DON'T WORRY BABY

WE’VE GROWN WEARY of the news cycle: COVID-Trump-Insurrection-Repeat. We have also grown weary of regular TV—you know, endless ads for prescription drugs with happy old people risking it all on countless, awful side-effects, interspersed with bits of “Wheel of Fortune” and “Everybody Loves Raymond” reruns.

Let’s watch a movie! Netflix had a recommendation for us: “Runaway Bride” with Julia Roberts and Richard Gere. It was just the comfortable, predictable, escape we needed. The title says it all (spoiler alert) it’s about a bride that runs away. She’s made several trips to the marriage alter, but flees just before vow time. But, then along comes Gere…

It took me back. Forty-nine years. Just this time of the year in 1972, I was attempting to woo and wow a pretty young lady.

I was a student at the University of Tulsa, playing drums in a rock and roll band, and driving a school bus for Tulsa Public Schools. She was a senior in high school and had just been selected Miss December by the student body. Her life was fine and full. I hoped to make it Fuller (wink, wink).

The top five tunes on the radio for this same week back in 1972 were:

You're So Vain —Carly Simon
Superstition —Stevie Wonder
Me And Mrs. Jones —Billy Paul
Crocodile Rock —Elton John
Your Mama Don't Dance —Loggins & Messina

The political scandal du jour:

In January 1972, G. Gordon Liddy, Finance Counsel for the Committee for the Re-Election of the President and former aide to John Ehrlichman, presented a campaign intelligence plan to CRP's Acting Chairman Jeb Stuart Magruder, Attorney General John Mitchell, and Presidential Counsel John Dean that involved extensive illegal activities against the Democratic Party. According to Dean, this marked "the opening scene of the worst political scandal of the twentieth century and the beginning of the end of the Nixon presidency". —Wikipedia (Dean, John W. (2014). The Nixon Defense: What He Knew and When He Knew It).

On Valentine’s Day 1972, I offered THE ring and asked that all important question: “So, do you think Nixon will go down in history as the worst…” NO, NO, NO! Not that question. THE question. The for-better-or-worse question.

She had so many reasons to say NO. She could have said, “You’re in school with high tuition hanging over you. You’re a drummer and a bus driver.” For-richer-or-poorer? “Ummm, No. I don’t think so.”

So how did it turn out?

I just told you about happily watching a Netflix movie together. Are you paying attention? My bride did not runaway. As Paul Harvey used to say: “And, now you know the rest of the story.” Was she ever tempted? Well, if I were married to me, I would have to say YES, I would have been tempted to run away from me on numerous occasions.

Maybe you've seen the movie “About Schmidt” with Jack Nicholson. The movie starts with his character, Warren Schmidt at his retirement dinner. It's the beginning of a road of dark comedy that many of us could relate to but none of us want to travel. The title of this blog--About Pops--is a respectful borrowing from the title and theme of the movie.

Shortly after retiring, Schmidt’s wife passes away. He slips deeper into a funk, believing his life has not counted for anything. He goes on a road trip, all alone, in a motorhome his wife purchased for their retirement years. One night he’s sitting in a park on top of the RV talking to his deceased wife:

“Helen, what did you really think of me, deep in your heart? Was I really the man you wanted to be with? Was I? Or were you disappointed and too nice to show it?”

That is one of the most tragic lines in any movie ever. I just wanted to shake him and say, “Warren; buddy, she didn’t run away did she? She bought the RV. She was looking down the road, the road with YOU. Sure maybe you’ve been a pain in the bumper, but apparently she was holding out hope for some bliss somehow somewhere.”

I remember January of 1972, I almost flunked out of a scuba diving class. (Had to get that pesky P.E. credit.) It was an evening class. On those winter evenings I wanted to be with her, not in a swimming tank learning how to decompress before surfacing from a deep dive. I skipped so many classes I almost failed my final test dive, but I had something more important going on.

Although certified, I’ve never been scuba diving. I’ve had something more important going on. Oh I don’t have the fervor that my 21 year-old self had, but I still hope to woo and wow her at 70 and beyond. Am I the man she really wanted to be with? Or is she disappointed and too nice to show it?

