WRITE RIGHT

AS FAR AS I KNOW each of my English teachers and writing professors have passed. I no longer live under the scrutiny of their red pencils. Comma splices, sentence fragments, dangling participles and run-on sentences are of little concern. Punctuation is more functional than rule-bound for me these days--I use punctuation to attempt to make a sentence read like I would say it; if you know what I mean. Hey, at least I use/misuse punctuation.

There may be a few regular readers of this blog who "grade" and judge my essays as they read; but as far as I know, there is only one actual English teacher who reads an occasional post. Apparently, grace takes precedence over grades for her. Her post post comments are always kind. I'm not surprised. She taught our boys, and I always sensed that she chose to value the beauty of words just above the rules and penmanship--not that she didn't have a red pencil.

[I hope you have a significant other, or four, or six, or more, who doesn't carry a freshly sharpened red pencil. You know that famous passage in the thirteenth chapter of 1 Corinthians that describes Love? One of the definitions of love is that it "keeps no record of wrongs." Red pencil wielders seem to also be scorekeepers. They put stuff in your permanent record.]

I'm not advocating for rule-lessness. Without some structure, order, agreed-upon guides, and a dose of accountability we're left with people like George Santos who has "padded his resume" to the point he's nothing but a laughable cartoon. I actually feel sorry for him. How horrible it must be to feel so inadequate that you become an ugly verion of Walter Mitty.

In my own over-inflated vision of myself as a writer, I'm making this declaration of being free from the shackles of the rules of composition. Now, I'm confessing. I still rely on those lessons-learned from my teachers past. I continue to use references and resources to strive to be a good craftsman of letters and marks and words and ideas. Hoping to write, as Hemingway said, "one true sentence," at a time.

these are always within reach of the desk where pops writes

One of the guidebooks that was required reading in my days as a journalism major at Tulsa University, where I was captain of the tennis team (not really: on the tennis team part) was The Associated Press Stylebook.

The keepers of the Stylebook recently offered this new guidance: “We recommend avoiding general and often dehumanizing ‘the’ labels such as the poor, the mentally ill, the French, the disabled, the college educated.”

This seems like good guidance for general conversation too. So stop it! Stop poking fun of The Boomers, The Elderly, The Etc., when we speak of going to The Cracker Barrel for breakfast, or to The Starbucks for coffee. [Actually I go to The Starbucks for the banana nut bread. Saying I go there for the coffee is kind of like the old Boomer who claimed he bought Playboy "for the news articles."]

I guess now I'm going to need to rethink the title of my memoir I've been working on: "The Bald and The Beautiful".

I can see where grouping folks together could be dehumanizing and maybe even marginalizing; at least stereotyping. If someone were to say, "The Bald are snarky," I might take offence. However, if someone were to say, "Obviously The Bald have better things to do with their hormones than just growing hair." I would concur.

It's funny how we try to soften the edge of being The Old. Does it help to be called The Elderly? No. But it is what it is. Should you assume that just because my joints creak, that I come bearing a Medicare card and an AARP card that I'm old? Yes, that's a good assumption. Go ahead and lump us all together. Just don't stand in our way when we're getting in line at The Braum's for The Fro-yo.

Should we be concerned about The Young throwing all rules of punctuation and grammer to the wasteland with their incessant texting? Heck yes. Give me a Red Pencil app and I'll go after them. Who am I kidding? I've got better things to do and, as a member of The Elderly, not a lot of time to do them /period/fullstop/.

PLAY FAVORITES

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[NOTE: Artificial Intelligence (AI) technology was not used in the writing of this essay, only Pops' dubious human intelligence and questionable emotional intelligence (EQ).]

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THE MORE CIVIL AND POLITE POSITION, when it comes to playing favorites seems to be: don't. Remember those teachers or coaches that "played favorites"; or so it seemed. I was apparently not teacher's pet material. Heck, in the opinion of most of grade school teachers I didn't even "work up to my potential." As a school boy I was certain that the first criterion for that esteemed position was to be a girl. Why, I don't know. They seemed to me to be fussy and whiny and tattle-tellie. Not all; but those that seemed to make good teacher's pets did.

