I MADE IT

ALTHOUGH SOME WARNED I MIGHT NOT. I’ve made it through 69 years. That’s the way it works you know. You don’t get to have a First birthday party until you’ve lived a year. Then you start on year two. So, now I’ve embarked on year 70. I was thinking that sounded incredibly old, but my mother who is 90-something just called to say, “Happy Birthday” and asked me if this was 87 or 88 for me. Good grief mom, what were your early teens like?

I can remember voices from my past like that of my high school geometry teacher telling me I would regret not taking his geometry class more seriously. He was wrong. One thing I did take seriously in school was learning to diagram sentences. I do regret that. I’ve never even once been asked as an adult to diagram a sentence. What a waste. Not really. I’ve always enjoyed words, sentences and drawing lines.

There are some regrets obviously, but none are too crippling. Some I wish I could fix, but I know from Marty McFly how dangerous time travel can be. My bro-in-law and one of my very best friends talks about making amends. I don’t really know how to do that effectively. But it is my desire to.

I heard a man who was in the final hours of a terminal disease say, “I wish I could live my life over again, not because I haven’t enjoyed it but because I have enjoyed it so much.”

Do morbidness and the golden years go hand in hand?

Well even though my physical form has made it through 69 relatively unscathed, I’m still as immature mentally, socially and spiritually as I was in my prime. So life goes on with plenty to aspire to.

“I’m sick of following my dreams. I’m just going to ask them where they’re going, and hook up with them later. ”

— Mitch Hedberg

Someone told me, “Don’t give unsolicited advice. People hate it when old people give unsolicited advice!”

I didn’t ask them for that advice so I’m not going to take it. It doesn’t matter to me whether anyone takes my advice or not. Sometimes I feel like they’re not even listening.

For example, in every episode of Dateline, 20/20, 48-hours and all the rest I yell at those idiots on TV, “if you’re going to kill your wife don’t go to Wal Mart or Home Depot and buy a shovel, a blue tarp, a roll of duct tape and clorox with your credit card.” But still they do it…every single time.

I don’t know how many times I’ve given Billy Donovan coaching advice though the TV; it’s like he can’t even hear me.

Even my Grand-Kids—I offer wisdom and guidance and they give me this little, cute eye-roll, and an, “O Pops.”

Well by golly I’ve reached the point where I can give all the advice I want and the right to ignore any and all advice from others, especially doctors and religious leaders. Just kidding Mom. I’m only 69, and I’m just kidding.

Here’s some advice for you: laugh hard everyday, don’t trust politicians and wear sunscreen.

I’ve been to plenty of kids’ birthday parties over the past few years. These days they have “themes” or destinations like beautiful indoor swimming pools for November swim parties or places like that one with the big mouse, games and bad pizza. I’ve been to rainbow parties, unicorn parties, Minnie Mouse parties. These are so common, one of the grand-girls was a bit indignant when I told her I wasn’t having a party much less a theme.

So that set me to thinking… If I did have a party and a theme what would it be? I decided on this:

MISTER WHO

I CAN’T QUITE PUT MY FINGER ON IT. I’m going to call it a cultural enigma. The serials I grew up with always had someone who would ride in to the rescue: The Lone Ranger, Superman, Lassie, Sheriff Andy Taylor; even in the serial lessons at church: Jesus (but in a non-fiction way).

So, today as a guy of a certain age, I still think, surely, someone is going to ride in and save the day or at least show us the compass and ensure us that the needle hasn’t been broken off, it still points North, every single time.

With the new movie about Mr. Rogers (which in my opinion couldn’t have been made without Tom Hanks to play the title role) just out, I can’t help but wonder if maybe we could use a man like Mister Rogers again.

My friend Alissa Wilkinson who writes movie reviews for Vox wrote:
“It becomes apparent that A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood is framed as a feature-length episode of Rogers’ show, but for and about adults, in which very adult feelings — like anger at your estranged father, or fear of parenting your own infant son — are meant to be confronted. Gently, Rogers reminds Vogel (and us) that we all get angry, but what we do with that anger is what matters, and that forgiveness is the hardest thing of all to do.”

Maybe you remember Archie Bunker from the sitcom, All In The Family. Remember this line from the song that Archie and wife, Edith sang together to open each episode:

And you knew who you were then,
Girls were girls and men were men,
Mister we could use a man
Like Herbert Hoover again.