We’ve taken the whole quarantine thing really seriously. That is to say that we’ve had a lot of together-time. So far she hasn’t suggested that I enroll in a scuba diving class. I’m taking that as a good sign.

CUE THE BEACH BOYS—

Well it's been building up inside of me
For oh I don't know how long
I don't know why
But I keep thinking
Something's bound to go wrong

But she looks in my eyes
And makes me realize
And she says "don't worry, baby"

Don't worry, baby
Don't worry, baby
Everything will turn out alright

Don't worry, baby

YOU'VE A GOT A FRIEND

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[FIRST. I had told myself I would avoid politics here on my blog as best I could, but some things need to be said. I wrote this for my personal journal—not intending to share it. Then I read it to a friend who said, “That’s not about politics. That’s about friendship.” He’s right. It is about friendship; my friendship with James and everyone who is a friend whether we agree or not.]

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FROM TIME TO TIME, someone will bring up politics in a conversation with me by saying, “Your friend James Lankford…”

JAMES, ME & OUR AMAZING MISSUSES

Then they try to move the conversation one of several directions: either they think I’m cool to have a friend in high places deadset on protecting us all from the liberals, or they want me to know that they know I have a friend whose fingerprints are all over the Kool-Aid pitcher in the Whitehouse kitchen.

Either way, it’s guilt by association. Why do we do that? I don’t think that I would assume that just because you might have been on a bowling team with Ted Cruz that you are a political nutjob or that his daddy and your daddy had anything at all to do with the Kennedy assassination. (He didn’t did he?)

James and I are friends. We don’t play tennis together or exchange recipes or vacation together. The only time we talk these days is if we happen to see each other at a restaurant, which hasn’t happened since last March, unless we happened to park next to each other at curbside pickup.

I got to know James way before his life in politics. In our early conversations, politics never came up. Here’s how we met. In the 80s, I worked as the youth ministry consultant for Oklahoma Baptist churches. During that time a movement began, known as the “conservative takeover” of the Southern Baptist Convention. The movement, in my view, was set to destroy doctrines that I believed to be not only right, but essential to a church that claimed to follow Jesus.

Not all people and not all churches were signing up for this takeover, but still, for me, in the role I was in; I couldn’t see myself continuing there. During this time I made friends with a guy who understood what was going on and could empathize with the dilemma. He was also a friend that could offer me a lifeline—a way to support my family and still have a ministry to youth. I took it!

After I left the Baptist convention position there was a time of transition, and ultimately they hired a guy for a similar version of that role. That guy was James Lankford. On a couple of occasions I would meet with him to talk about what work had been done, what the priorities were then and what they could be going forward. And that’s how we became friends—over a shared passion for teenagers.

Today we’ve both moved on. We’re too old and disengaged from youth culture to matter or make a difference. So, do we have anything left in common?

Here’s one thing: I would love to have James’ voice. I don’t mean I want to be a senator and be on Fox News. Just being an informed and conscientious voter consumes all the energy I want to give to political involvement these days. When I say I would love to have James’ voice, I don’t mean his words. Don’t get me wrong: James is smart, he is perceptive, and I believe he wants to represent Oklahoma well. But his words of late are not my words.

Please, let me try to navigate these next few paragraphs, knowing that my words will fail, but I’m trying to speak without alienating. I do understand the concern about the drift of our culture, the impact of “elites” and “fundamentalists”. I get the concern about globalization and cosmopolitanism. The desire of the evangelicals to explain declining numbers? I get that too. I hear the argument that people like Donald Trump seem to be necessary in order to reverse the perceived morphing of America. Here’s my question: At what cost? I’ve asked Senator Lankford this question many times.

I am not writing this to defend James or defame him. He is my friend. I do not agree with him on the best ways to solve America’s political and social woes. He and I talked early in his time as a U.S. Representative, before becoming a senator. I asked him how it was being a member of the House. He said it’s pretty much constant negotiating: I’ll support your deal if you support mine. A lot of listening to lobbyists and reading bills. Those are not his exact words, but close. I am fearful that at some point James could become a Politician—a Washington insider, a fortune seeker. I am fearful that is one of the worst things that can happen to our elected representatives.