I can't fault the teachers. I had my own list of school days favorites--friends with common interests, and girls who were out of my league. Even to this day, I ease the pain of that reality with an excuse: I went to school in Jenks--a small community with a giant school district. The Jenks school district even extended across the river into South Tulsa where we lived. There was a girl named Karla who topped my favorites list, but she lived in town, I didn't. Being geographically challenged plus shy to a fault, and having a football-playing rival made wooing her a hurdle too high. Is there any pain like the pain of the unrequited love of a kid?

No regrets though; when it really mattered, Providence carved paths that led me to meet a beautiful girl, who was most certainly out of my league and who went to our rival school: Bixby (Home of the Spartans). That was over 50 years ago and she is still my FAVORITE and still out of my league.

When it comes to things like breakfast cereals, movies, sitcoms, seasons of the year, and sports teams, having favorites seems like a good thing to me. It helps us explore things, to define ourselves, to know ourselves a little better. For example, let's talk about favorite places to visit. Some people love warm, exotic, beachy places. If someone told me I could go on an all-expenses paid vacation, I would choose from my favorites-- places I've been and enjoyed: Great Britain, New York or Chicago.

While we're there; favorite pizza? For me Chicago-style is best. I love a slice of NYC pizza, but Chicago wins that one along with best hot dogs. Favorite burger? Hands down it's Sid's in El Reno, Oklahoma.

If pinned down for an opinion on things like raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens, brown paper packages tied up with strings, frankly, these are not on any list of favorites I might have. Although, I am curious about what's in that package.

Having favorites simplifies life. I don't have to stand in the grocery aisle staring at the Pop Tarts®, trying to decide. I'm grabbing the unfrosted strawberry every time. Paper or plastic? Paper. I just like paper sacks. There's something nostalgic about them. You never know when you might need to make a book cover or wrap up a package and tie it with string. Plus, while I'm not a raging, ranting environmentalist, I hate that every fence row along the way is littered with plastic bags from Wal Mart and Dollar General--two of the stores near the top of my unfavorite-places-ever.

All this thinking about favorites started as I was listening to a lot of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young following the passing of David Crosby. I mentioned that the original CSN album was in my Top 5 albums of all-time. Someone asked, "What are the other four?" Contemplating that question made me realize that there are at least a baker's dozen in my Top 5. Here they are in no particular order:

Carole King, ‘Tapestry’ SONY, 1971

Miles Davis, ‘Kind of Blue’ COLUMBIA, 1959

The Beatles, ‘Rubber Soul’ PARLOPHONE, 1965

The Beatles, ‘Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’ CAPITOL, 1967

Bob Dylan, ‘Highway 61 Revisited’ COLUMBIA, 1965

The Beatles, ‘Revolver’ APPLE, 1966

The Beach Boys, ‘Pet Sounds’ CAPITOL, 1966

Marvin Gaye, ‘What’s Going On’ TAMLA/MOTOWN, 1971

Blood, Sweat & Tears, 'Blood, Sweat & Tears album' Columbia, 1968

Crosby, Stills & Nash, 'Crosby Stills & Nash' Atlantic, 1969

Simon & Garfunkel, 'The Graduate' Columbia Masterworks, 1967

Jars of Clay, 'Jars of Clay' Essential, Silvertone, 1995

Diana Krall, 'Live In Paris' Verve, 2002

As I was curating this list, the first consideration was: PLAYING FAVORITES--the albums I tend to play over and over--the ones I never tire of. Next, you have to consider the album as a whole. There are a lot of albums out there that have two or three great songs, but these albums are non-stop quality music, which for me means superb songwriting--wonderful lyrics, memorable melodies, rich harmonies and chord progressions that give you goosebumps. They are wonderfully produced and stand the test of time. They are groundbreaking.

When I use the word album, I'm speaking literally of the vinyl record and cover jacket. My love of music was deepened by bringing home a new album, putting it on the record player and reading all of the album notes and looking at the pictures while the music played. It was an experience that only an album can give.

Obviously, I still favor the music of the 60s and early 70s. Eleven of the thirteen are from that era. Back then being able to buy an album required weeks of saving my allowance, doing extra chores, and begging. I had to make sure this album would be a favorite before laying out the hard-earned coin for it.

I still have many of those albums that I bought over 50 years ago. They are that special to me. I don't play them on my turntable these days. They are too worn and scratched. My turntable has a cartridge (needle) that costs more than my stereo did back in the day. So now I listen to high-quality digital versions of my favorites. But often, I still pull the album from the shelf and look at it as the record plays.

I love playing favorites.

