PAUSE

THERE'S A PLACE where time stands still; or so I thought. Maybe I was just trying to will the clock and the calendar to slow down.

BROOKE AND JEREMIAH; KYLE AND MALACHI ON THE FERRIS WHEEL AT THE HINTON FAIR

There seems to be an age at which we grow more nostalgic. For me it was somewhere around 17. Could be that wasn't nostalgia; more of a youthful sentimentality (if there is such a thing.) Now though at 70-something, I long for a place of nostalgia, a return to the good old days when even in politics most everyone agreed with the admonition to Richard M. Nixon: Don't let the screen door on the back porch of the White House hit you in the rear end on your way out, as he resigned in 1974.

I long for those halcyon days when it was clear the best music ever was being created: Paul McCartney, John Lennon, Brian Wilson, Bob Dylan, Stevie Wonder, Neal Young, Carole King, Stephen Stills, Jimi Hendrix, Grace Slick, Dolly Parton, Marvin Gaye, Jimmy Webb, Paul Simon, Dave Brubeck, Miles Davis... just to mention a few.

Sorry. I drifted off into that sweet place a few decades back, driving up and down Peoria Ave on a Friday night with Crosby, Stills and Nash playing "Suite Judy Blue Eyes" on the 8-Track. I'm back to the future now.

We need a place where we can pause every now and then, but those places where time will slow or pause are harder to find these days, or so it seems to me. When we do get to pause though we can glimpse what is important: our shared humanity, hopefulness, possibilities, joy and a peaceful moment or two. It happens waiting in line to ride the merry-go-round, or Ferris wheel. It happens sharing a funnel cake, just pulled from the grease, served on a dixie paper plate, covered in powered sugar, or blowing on a too-hot corn dog, while listening to the whistle of the little red train coming out of the tunnel.

I realize that even while watching children ride the little kiddie cars, or trying to pop balloons with darts that I'm not a child any more. Still; the pause works, because the emotions are the same, the feelings of glee when winning a prize, the terror of getting on the Tilt-A-Whirl seen in the faces of the young are still real.

I've been listening a lot lately to a song by Switchfoot called "Beloved". Here's verse 3:

The questions that we're too afraid to ask
'Cause the present is the future of the past
'Cause the river is the same, but moving fast lately
And maybe every other is a we
Maybe differences are easier to see
Than a family we are that's underneath, maybe
I start to recognize that I need you
Like you need me

For a few hours in the hot, dusty midway of the Hinton Free Fair, we were all just there to live in the glow of the colored lights and happy sounds. Differences be damned. I'm off to find the homemade ice cream stand.

THERE'S LABOR THEN THERE'S TEACHING

IT SOUNDS HARD. But, we do it because after-all, Labor Omnia Vincit! Right!? That's Oklahoma's official motto. Did you know that? Did you know this:

Labor omnia vincit or Labor omnia vincit improbus is a Latin phrase meaning "Work conquers all". The phrase is adapted from Virgil's Georgics, Book I, lines 145–6: ...Labor omnia vicit / improbus ("Steady work overcame all things"). The poem was written in support of Augustus Caesar's "Back to the land" policy, aimed at encouraging more Romans to become farmers. The actual meaning of the phrase can be obtained as the following: "anything can be achieved if proper work is applied". --borrowed from Wikipedia.

This Labor Day, 2022, I'm offering my appreciation and support to TEACHERS; this year especially because they are back at work, putting the pieces together after the quarantine quake, where remote-learning proved that without our teachers our kid's "education" might suggest that remote-learning is an oxymoron--kind of like football coach/social studies teacher. Just kidding coach. Yessir, I will drop and give you twenty, sir.

Further, [Hey look Ms. Osborn, I used further rather than farther] in addition to teaching in a classroom with a few more promising-young sponges than that classroom should have, in spite of the fact that she will fork over her own funds for classroom supplies because our politicians have a stranglehold on the purse strings. Oh, and because of shortages, Mr. Teacher will also have to drive the bus and then go to work at Home Depot to make ends meet.

Inherent in the idea of Labor as I picture it, there is this thing called: duty. Teachers have to do a lot extra of that--duty. Hall, lunchroom, recess, the craziness of the car line; it's their duty.