When I say I would love to have his voice I mean I would love to have that deep, resonate bass voice, but I would not use it in unison with Ted Cruz to read “Green Eggs and Ham” or to join the chorus of his eleven who are conniving to overturn constitutional processes with their collective, elected voices. It sounds sort of like sedition—this challenge of state’s electoral votes on January 6. Please James, as one friend to another…

This is nothing new, I understand that. Many years ago, Will Rogers said:

“About all I can say for the United States Senate
is that it opens with a prayer and closes with an investigation.”

Thankfully, friendship can survive politics. If it can’t; politics isn’t worth it, or the friendship wasn’t genuine to begin with.

Please don’t feel like you need to respond or explain to me how things really are. I’m old. I’m set in ways. I will remain unswayed. I am hard-headed, but not hard-hearted. Disagreement doesn’t diminish friendships for me. I will always call James my friend.

Now to quote Penny Wharvey McGill (O Brother Where Art Thou):

“I’ve spoken my piece and counted to three.”

OUR NAME

“FULLER, FULLER, FULLER?” said my fiancée’s grandfather, stroking his chin, when she introduced me to him for the first time. “I’ve known some sorry ones and I’ve known some good ones. Most of them were sorry,” he concluded.

MY FUTURE GRANDFATHER-IN-LAW (AND WHO KNOWS WHO THE LADIES ARE)

I never did figure out which category he finally sorted me into. If it mattered to him that his beautiful grandgirl was about to become a FULLER, he didn’t show it.

I’ve never minded being Fuller; and by that I mean having that word as a last name. I’ve also never minded being a Fuller family member. (Hopefully the feeling is mutual.) Oh there was that time that a P.E. teacher/frustrated coach gave me a knickname, as he liked to do for all of his P.E. protégés. He liked to use his knicknames for us when he called roll. The guy before me, Doug Filmore was “Feel less”. Then came “Fulla-crap”. That was me. Fortunately, his knicknames didn’t catch on. Although he may have been somewhat prophetic.

Some of our very best friends are Smiths and Joneses. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have a more common last name like Johnson and live on a street like Elm, rather than a name that people surprisingly have to clarify: “Did you say Ford?” “No, Fuller, like the brush man.” Then if they’re under 60: “The what?” It’s Fuller: “F-U-L-L-E-R!” “We live on Chateaux—the X is silent. Have you never been to New Orleans?”

Fuller isn’t an uncommon name, but it’s rare enough that when I hear it, my radar goes up. Could we be related? Is this someone I would be happy to share a name with? In some cases; yes. Often, I’m so pleased to see another Fuller, I talk about it; or, post some newsworthy story, etc.

Take Sarah Fuller for example. If that name rings a bell, Sarah is a soccer player at Vanderbilt U. in Nashville. Poor Vanderbilt did not have a great year in football. In their last few games their roster was COVID depleted including their placekicker. Sarah was called on and became the first female in a “Power 5” conference to kick and score in an NCAA game. Even though I would happy to say we are related; we are not (as far as you know), except we’re both Fullers and two of all God’s children.

SARAH FULLER

My Amazing-Missus and I have two children, both sons. I am proud to share the name with them. If My Amazing-Missus’s Papa had known our boys, he would’ve had to say, “FULLER? I’ve know some great ones!” Our boys, in chronological order, are Corey and Kyle.

Maybe you’ve heard of Corey Fuller who played for the Detroit Lions and his younger brother Kyle who still plays for the Chicago Bears. As far as you know, there is no relation, other than the fact that we’re all Fullers and all God’s children.

COREY FULLER

KYLE FULLER

This brings to mind a song by the Avett Brothers, “Murder In The City” that my son Corey introduced me to. From the lyrics:

Always remember there was nothing worth sharing
Like the love that let us share our name
Always remember there was nothing worth sharing
Like the love that let us share our name

When I was around 7 or 8 or so, my parents owned a bakery. One of their specialties was fried pies. I remember the slogan printed on the packaging of those pies—sweet marketing genius: “Fuller Pies, Better Because They’re Fuller!”

Without fail, at a table, at the end of a big meal, if anyone at all would say, “I’m full!” My Dad would reply, “I’m Fuller. Glad to meet ya.”

