THE GLUE

I DON’T KNOW THESE WOMEN; and yet, I do. I know them well. I was literally raised in church; enrolled in the “Cradle Roll Department” of the Brookside Baptist Church in Tulsa, Oklahoma, at just a few weeks of age. This picture was posted on Facebook by my friend Phillip Mitchell along with this comment: “These ladies were the glue that held the Ada Church of God In Christ together! Much love to them for all the prayers they sent up for us!”.

I say we are friends but I’ve yet to met Phillip face to face. I know him only by his work, his calling and his obvious commitment to youth and the arts—two of my highest priorities. And in this passion, he and I are kindred spirits.

I have been in many, many churches in my life and in every one of those churches, if it still has a heartbeat, there is a core of women who are THE GLUE. They hold it together through the “prayers they send up for us”, through their discipline, their discipleship and their determination.

My Dad was a Baptist pastor for most of my life. His mother, his wife and his sister, Betty were church glue too. Sometime back, Baptist leadership (men) decided it was time to proclaim a twisted version of the Bible that somehow made the role of women as subservient to men. This took on varying degress of craziness and application. It was an exercise in blindness as far as I could tell. Let me give you an example of what I mean.

One day, not to many years ago, my Aunt Betty Brady was visiting my parents home. We were there too. We were all crowded in the kitchen while the meal was being prepared. Something was said about trends in the Baptist church and the role of women. My Dad made a comment about how he could see where the view came from with a strict reading of Paul’s letters. I don’t remember his exact words, but I remember my Aunt Betty’s: “Oh, Brother, you know better than that!” And he did too. I never remember my Dad, after that day, commenting on the role of women except to maybe acknowledge that: “There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male and female. For you are all one in Christ Jesus.” Galations 3:28.

Glue indeed! It seems like we’re geared to think of the pastor’s sermon on Sunday morning as being the pinnacle of the church’s being. Try sustaining a church that only had that. Even Billy Graham needed a choir. If you look deeply into the life of a church you’ll find music, fellowship—being together usually around the table, you’ll find Vacation Bible School, Sunday School, ministries to the shut-in, the poor, the grieving—meals taken to the home, funeral dinners, and just being present. Where would all of that be without the Glue?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that the only thing men are good for is changing the oil on the church bus. Sometimes I think it would be easier to pick new carpet for the sanctuary if the women weren’t in that business meeting, but I would hate to see that carpet.

I’m just saying: Phillip’s post helped me to remember the wonderful, beautiful women who have served and given and prayed, not for notoriety or a title, but because they seemed called to do it somehow. They seemed to understand the need for Glue. Now, more than ever.

Thank you to all of those women and to the women of the Ada Church of God in Christ. Please send up some prayers for us all.

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P.S.: I asked Phillip’s permission to share this. I wanted you to see his reply because it is rich with truth.

Dave,

Thank you for your very kind words of reassurance and your well wishes for our family. We are indeed well and offer our best wishes to you and yours as well.

One of the reasons that young people of today suffer…is because they don’t have the support system that you and I had. What is a support system? It’s the Glue!

The ladies that you see in that picture never hesitated to open the door to anyone who knocked. Many of them were single women, but you could still count on them to open their door, and extend their love to anyone they encountered. The men too in our neighborhood, never hesitated to show somebody else’s kid how to comb his hair, tie a tie, change his oil, or fix his lawn mower.

This is where I learned the importance of being a godmother or a godfather to kids who are not your own. On February 22nd at the Oklahoma history center, through the organization that you helped to start, P’Light Society Jazz Inc., I had the opportunity to present community awards to several individuals who have shown this magnificent trait!

I would like to send you more information and pictures as well as video of that incredible day. You certainly have our blessings on sharing the pictures from our humble beginnings!

Have a spectacular day my friend!

PMM

MY PENNY LANE

LAST TIME, I was talking creativity and Penny Lane. I threw out (or, down) a challenge, a prompt to do some creative writing or at least thinking: In the spirit of The Beatles’ song Penny Lane, write some thoughts about your own “Penny Lane” — the street(s), neighborhood, or town where you grew up.

I’ll get to that in a bit, but first… My Amazing Missus’ “Penny Lane” story is fascinating for a lot or reasons, but one of the coolest parts of the story is that her grandfather owned an amusement park! With a roller coaster, a train, a lake, Tilt-A-Whirl and all the rest. Her family and four siblings lived within a corndogs throw of the park. Oh, the stories of their Papa, F.H. “Red” Cox, and his amusement park; there’s a whole book right there.

If you ask my grandkids, “Tell us about Pops. Does he have anything like an amusement park?!” They might say, “He knows two magic tricks, but now we know how to do them because he showed us. He knows like three or four stupid jokes. He says he once had a sailboat. Oh, and he says he used to play drums in a band.”

But, they didn’t know me; back then; in the good old days, as I choose to remember them. I’VE WRITTEN BEFORE on growing up on Quincy Avenue in south Tulsa. At the time, in the 60s, Quincy was on a sort of pennisula created by the Arkansas River and Joe Creek, both of which tended to flood a lot back then. At the southermost tip of the pennisula was a slough, a feeding ground for boyhood adventure. I’VE WRITTEN ABOUT that as well.