Last week, in a school near here as the end drew near, the elementary principal received word that there was an old man in an Hawaiian shirt, shorts and Birkenstocks standing out front. So she snapped into duty, going outside to confront him.

Her: "Can I help you sir?"

Old Man: "I'm here to pick up some little girls."

Her: "Any in particular?"

Old Man: "Harper and Nora and Karlee."

Her: "You must be Pops. You should be in the car line."

I turned to look at the car line which now stretched beyond the horizon.

Her: "Come to my office."

Me: (mumbling under my breath) "Oh crap!"

Nothing has ever gone well for me in my many trips to a principal's office.

What happened next is a blur. A lady at the front desk, a student aid and Dr. Smith, the principal, spoke together in a sort of code and the next thing I knew the girls were in the car explaining to me how I had done everything wrong. "Hey, that's how I roll," I explained.

AND NOW? What are we doing to teachers? Apparently we're swallowing some storyline concocted by the far-right-wing-nut-job-lunatic-fringe, that teachers are conspiring and conniving to poison young minds. I swear if I see one more fundamentalist soldier threatening to burn books like "A Wrinkle in Time" by Madeleine L'Engle, or worse yet, threatening a librarian or teacher for having that book on their shelf, well...

I don't want my vocal support of teachers here in this humble blog to be just words. I'll admit that as a student back in the day I wasn't a dream student or teacher's delight, but I've changed (although if I'm ever called on again to pick grandkids up from school, I'm not going to use what life I have left waiting in that dang pickup line). I want to show my support for you and the high ideal that Labor Omnia Vincit.

Here's what I have to offer:

Do you need a cold refreshing beverage at the end of the teaching day after the last of your little einsteins gets on the bus? I'm happy to make a run to Sonic, Braums, Starbucks to get you something--my treat.

Do you need something for your classroom? Let me buy it.

Do you need a testing monitor for state testing day? If I can, I'll be there. I actually have experience in that area and can pass a background check with flying colors.

Do you need someone to come to your class that you can point to and tell your students that if they don't do their homework this is how they might end up? Scare them straight!

I will also do this:

I will campaign hard for Jena Nelson for Oklahoma's State Superintendent. I will do what I can to make sure Ryan Walters' quest to damage public education and go after teachers like some baseless witch hunt ends in November.

I will campaign hard for Joy for Governor. It would be so refreshing to have a leader who values public education.

Oh, let me add: I know many people who have chosen the homeschool path and done so beautifully. Good for you, but I'm not going to Sonic to buy you a cherry vanilla Dr. Pepper at the end of the day. You're on your own.

YOUNG & OLD

A PRIVILEGE OF BEING ONE of the "snow-crowned age" I've looked forward to is the ability to speak without filter, or at least a filter with really big pores. It's not that you reach an age where you earn a higher protection from the First Amendment, it's not that I'm necessarily getting crankier and meaner with age, there just seems to be a cultural acceptance that when old people say stupid stuff, it can be dismissed because: well, he's old. The same privilege belongs to the very young (let's call them the "bright youth").

One of our Grand-Girls turned 8 recently. Her name is Nora, which might mean: one who speaks her thoughts out loud. The other day her Mimi was taking her to their neighborhood pool. Her Mimi tied a bandana over her hair.

Nora: "Are you wearing that?"
Mimi: "I thought I would."
Nora: "You know there will be other mommies and grandmothers there. Don't you want to look fabulous?!

Sunday's sermon came from the third chapter of James, the verses about the power of the tongue and the challenge of controlling it. James doesn't offer an age-waiver for the young and old to speak their minds more freely and forthrightly, but culture accepts it, so let's take advantage.

Why do the young and the old get a pass? For some reason in our early years and again in our waning years a lot of things are just understood; but for different reasons. If a toddler has ice cream dripping from its chin as she's eating her cone, we think: isn't that cute?! If a senior-ly gent does the same, we think: bless his heart. In neither case is there much surprise.

Still, there are stereotypes, and in those, the young and the old are somewhat genderless--not in the sense of the gender discussions du jour, but in the fact that gender doesn't seem as important. Consider this line from a hymn of the late 1800s:

Bright youth and snow-crowned age,
Strong men and maidens fair...

[Rejoice Ye Pure in Heart. Words by Edward H. Plumptre. 1821-1891.]