Not sure why Archie longed for Hoover’s second-coming, but it was part of his caricature.

If you’re not familiar with the show, here’s the premise as described in Wikipedia:

All in the Family is about a typical working-class Caucasian family living in Queens, New York. Its patriarch is Archie Bunker, an outspoken, narrow-minded man, seemingly prejudiced against everyone who is not like him or his idea of how people should be. Archie's wife Edith is sweet and understanding, though somewhat naïve and uneducated; her husband sometimes disparagingly calls her "dingbat". Their one child, Gloria, is generally kind and good-natured like her mother, but displays traces of her father's stubbornness and temper; unlike them, she's a feminist. Gloria is married to college student Michael Stivic – referred to as "Meathead" by Archie – whose values are likewise influenced and shaped by the counterculture of the 1960s. The two couples represent the real-life clash of values between the Greatest Generation and Baby Boomers. For much of the series, the Stivics live in the Bunkers' home to save money, providing abundant opportunity for them to irritate each other.

The series was ground-breaking and somehow showed us we had better learn to laugh at ourselves and to learn there is truth in satire.

Each episode began with this disclaimer:

The program you are about to see is ‘All in the Family.’ It seeks to throw a humorous spotlight on our frailties, prejudices and concerns. By making them a source of laughter, we hope to show—in a mature fashion—just how absurd they are.

Today, I almost feel like reruns of the show should also have a disclaimer that begins: “This is not a documentary...”

Mister, I’m not suggesting that we could use a man like Archie Bunker again because I’m not sure we could handle satire these days. Maybe we’ve become too fragile for it, or too blind to see it.

Just for fun and as a sort of test, here are the other lyrics to the opening song. Read them and tell me how you feel (not really).

Boy the way Glenn Miller played
Songs that made the Hit Parade.
Guys like us we had it made,
Those were the days.

And you knew who you were then,
Girls were girls and men were men,
Mister we could use a man
Like Herbert Hoover again.

Didn't need no welfare state,
Everybody pulled his weight.
Gee our old LaSalle ran great.
Those were the days.

{In the longer version}

People seemed to be content,
Fifty dollars paid the rent,
Freaks were in a circus tent.
Those were the days.

Take a little Sunday spin,
Go to watch the Dodgers win.
Have yourself a dandy day,
That cost you under a fin.

Hair was short and skirts were long.
Kate Smith really sold a song.
I don't know just what went wrong,
Those were the days.

---

So, who do we need these days Mister? Mister Rogers, Mister Myagi (The Karate Kid), some Clint Eastwood character, Atticus Finch, Bob Dylan. Joe, Pete, Elizabeth, Kamala or 4-more-of-what-we’ve-got?

Something’s missing, or maybe it’s someone. That’s the cultural enigma I’m feeling.

AND THE AWARD GOES TO

I don’t need the mug, the medal, or the t-shirt. I want the award.

It’s good (isn’t it) to have a few things on your list that you would like to attain to, even though the reach is too far? You know, like: bringing world peace, writing the next great novel, playing drums with Diana Krall, etc. Numerous grade-school teachers documented my “vivid imagination and daydreaming” on my report cards. I took it as a compliment, though I’m not sure it was intended that way. I still daydream; it’s just that the dreams have changed.

Our dreams do change, don’t they? The good news is we still get to have them. Even the Bible promises that while the youngsters get to have visions, we men-of-a-certain-age get to dream dreams. What’s the old line about not letting your dreams be replaced by regrets?

Just in the past few weeks I’ve attended two memorial services: one was for Orlie Sawatzky,the grandfather of my daughter-in-law, Kara. the other was for my father. The heart of the service for Orlie was when his grandchildren told stories about this man they loved deeply. When planning my Dad’s service I said, let’s steal that idea and let his grandkids share their stories. It too was the heart of the service.

As I listened to all of these grandfather stories, I realized my dream of being the BEST POPS EVER was just that; a dream. I’ll never surpass those two. Still, I can strive to be my version of best.