It’s all urban sprawl now but then most of it was raw land, pecan groves and an emerging architectural mess they were calling Oral Roberts University. For those of you who don’t remember Oral, he was a TV preacher, faith-healer, evangelprenuer. That’s a word I just created to describe “evangelists” who make some serious money plying their trade and trinkets. I should mention that Papa, the amusement park owner, and Oral Roberts, the owner of the university that looked like an amusement park were friends, although they definitely did not share the same religious worldview.

from the ORU website. Used without permission or apology

There were roughly twenty homes along that part of Quincy below Seventy-First. In our neighborhood, was a small gas station, and the Riverside Drive-In movie threatre. On many summer nights we would sneak in the back to watch movies and create trouble.

Krause Auction was also on Seventy-First just off Quincy. I loved hanging out there. The pace of the whole thing was intriguing—the call of the auctioneer and the bidding. To this day I don’t know how he knew who was bidding through the smoke-filled, hot, greasy air, of the overcrowded room. On the days leading up to the auction you could go in and see what items would be on the block.

My most memorable and only auction experience was going in one day to see a go-cart among the items for the Thursday night auction. I set to work earning as much money as I could—doing odd jobs for people, picking strawberries for my uncle Bob. I think I had about five bucks by the time Auction night came. I stood at the counter to get my bid number. A man who I recognized as a regular asked me if I had my eye on something to bid on. I told him I was hoping to get the go-cart. When the go-cart came up for bid, the man was standing by my side. He helped me open the bid for all that I had. There was not a single other bid (as far as I know) and in a matter of minutes my number was called as the winning bid.

The next day I pushed that go-cart down the street, because it wouldn’t run, but later did, all the way to our little concrete block house on Quincy Avenue.

And as John Lennon says in the Penny Lane lyric:

“[Quincy Avenue] is in my ears and in my eyes”

BE CREATIVE

I CAN PLAY SO FAST AND LOOSE with facts and numbers; I could be a politician or tele-evangelist, but I’m neither. There’s an anecdote I’ve heard a few times, the actual numbers quoted are fluid but within my loose-fitting margin-of-error.

It goes like this: A teacher asks a kindergarten class, “How many of you are artists?” Roughly 100% raise their hand. Another teacher asks a seventh-grade class the same question, less than 10% raise a hand of affirmation. WHAT HAPPENS? WHAT ARE WE DOING TO KIDS?

“Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up. ”

— Pablo Picasso

“The child is the first artist. Out of the material around him he creates a world of his own. The prototypes of the forms which he devises exist in life, but it is the thing which he himself makes that interests him, not its original in nature. His play is his expression. But as the child ages: Imagination surrenders to the intellect; emotion gives place to knowledge. Gradually the material world shuts in about us until it becomes for us a hard, inert thing, and no longer a living, changing presence, instinct with infinite possibilities of experience and feeling.” —1907, The Gate of Appreciation: Studies in the Relation of Art to Life by Carleton Noyes, Quote Page 29, Published by Houghton Mifflin, Boston, Massachusetts.

Arts District. Tulsa, Oklahoma

Here’s another illustration you may have heard: The young child of a college art professor asks his parent about her job as a teacher, “What do you do?” The parent, trying to couch the answer in kid-terms replies, “I teach people how to draw and paint,” to which the kid says, “Did they forget how?” Isn’t is cutely true that a young, unspoiled mind is creative, they know it and they assume everyone is—unless they’ve forgotten how.

I will go so far as to confess that I believe “creative” is a relative term but I also believe that the most variable (adjective) variable (noun) is courage. In other words, you have to be somewhat fearless to be creative, at least in spurts. That’s my experience anyway.

For several years, I served on the board of an arts organization based in New York City called International Arts Movement or IAM. As a part of my work with IAM, I also served as a “creative catalyst” for a version of the movement here in Oklahoma City. I cherish all of those experiences. During that time I met some powerfully creative people: fine artists, poets, musicians, actors, dancers, novelists, architects, anthropologists, comics, teachers, students, journalists, illustrators, writers, filmmakers, chefs, designers, photographers, songwriters and more.

I remember in my first meeting with the board. I was sitting next to the founder and renowned painter, Mako Fujimura. I tend to doodle in meetings, making little drawings that might resemble 60s psychedelic concert posters. This thought kept racing through my mind: “Don’t doodle! You’re sitting next to one of the finest artists in the world right now!”

Crazy thing though about hanging out with phenomenal artists; the really really good ones are rarely arrogant at all about their creativity. In fact, it was an environment that was much more encouraging than intimidating. They actually want to foster creativity and curiousity and dabbling—and maybe even doodling. During that time I made several trips a year to NYC for board meetings and conferences.