My Dad made being Fuller funner; and sometimes serious. He bore the name proudly as did my Mom and as does my little brother, Dr. George Edward (Rusty) Fuller.

That Avett Brothers song, that I mentioned earlier, also has a verse that goes like this:

I wonder which brother is better
Which one our parents love the most
I sure did get in lots of trouble
They seemed to let the other go
A tear fell from my father's eyes
I wondered what my dad would say
He said, "I love you and I'm proud of you both
In so many different ways

I love all of our Grand-Girls immensely, so don’t get me wrong here, and I know it sounds old-fashioned, and could be construed as diminishing, but I am so glad to have two little Grand-Boys, Malachi David and Jeremiah Kent, who will always be known as FULLER… some of the good ones.

2020 gets blamed and battered a lot, as if all this crap we’ve lived with these past months has been its fault. I do hope 2021 will be better, healthier, more peaceful, more hopeful.

Here’s my wish for you: A FULLER New Year.

CLICK HERE TO LISTEN TO THE AVETT BROTHERS SING THEIR SONG.

PAST PRESENT FUTURE

IT’S CHRISTMAS DAY 2020. Our Grand-Kids aren’t here, the pandemic is—well not right here in our bunker, but it’s just outside our door.

This is Christmas Past—1951. In two weeks I will be One.

My Christmas memories are a full sensory kaleidoscope made up of real trees, lights, tinsel, parades in downtown Tulsa, visiting Santa at Utica Square, music, candy, happy happy times.

Looking back, I know that Dad & Mom didn’t have a lot, but there was always an abundance. I remember waking and running into the living room on Christmas morning to see what Santa had brought. By about noon our eyes would be able to focus on the gifts. You see, Dad had an 8mm movie camera and attached to the top of that camera was a bank of blinding flood lights that literally made seeing what was under the tree an occasion of deferred gratification. He would position himself and his camera and light array so he could capture our expression as we came in the room. All of our Christmas morning movies are of me and my little brother trying to shield our rods and cones from the harsh rays.

This year will be the first Christmas without either of my parents. Dad passed in the summer of 2019 and Mom just a few days ago: pneumonia from COVID-19. I say that COVID took my Mom, which is medically true but also humanly speaking. My Mom loved Christmastime, all of it. The forced aloneness of the pandemic was slowly draining the life from her. I’m not sure she could have tolerated a Covid Christmas. As I’ve watched news of people in nursing homes getting the vaccine I can’t help but wonder: if she could have made it just a few more weeks…

This is Christmas present.

The only wrapping paper strewn across our living room floor is from the present my Amazing-Missus gave to me. We watched the unwrapping of gifts for the Grand-Kids via Facetime®. It’s not the same. Maybe I will tune in to Peppa Pig later, just because. In the meantime, I’m writing this essay while listening to The Beatles’ “Revolver” album. As I said, This is Christmas present.

That gift that I unwrapped, the one my Amazing-Missus gave me! I have to tell you about it.

I have always had a tendency to dream big and do little—sort of like Clark Griswald, dreaming of a pool in the backyard and a Norman Rockwell Christmas. Here’s an example: I have a dream house—sort of like Barbie’s but bigger and less pink. I have pictures of this house. I have chosen the rock for the exterior and all the stuff for the interior finishes. The only things lacking are a lot to build it on and any intention of actually doing so.

This morning I unwrapped my gift. It was a round tube. She said, “This is a gift you will never use.”

“A treadmill?” I guessed.

I have a good friend who is one of Oklahoma’s best architects. When I opened the tube, inside were blueprints for my dream house. My amazing Amazing-Missus had contacted my friend and now I have a set of plans for the house that may very well always remain just a dream.

That’s characteristic of Christmas Future. Sort of uncertain. This holiday season has reminded me that life is fragile. Oh! Don’t get me wrong! I would love to one day see our Grand-Kids opening presents in the living room of that dream home.

So, 69 Christmases have come and gone for me. Past, present and future, I know this: that story the one about that baby born in Bethlehem? That’s what matters. I’m not trying to sound holy. I’m telling you what I know, what I’ve experienced. The only lasting peace, the only enduring love, the only truth; is in THAT story.

In the meantime, want to see POPS’ DREAM HOUSE? Maybe you could pretend to come and visit us there.