See how the "bright youth" and those of us of "snow-crowned age" get bunched together while the "strong men" and the "maidens fair" get to have gender, and stereotypical gender roles at that.

Not that I'm complaining. I'm fine with gender not being such a big deal at this point of life. I'll admit that during my first coming-of-age, gender was all that mattered; or at least it was always in the top three, and always just a few thoughts away. At 70-something, I'm still grateful that My Amazing-Missus and I are of different and traditional genders. I'm also richer for having deep friendships where gender is irrelevant, as is race, age, nationality, economic standing, and religion or the lack thereof.

I hope I haven't confused or offended. If I have: I'm old; that's my ticket to ride.

I'm here everyday offering unsolicited life advice; and Nora, my Grand-Girl is giving fashion advice. Don't you want to be fabulous!?

SHALL WE GATHER

THIS IS ABOUT: coffee and commas; pauses and places; gatherings and gauntlets.

Okay, let's get this straight, right from the beginning: commas (and their punctuation buddies) are important, especially in our societal drift to writing where the only function of punctuation is to share emotion ;-(

For example, consider the possible outcomes of these words from a man to his beloved, based solely on the placement of punctuation:

A woman, without her man, is nothing.

Or, more wisely put:

A woman: without her, man is nothing.

This example is from a wonderful book by Lynne Truss called, "Eats Shoots & Leaves". The title comes from this story,

A panda walks into a cafe. He orders a sandwich, eats it, then draws a gun and fires two shots in the air.
"Why?" Asks the confused waiter, as the panda makes towards the exit. The panda produces a badly punctuated wildlife manual and tosses it over his shoulder.
"I'm a panda," he says, at the door. "Look it up."
The waiter turns to the relevant entry and, sure enough, finds an explanation.
"Panda. Large black-and-white bear-like mammal, native to China. Eats, shoots and leaves."

Truss says of punctuation's function: "To point up -- rather in the manner of musical notation -- such literary qualities as rhythm, direction, pitch, tone and flow... It tells the reader how to hum the tune."

A comma helps us find a rest, a place to breath.

What does this have to do with coffee and gathering? Check out this from the web page of a little local coffee shop I frequent:

"We’re grateful to be a part of your coffee rhythm today, whether you’re here for rest, work, or play and we hope that you can pause for a moment. It’s the pauses that provide us the opportunity to rest and reflect, celebrate what’s come before, and to prepare for what’s next.

"Every day needs a Comma."

This shop used to be called The Gathering Place. That is until a huge public trust in my hometown of Tulsa, Oklahoma, decided that there could only be one gathering place. After the little coffee shop of that name had been open for people to gather, along came a huge park project along the Arkansas River in Tulsa, to be known as Gathering Place. Apparently, the suits of that enterprise thought people might confuse the two. Imagine: a family from Iowa hears of this amazing park along the river in Tulsa. They load up the SUV and embark on the journey to see it for themselves. But, through some GPS fluke they end up at a storefront coffeeshop in downtown Shawnee, Oklahoma.

Believe it or not, the Goliath-like behemoth charged its attorneys, "Sic 'em!" So, they tell the young families that own the coffeeshop, "Cease and desist! We'll see you in court!" Gauntlet thrown! Or something like that. It's a true story. You can use your favorite search engine to find all the details.

The coffeeshop owners say (in my version of the story), "Hey, pause, breath, have a comma moment."

In defense of the park people, I've been a part of trademark defense, threats, violations and litigation. If your entity has a trademark and you don't defend it, eventually a court could rule that the trademark has ceased to mean anything. Still...

Pushed into a name change, the little-coffeeshop-that-could rebranded and created a better version of themselves. And, guess what, people still gather at their place; now called, "Comma"!!!

Of course, you'll want to visit for yourself. I'm happy to meet you there. The coffee and scones are superb. In the meantime, visit virtually: comma.cafe.

They're right: everyday needs a comma, and for me, most days need a semicolon--just a little longer pause than a comma. Thankfully, at Comma; semicolons are okay too.

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A Confession: Before you grammarians sharpen your red pencil to show me the errors of my punctuational way, I don't claim to know what I'm doing. Punctuation is both utilitarian and poetic for me. Like a delicious, cold fruit salad.