One of my favorite places to go in the city was a place called the Jazz Standard , a jazz club in a basement below a restaurant called BLUESMOKE, founded by legendary restaurant creative, Danny Meyer. One night, at the Jazz Standard the guest artist was a pianist named Helen Sung. She was amazing. Then, lo & behold, I got to the IAM conference the next day, and there is Helen Sung herself. We had a wonderful visit. She was delightful, interesting and interested; the ideal conversationalist.

Recently, My Amazing-Missus and I checked out a fairly new jazz club in Tulsa called “Duet”. I had read about the place and its programming director Jeff Sloan. While we were enjoying some fine and creative dishes before the show started, Jeff stopped by our table to visit with us. I told him the club reminded me of the Jazz Standard; he said that it was one of the models they looked to when creating Duet. I highly recommend you visit Duet soon.

So, is this a post about creativity, a post about jazz clubs, a post where I get to drop names and act like a big shot, a post where I reflect on how much I love being in the midst of creative endeavors, a post encouraging everyone to muster the courage to create, a post where I lay down a bunch of words so I can call myself a “writer”, or a post remembering what used to be and looking forward to what might be? YES! Yes, it is every one of those things.

Want to play along? Up for a challenge? Why not squeeze the creative fruit and see if the juices flow? Doodle, draw, write a simple poem, go to a museum or art exhibit, go for a walk and take pictures (you probably have a camera in your pocket right now built in to that phone/calculator/calendar/flashlight/etc. Or write something.

Here, let me throw out a challenge; a prompt, as an idea for writing something. Sometimes that’s all it takes to get started. Below, I will include the lyrics to The Beatles' “Penny Lane”. Read them through a few times, listen to the song a few times. Don't worry much about the meanings of the lyrics. This is just a prompt. Now grab a pen and paper and write about your "Penny Lane". Everyone has one. Remember it? Write about what is "in your ears and in your eyes" as you ponder the street(s) where you grew up.

I would love to see what you write. Please send your essay to me: hey.pops.hey@gmail.com.

Next Post: Pops' Penny Lane, a.k.a. Quincy Avenue.

PENNY LANE
Lennon and McCartney

In Penny Lane there is a barber showing photographs
Of every head he's had the pleasure to know
And all the people that come and go
Stop and say hello

On the corner is a banker with a motorcar
The little children laugh at him behind his back
And the banker never wears a mack In the pouring rain, very strange

Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes
There beneath the blue suburban skies I sit, and meanwhile back

In Penny Lane there is a fireman with an hourglass
And in his pocket is a portrait of the queen He likes to keep his fire engine clean
It's a clean machine

Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes
A four of fish and finger pies In summer, meanwhile back

Behind the shelter in the middle of a roundabout
The pretty nurse is selling poppies from a tray
And though she feels as if she's in a play
She is anyway

In Penny Lane the barber shaves another customer
We see the banker sitting waiting for a trim
And then the fireman rushes in From the pouring rain, very strange

Penny lane is in my ears and in my eyes
There beneath the blue suburban skies I sit, and meanwhile back
Penny lane is in my ears and in my eyes
There beneath the blue suburban skies

Penny Lane

SEVEN

33 YEARS AGO. I was keeping the driveway shoveled so we could make a quick escape through the snow if necessary. 33 YEARS AGO today, it was. My Amazing-Missus woke me early and said, "It's time!" Our second baby had signaled as much. We piled into our little Honda: the expectant mom, a soon-to-be-six-year-old-soon-to-be-big-brother, and me. We met our dear, dear friends Charlie and Shirley along the way. They would be keeping big brother for us. We pulled into the parking lot at Baptist Hospital in Oklahoma City, and at 7:44a our second son, our omega, Kyle Nicholas was born.

Last Sunday morning, January 19, 2020, a little after 7:00a, that same Kyle Nicholas introduced us to his second son, Jeremiah Kent. Kyle's Amazing-Missus, Brooke delivered this beautiful, 9 lb. 10 oz. baby boy on his "due date". And now we have 7!

I'm not going to be presumptious, or attempt to be prophetic, but for now I'm embracing the idea of 7 being the number of completion. There may be another, but for now the list of Grand-Kids is complete. Chronologically: Karlee, Harper, Haddi, Nora, Everly, Malachi, Jeremiah. Welcome to the team Jeremiah.

There is a wonderful, creative, energetic chemistry among this bunch--your siblings and cousins. You'll quickly discover that when you and your band of grands are at our house, there will be a seemingly endless supply of juice boxes and ice cream sandwiches. You'll find that episode after episode of Peppa Pig plays in the background while art is being made, games are being created, and havoc is being wreaked. But it is magical somehow. There is a tie that binds and now you are a part of it all. Welcome.

Jeremiah, I know it's only been a few days now, but I'm sure you're already discovering how much you are loved, how wonderful your mom and dad are. Someday they will tell you how they came to be together. It is like something from a storybook. And now you are a chapter in that book. I can't wait to see how your chapter reads. I know how it starts: "Jeremiah was born on January 19, 2020..." And then somewhere along the way it will say, "And they all lived happily ever-after."

Happy Birthday to Jeremiah's daddy.