Now let’s play the “If Only...” game. If only I had the energy to keep up with one of my grands, much less 6-soon to be 7. There’s not enough coffee. I try to do the yoga and walking, hoping that I can build some stamina, but it’s like that slurping sound as you finish off a strawberry malt and you’re trying to get that last bit. Don’t get me wrong: I can play checkers, Uno, Legos, and dolls all day. I’m up for back to back to back to back episodes of Peppa Pig or Paw Patrol, and I’ll read books as long as they want to read books. You should see me watch them dance, ride their bikes, do cartwheels, jump from the chair to the sofa. I’m happy to peel an apple they are probably going to take one bite of. But none of that is going to win any awards. If only I had the funds to take them all to Disneyland or world or whatever. If only I didn’t hate Branson and Silver Dollar City. If only my dermatologist would let me play in the sun without a big hat, 350 SPF sunscreen and a long-sleeved shirt. If only I weren’t paralyzed with fear about one of them getting bit by a disease carrying mosquito or tick, a wasp, spider, scorpion, or the neighbors yapping shiiity little shih tzu dog. If only... Know what I mean?

So, I listened to these amazing young adults: the Sawatzky’s and Fuller’s, talk about their grandfathers and I thought to myself what is the common denominator here? What is the thread that runs through these stories that turns into the fabric of a really good granddad?

And there it was! Orlie Sawatzky and William Fuller gave them a whole lot of presents. That right. They showered their grandkids with presents.

Oh, wait. That’s a typo. That should have been presence. That’s what they did. They gave their grandkids their presence—their undivided, unconditional, never-ending presence. They were just there for them. And even now, through the memories and the stories, these two old saints are still there for them.

I can do that.

PATERFAMILIAS

MY DAD IS 94. He is still our paterfamilias—the male head of a family.

A few weeks ago we thought he was slipping away. A hospice nurse used the word "imminent". We took turns being with my mom at his bedside. He had reached that unofficial, indeterminate point where quality of life seems to be evaporating. Then he "rallied", another hospice word.

Now, for a few weeks, we've had the opportunity to have more talks, share more memories, tell more stories, hear more stories. We're thankful, grateful and tired. I know mom and dad are tired too.

I'm not going to lie. There was a time, a Sunday morning, when he seemed almost vacant and even anguished. I prayed this: "God you have asked him to fight the good fight. If anyone has ever done, he has. What more do you want from him?"

I confessed to my oldest son that I had prayed for the grace of passing for dad. He said, "You might have a problem there. Your Grand-Girls are praying he'll get better."

They clearly have more sway than I do. Heck, I would put their prayers up there with those of Joel Osteen praying for a bigger house or Creflo Dollar praying for a faster jet.

For many years my dad has worn a ring that says, "DAD". A few days ago, it was just him and me in his room, I thought he was in a deep sleep, a pain drug induced state of little responsiveness, only an occasional grimace. He pulled that ring from his finger and handed it to me. His eyes were open for only a few seconds, no words were spoken. I squeezed that old ring in my fist and felt a weight I didn't want to feel. Being paterfamilias.

I haven't always done well with responsibility; not that I'm a deadbeat dad or anything. I put in an honest day's work and get an honest day's pay. I have the oil changed regularly and the tires rotated on schedule. I knew what it looks like to step up, to do and to be, sometimes I would prefer for the buck to stop elsewhere. In these last days, the decisions have sometimes come too fast; they are too heavy.

Don't worry. I'm not going to run away, or screech at God, or buy me a red golf hat and be pissed at the world. I have help. Don't we all, if we really admit it?

On June 16, 1972, I had another ring handed to me. My Amazing-Missus placed it on the third finger of my left hand, held it there and said a vow. I did the same. This ring seems so much lighter because all these years later she stands with me, still, as she always has. I don't make decisions all alone, in isolation. She is wise and she's been down this path before, too often.

We have a friend. He is our mentor and minister. He literally wrote the book on this end-of-life stuff. His wisdom and encouragement are like scaffolding for me, and not just now; he has been our marriage counselor, therapist, travel consultant and spiritual paterfamilias for many, many years.

And, at the risk of sounding like I'm giving an acceptance speech at the Academy Awards, we have so many other friends, and family in this deal. It's like they read that verse that says, "Bear one another's burdens," and they believed it.

A few days ago we visited a nature park with our three Shawnee Grand-Girls. At the head of the trail is a big wooden sign with a map of all the trails. There is a star on the sign and the words, "YOU ARE HERE". The middle of the three, who is seven, asked, "How did they know we were here?"

Right now, we know: WE ARE HERE, at a place many others have been before and will be again. And we are grateful for all those who know this trail because they've been down it and have basically said, "We know where you are. Here's an encouraging word and a prayer."

That's enough.