps I’ll just sit quietly, look around the table at the people I love and that say they love me, be deeply thankful and wonder if maybe I’ve become “That Uncle”.

How Did This Elephant Get In Here?

The “elephant” in this “room” has grown so large it seems to be blocking out the light. It’s nearly impossible to even see around it, or to have a conversation about it; or anything else for that matter. It might be good to move on, if only we could find the door.

Back in the early 70s, I was campaigning for George McGovern and playing drums in little coffeehouses that were opening up across the land. Our band was riding the wave of the Jesus Freak movement, playing a new genre of music called “Christian Rock”—an oxymoron to most church-goers. We were funded by a group of benefactors interested in “reaching out” to the youth culture.

One of those was a man named John Frank. Mr Frank was a kind, generous soul, a potter and successful business man. He was a ceramics professor at Oklahoma University and founded an earthenware business called Frankoma Pottery.

Our band was playing at a gig where Mr. Frank was speaking. After the event, he came up to me as I was packing up the drum set, and told me thanks for what we were doing. I was surprised that he had listened, saw the opportunity, and was financially supporting what we were doing. We talked for a while and then he offered me a job.

I took it and began working in his fascinating business. Each day after class at the University of Tulsa, I would drive to the Frankoma plant in my VW with the “McGovern” sticker on the back. If Mr. Frank resented my politics, he never said so. He could have. He was a staunch Republican. In 1968, he designed and produced a ceramic GOP elephant mug to help raise funds for the Republican Party. Every year he did a special edition elephant mug.

After he died, his daughter Joniece Frank took over the operation and introduced a DEM Donkey mug in 1975.

Not long after that, the enterprise failed. (No doubt some will say, “Of course it did!")

But this isn’t just a story about the donkey. It’s about this big huge metaphorical elephant in the room. There, I’ve acknowledged it. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with elephants in rooms? Can I move on now? Or do we need volunteers to shovel up after it? Just kidding… where’s our collective sense of humor?

Summer Rules

A FEW DAYS AGO I walked into “the second room on the left”, ushered by a young woman who told me to remove my shirt. Then she left.

Thirty-six minutes later another young woman came in, accompanied by the first. She ran her hands over my face, shoulders, arms and pointed out the obvious, “You grew up in the days before sunscreen.” More of a statement than a question.
“But I wear it now!” quickly springing to my own defense.
“What SPF?”
“Thirty, I think.”
“Throw it in the trash and buy some Eighty-Five minimum and reapply every hour.”
“Every hour! That stuff’s expensive.”
“So is skin cancer.”
“I HAVE SKIN CANCER?!”
“Not yet.”
Then she blasted liquid nitrogen on several spots atop my bald head, gave me a coupon for $2 Off a tube of approved sunscreen, and ushered me to the money lady.

In the headlines, again, “Don’t Eat Raw Cookie Dough.”

When school was in session the rules were clear and ever present. (at least back in the good-ol’ days.) No talking, no gum-chewing, stay in line, color inside the lines, no wise-cracking, don’t walk up the down staircase, etc.

Summer’s rules were different (back then). No swimming until the temperature is at least 80. Only one on the diving board at a time. Wait 30 minutes before going in the pool. Don’t pee in the pool. No horseplay. Don’t run. Quit popping your brother with the towel.

The summer’s of my youth were pretty much spent at the pool. (I have scars from nitrogen burns to prove it.) My Aunt Betty belonged to a church that not only permitted “mixed bathing”, they apparently encouraged it. There was a pool at their church, so she would take us swimming there most every day. I loved it.

For a few days each summer we would go to visit our maternal grandmother’s house. The rules were few there, but the ones she had were strictly enforced. She would whip the backsides of your bare legs raw with a switch she made you cut yourself from the old elm tree in her front yard. 

We were allowed to roam freely in her hometown of Okmulgee, Oklahoma. She would give us enough money to see a matinee or buy some candy at the Kress Five and Dime.

Adventures there were sweet. I remember asking her if it was true that if you put a penny on the railroad tracks the train would smash it flat. She confirmed it would. On our next trip to downtown she gave us a penny with instructions to “stay away from those tracks.” A train will indeed smash a penny flat.

You never, ever got sick at Nan’s house. The first time you mentioned to her that you weren’t feeling well she would ask, “Do you think you need to have your throat swabbed with iodine or do you need a good enema.” “I’m feeling fine now, thank you.”

Many of her rules made practical sense (as opposed to some of the rules at school like: Boys must keep their shirttails tucked in.) (Nevermind that that rule ended in a preposition—a rule breaking a rule.) Not far from her house was an overgrown lot, that we imagined to be a forest for adventures. “Don’t go in those woods,” she would warn, “You’ll get a chigger on your wigger.” No one wants that.

Here we are at the season for Independence Day which of course means Fireworks. The Summer Rule Book has a chapter dedicated to this topic. Most every rule comes with a horror story to reinforce it. For example, we apparently had a distant uncle that chose to hold a roman candle in his hand while it shot firey balls into the summer sky. Well, it back-fired (or maybe he was holding it backward), anyway, the ball of fire hit him in the belly and he apparently had the scar to prove it. So we were taught to hold no fireworks in our hands, and as it turns out we were also to no longer put them inside frogs. 

So, have fun this holiday, but be safe with the fireworks, wear sunscreen, and mosquito repellent. Don’t eat raw cookie dough or warm potato salad, and don’t go in those woods.

Home Sweet Home

MAKING A HOUSE A HOME; even if it's a tiny one on wheels. Our little trailer came from the factory with a lovely bedspread and “accent” pillows. We hadn’t even more gotten her home when she was stripped of those generic, factory goodies and replaced with just the right touches by the Amazing-Missus.

“We shape our dwellings, and afterwards our dwellings shape us.”

— Winston Churchill

On one of our first adventures we were staying at site #51 in Red Rock Canyon State Park, Hinton, Oklahoma. Returning from a walk I noticed the paper tag on her backside. I thought to myself, “I wonder what license plate number the great state of Oklahoma will give us in exchange for a hefty tax bill?”

Wait a minute! Why settle for some state issued identity? Our little tin hut deserves her own personalized name tag. I mentioned the idea of a personalized tag to someone and they said, “Oh, you mean a vanity tag.” This has nothing to do with vanity. This is about… Well, I don’t know what it’s about, but it’s going to happen anyway.

So we secured the application from the tax commission. You’re supposed to choose six options, in priority order, I guess that's in case one or two or five are already taken or deemed unacceptable or inappropriate by some authority somewhere.

BTW: Remember when the quite contrary daughter of governor Mary had her RV parked in the backyard of the governor’s mansion? I wonder if she had a personalized/vanity tag for her trailer? If not, I would love to help her choose at least six names if she wants me to.

from thelostogle.com

You can read the fun version of the story here.

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Okay, I’m back on track now. We would love to have your help. We’ve come up with at least six possibilities for our tag. Want to tell us your favorite, or better yet, offer another possibility. Keep in mind you only have seven spaces to work with and you can’t use words that might be offensive.

Feel free to comment here or on Facebook or Twitter. Here are our choices so far: