THE V WORD

IN THE CHURCH OF MY YOUTH, we observed a couple of ordinances: baptism and communion, which we called “Observing the Lord’s Supper.” These ordinances are pictures, and to this day I love them. They are metaphors for remembering. In fact, at the beginning of the communion sevice, the elements—the bread and the “wine”—were set on a table at the front of the sanctuary. Engraved in the front of the table in a sort of gothic typeface were the words of Jesus, “Do this in remembrance of me”.

At the end of the observance, the pastor would read Matthew 26:30, a verse in the narrative of the last supper:

“And when they had sung an hymn, they went out into the mount of Olives.”

In the church of our tradition that song was the first verse of “Bless Be The Tie that Binds.”

Blest be the tie that binds
our hearts in Christian love;
the fellowship of kindred minds
is like to that above.

It was written by John Fawcett in 1782, although I would guess that many of the old saints of my childhood probably would have insisted that it is the exact song that Jesus and his disciples sang together at that first Last Supper.

Maybe you know the hymn from reading Thornton Wilder’s "Our Town” in high school where the song makes several appearances including at a wedding and at a funeral.

Do we still have ties that bind? If so, are those ties too fragile, too frayed? Have they been reduced to a thread to which we are barely hanging. What is it that is tearing at the fabric of our society and even our families?

Vaccinations? Surely it’s more than that. But I know people who have secretly gotten the vaccine because their family are so strongly anti-vax that could have severed family ties. And what about Jeffrey Allen Burnham from Maryland who killed his brother, a pharmacist. Burnham allegedly said, ”that his brother was 'killing people with the COVID shot.”

As the days click closer to Thanksgiving Day, it seems uncertainty still looms. The fraught questions will not be white meat or dark (WHITE), roasted or fried (ROASTED), should the offal go into the gravy or not? (NOT) Pecan or pumpkin pie or both? (PECAN) Sweet or unsweetened? (UNSWEETENED) Lions or Bears? (BEARS)

Some are asking should we gather together or not? Maybe rather than having seperate tables for adults and kids we can have tables or seperate rooms for the vaccinated and the un. Or, maybe a table in the garage or backyard for old people like myself. These days I’m a part of the oldest generation at our family gatherings. That puts me in the “Covid will probably kill me if I catch it” category. It also means I’m more likely to be cranky and less sympathetic with those who hold differing views of stuff.

A year ago, we didn’t have the vaccine. It was around this time of year that the long term care facility where my mom lived was shut to outsiders. We did get to have a couple of visits outdoors with her but that didn’t last long. At some point, even with the quarantine measures in place she was infected, and shortly, Covid took her life. Thus, I’m puzzled by the arguments, denials, or theories of the militant anti-vaxers; an emotional response on my part for sure. I do have empathy for those who truly are not able to be vaccinated for various reasons or have already had Covid. See, it’s narrow-minded people like me, who are afraid of death by suffocation that are gnawing away at the binding ties. Still I’m puzzled and saddened by how deep the divide is. I wish I knew what to do.

My Amazing-Missus reminded me that there was a time that the divide in our nation was worse. It was during that time, specifically in 1863, President Abraham Lincoln, at the height of the Civil War, established Thanksgiving 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.”

Pass me a heaping helping of what President Lincoln is serving up.

SAY CHEESE

“ARE YOU THROWING AWAY FAMILY PICTURES!?”
No. I’m curating my photo collection.

Doesn’t that have a sophisticated, careful, cautious, thoughtful, responsible, artistic ring to it? The result is the same though; sort of.

Nora the Photographer

I’ve committed to “downsizing” and it’s not just photos. It’s books, articles, journals, art, little treasures—seven decades worth of ephemera.

As happens with us daydreaming types, a song came to mind as I was elbows deep in a bin of photos. The song had an immediate impact. All of a sudden I went from a man-on-a-disposal-mission to a sap that couldn’t bring himself to drop another memory in the trash can.

The song is called Bookends by Simon & Garfunkel. It’s just over one minute long but it’s impact is long-lasting. It has been on a replay loop in my mind and heart for a disabling amount of time now. The lyrics are brief but poignant. (Isn’t that the way it is with brevity sometimes?) Here are the words in their entirety:

Time it was
And what a time it was, it was

A time of innocence
A time of confidences

Long ago it must be

I have a photograph
Preserve your memories

They're all that's left you

CLICK HERE TO HEAR THE SONG (at your own risk).

---

Plan B: Put the burden on someone else.

With the trash can back in the garage, but the downsizing mandate staring me in the face, literally in the faces of the most important people in my life at various ages and stages—a light bulb comes on.

Now I have a pile for each of our sons: Corey and Kyle. Let them sift through these memories. It’s sort of a subversive way of saying, “Here, you throw these away. I can’t do it. I’m a Baby Boomer, an archiver, a sentimental old fool.”

Our boys came of age in the big transition of photography: from film, chemicals, negatives and prints to digital images. Sifting and sorting is different now. People don’t edit and curate. They just buy a bigger hard drive or more memory or space on The Cloud.

Now you can take an iPhone and shoot up a storm. Back in the day, we had a camera loaded with 24 shots of pure Kodachrome. Each release of the shutter had to count. We were curating as we shot.

Sometimes our most vivid pictures aren’t printed on photo paper sitting in a box, or in ones and zeros sitting in a server somewhere. Somehow we just have them—imprinted in our personhood. For example, I don’t have a printed photograph of my Aunt Joyce with her camera, but I have vivid, clear images of her looking down into her Kodak Brownie recording family. I don’t have a picture of my grandmother cooking chicken and noodles, but the image is so clear I can almost taste them. I don’t have a photo of my baptism but I can remember the look of joy on my dad’s face. We were married before videotape, but I can remember the wonder of it. I can connect the lines between the photos we do have of that day.

Now the photos I cherish most are of our grandkids. Fortunatley, their parents are wonderful photographers, capturing the unique character of each one them, telling a story with every shot.

On those days when I find myself standing in a room trying to remember what it was I was looking for when I wandered in there, I realize those printed pictures are good to have, because it’s like Paul Simon said:

I have a photograph
Preserve your memories

They're all that's left you

RE-PLACING

“HARD TO REPLACE” for $200.
Who is Alex Trebeck?

It says something about the enduring nature, the near treasured place this thing called “Jeopardy” holds in our culture that the host seems to be irreplaceable. Of course, Alex Trebeck is woven into the fabric of the show, like that ominous little tune that plays while the contestants face “Final Jeopardy”.

Okay. Let’s play a game.

Fill in the blank: There will never be another _______________.

Apparently, there are those people whose mark is so deep and indelible that their place in history stops with them—they can’t be re-placed. The obvious names that come to mind for me: Mister Rogers, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Billy Graham, John Lennon, Nora Ephron, and Ted Lasso (who’s still here; for now).

Of course they will be remembered. Maybe thats goes with being irreplaceable—being remembered.

“No one is indispensable,” I remember our grade school basketball coach telling us, as a team-building lesson. He used this analogy: he had a glass of water and asked one of the guys to stick his finger in the water. “Now remove it.” He held up the glass and asked us if anyone could see a void left by the removal of the finger. I started to mention that while there wasn’t a finger-shaped hole in the water, the overall water level had gone down—i.e. there was an impact. But, I thought better of it. (I was trying to win a spot on the team which meant getting a jersey and riding the bus to out-of-town games. Smartassery could only hurt my chances which were already slim.)

Now that I think about it, maybe being dispensable isn’t the same as being replaceable. Maybe being remembered is better than being irreplaceable.

It’s kind of fun to imagine that when it comes to being a husband, father and a Pops, I might could have a degree of immortality or at least irreplaceability. I’ve often joked that when I ride off into the sunset (so to speak) I want to leave My Amazing-Missus financially comfortable, but I don’t want to leave enough so that her next husband could buy a bigger sailboat than I had—like the one in the background of this picture of our beautiful TRUST ME II. I suppose that’s my misguided path to irreplaceability.

HERE’S MY AMAZING MISSUS LITERALLY BATTENING DOWN THE HATCHES

Other than light bulbs, a carton of milk that’s turned south, etc., is anything really replaceable? I bought a new pair of shoes that were exactly the same size, same design, and same color as a pair I’ve worn for years. Still when I go to the closet to slip on my shoes, invariably I go for the old pair. Those shoes and my feet have a special relationship. They’ve become good friends. It’s like they’ve become one.

How about a of chunk of time; can that be replaced? You know, like the chunk we’ve lost to the pandemic. I don’t know for sure. I’m trying to, as they say, “make up for lost time”.

It’s strange but I think quarantine has made me a better steward of life. The time can’t be replaced, but in a way my days are richer now. I’m paying more attention. I’m savoring moments. I’m cherishing experiences. I hope I’m listening more, loving more, seeing more, feeling more. I hope I’m more open-minded, more liberal (open to the new and willing to discard old traditional dogmas.)

Maybe it’s okay to say of the “irreplaceable”: He, she, or it is no Alex Trebeck, but... And then we find a way to breath and put one foot in front of the other and bet it all on the Daily Double.

THE METAVERSE

MAYBE YOU SAW where Mark Zuckerberg, the Facebook guy, shared his vision for his company.

“I expect people will transition from seeing us primarily as a social-media company to seeing us as a metaverse company.”

In a Facebook earnings call last week, Mark Zuckerberg outlined the future of his company. The vision he put forth wasn’t based on advertising, which provides the bulk of Facebook’s current profits, or on an increase in the over-all size of the social network, which already has nearly three billion monthly active users. Instead, Zuckerberg said that his goal is for Facebook to help build the “metaverse,” a Silicon Valley buzzword that has become an obsession for anyone trying to predict, and thus profit from, the next decade of technology.

It was a remarkable pivot in messaging for the social-media giant, especially given the fact that the exact meaning of the metaverse, and what it portends for digital life, is far from clear. In the earnings call, Zuckerberg offered his own definition. The metaverse is “a virtual environment where you can be present with people in digital spaces,” he said. It’s “an embodied Internet that you’re inside of rather than just looking at. We believe that this is going to be the successor to the mobile Internet.”

—Chayka, Kyle. (2021, August). “Facebook Wants Us to Live in the Metaverse: What does that even mean?” The New Yorker, August 5, 2021.

Show of hands: who wants to live in Zuckerberg’s metaverse?

Sometimes I get the feeling maybe we already do. After all, it seems to be the place where we get our news, have our conversations, where opinions are defended, attacked and rationalized, where theories perpetuate, where stands are taken, where we choose whether the dress is blue or gold, where we tell our “friends” Happy Birthday, where we learn that people have entered or left a relationship, where we decide—as if we must—whether we would eliminate: Starbucks®, Whole Foods®, Jehovah’s Witnesses, or Pumpkin Spice deodorant.

I’m not complaining. Where else can I brag on my brilliant, beautiful GrandKids and get instant “Likes” for doing so? I do enjoy visiting Facebook from time to time, but I don’t want to live inside its virtual environment; a metaverse.

What are the alternatives? Where does community happen these days? Let’s pretend COVID in all of its varieties goes away. Would we, could we, hang out?

Before we met in digital spaces, before cheeseburgers and chips and french onion dip and ice cold bottles of pop were bad for us, before mosquitoes and ticks carried life-threatening diseases, back when kids could play in the street or along the banks of the Arkansas River, before we became addicted to air-conditioning, we would gather almost every Saturday evening in the summers of the 50s and 60s. Dads would grill burgers and hotdogs and smoke pipes or cigars. Moms would visit in the kitchen, preparing platters of burger fixin’s, bowls of potato salad, and cutting pies. Don’t judge. There was no intent to subject anyone to a predefined cultural role. It was just the way it happened and everyone seemed happy.

It wasn’t just a tableau from a Norman Rockwell painting: it really happended that way. In backyards everywhere—people gathered. Then, the only phones hung on a wall in the kitchen or sat on an end table in the living room. No one had one in their pocket. We were just present. Living and breathing and storytelling and laughing.

About the time the fireflies were in full spectacle, someone would say, “Well, it’s getting late.” Goodbyes were said and we would go home to polish our penny loafers for Sunday School the next morning. Then to bed.

Back then, church was a communal place for us. Koinonia was more than just a fancy word. The fellowship of the little churches we attended over the years was a beautiful as that word. Sure it had a spirituality to it, but a simplicity too. A fellowship time would be called to enjoy just-harvested ice cold watermelons; and another for homemade, hand-churned ice cream. Let’s see the metaverse replicate that. Well, because scripture itself warns against remembering the good old days better than they were, I’ll move on.

I’m trying to be careful to not judge the metaverse idea too quickly. I have sought to understand it. For starters I tried to grasp the concept of metaverse: is it a spin on universe. What is the “verse” in uni or meta? Meta-anything is one of those things like post-modern and bespoke, that for me have become convoluted with use, misuse and overuse.

If “a virtual environment where you can be present with people in digital spaces,” sounds as repulsive to you as it does to me, what are our options, other than a 50s style backyard BBQ (not that there’s anything wrong with that), where can we “be present with people”. Maybe I’m making too much of this, but as an extreme introvert, I ponder carefully who I want to be with and in what kind of setting.

Here are some real environments that come to mind. (Admittedly, I’m romanticizing the idea a bit.) A place like the bar on “Cheers” sounds good because:

Sometimes you want to go
Where everybody knows your name
And they're always glad you came
You want to be where you can see
Our troubles are all the same
You want to be where everybody knows your name

This may sound like a contradiction to my thesis about shunning the virtual for the real by imagining a TV set as an ideal environment, but you know what I mean. It may also sound like a contradiction to compare this to an online pub of sorts; but, since early in the pandemic, I have been meeting every Sunday night with a group of guys in a Zoom meeting we call The Quarantine Tavern. We’re in Oklahoma, Texas, Atlanta and Nashville, but we’ve made it work almost as if we were sitting together at a table in a real tavern, maybe one like this one, The Stubbing Wharf, “…located in a beautiful position between the Rochdale Canal and the River Calder, on the A646 just to the west of Hebden Bridge in the Upper Calder Valley, UK.”

I heard an interview with the assistant manager. She was asked what makes a great pub. “Good traditional pub food and a good selection of ales. You need to be accepting of muddy boots and muddy paw prints. You need service that keeps people smilin’. It’s like a community.”

While I’m in the midst of throwing shade on the very idea of Facebook as a communal catalyst let me suggest you “visit” The Stubbing Wharf on The FB. [click here to visit their page]

Sometimes, these days, our community is in a campground with other traveling friends. We gather in the evening to visit. Sometimes the air is filled with the fragrance of a nice campfire. Sometimes the air is filled with the fragrance of Deep Woods OFF®. We’ve discovered that even with COVID, camping is possible and delightful.

There was a time when we would gather with young artists—one of my favorite communities. Collaborative creativity is such a high sensory experience. Maybe that’s one of the keys, one of the things that will always give real, in-person community the edge. Only there can you have the sights, sounds, the tastes and smells, and of course the touch.

So, when the pandemic finally loosens its grip on our collective throat, what do you say? Let’s meet up: eat good food, drink good drinks, have good music, the sounds of kids playing, maybe some horseshoes, cornhole, bocce ball. Absolutely no phones (except for using the camera app), no red hats (unless it has a St. Louis Cardinals logo on it), no blue hats (unless it has an L.A. Dodgers logo on it). Let’s talk of good times and blessings. Let’s hear good stories. Let’s laugh and maybe cry a little.

That’s all I’ve got. I’m going to take My Amazing Missus to Roxy’s Ice Cream Social now for some homemade ice cream.