BUTTERFLIES, BEAVERS, BOOMERS

AMIDST THE DRAMA HERE AT THE WINTER RV PARK FOR SENIORS, people seem to have a favorite activity or two or three, and maybe there's something they kind of specialize in. There's pool (billiards) and a pool (swimming). Lots of card games, sewing, quilting, crafts, puzzle putting-together, dances, group meals, remote control car racing, and much more. My favorite so far: shuffleboard.

But, let's start at the beginning. While the activities are fun and the calendar is packed with them, there has to be more that motivates people to drive thousands of miles to a land that doesn't promise anything. It's not exactly like the Okies leaving Oklahoma headed for California in the dust bowl days, but if that picture helps...

It's the weather that prompts the migration. I was sitting in the Hospitality room where the promise of good, fast, free Wi-Fi is broken--both the promise and something in the Wi-Fi chain: cable, router, modem, connections or the expertise of the IT department (if there is one). I'm overhearing a discussion between a couple of Canadians (according to their name tags), checking their mailboxes:

Canadian guy #1: "Can't complain about the weather today, eh."
Canadian guy #2: "That's why we're down here, eh."

A popular activity is to check a phone for the current temps back home: "Well it's in the teens today back in Duluth", as if to justify the trip.

A walk around the compound where we are staying near McAllen, Texas, would be a fruitful way to play car tag bingo. Iowa, Illinois, Minnesota, the Dakotas, Nebraska, Wisconsin and a few Canadian provinces. I've been tempted to lie about where we are from: Oklahoma. Not because I'm ashamed of my Oklahoma roots but because we are viewed as wimps. "Hell, it ain't that much colder in Oklahoma than it is here, dOn-cha knOw?" Then when they discover that we're here for only a few weeks: "Why'ja bother, dOn-cha knOw?"

I guess the weather in Oklahoma must have been pretty nice that day they drove through on their path south down I-35, not unlike the path called "The Monarch Highway":

"The landscape that parallels roadways like the I-35 corridor, can provide natural habitat to support the annual migration of the monarch butterfly." www.pollinator.org.

As an Okie, interested in the economic stability of our great state, I would like to suggest we seek to strengthen our "natural habitat to support the annual migration" of seniors in pursuit of average 75 degree temps. And, I have the answer to that: we need to get us a Buc-ee's or two. Our current governor loves to talk about making Oklahoma a "top ten" state in whatever. How about making us top ten in the number of Buc-ee's per 100 RVs heading south at years end and back north in the spring. Sure, we have Loves Travel Stops, but Buc-ee's is the milkweed Mecca for these migrators.

With crisp early morning temps and nippy evening air, I've noticed Buc-ee's hoodies are en vogue. (I'm trying to add a few French words to my vocabulary to toss into conversation with our French Canadian neighbors.) By the way, despite what the old migrators say, I find the French Canadians to be very friendly, at least Bob, my French Canadian shuffleboard partner is. The weather is wonderful, but I'm really enjoying meeting people from the lands of cold, bitter winters. Oh sure, there's some drama, but where two or three are gathered together... don't cha know.

One thing I'm learning is that when your feet hurt, or your back hurts, or you heart hurts, it's easier to get your feelings hurt. Bones and feelings have that in common--they can both get a little brittle.

Occasionally, it all brews to a boil, but maybe it's understandable. Let's assume we're farmers from Iowa. We built and ran a multi-million dollar operation. We've made critical decisions, averted disaster, bundled it all up in a legacy and now we're enjoying the fruits of our labors before our fruits turn bad. We settle into our winter home at the park. Using our business acumen, we make a few suggestions about how a game, an activity, a program might improve only to find out our input wasn't solicited or wanted.

By golly, this isn't the only park in the valley, we'll pull up the short stakes of the migrator life and move to another park, all in the pursuit of the elusive greener grass of agreeableness.

There are lots and lots of rules, and of course hearty interchange about whether there needs to be a new one to address a current concern. But, I grew up in a Baptist church so having lots of rules and business meetings to discuss violations and the need for more feels normal to me.

In reading about migration, specifically that of the Monarch, I learned that Monarchs cluster together to stay warm. There are dozens of these little trailer/RV parks all over the Rio Grande Valley, not only offering warm climate but the warmth of clustering together. It's like Barbara Streisand sang, "People Who Need People Are The Luckiest People In The World." And, I might add: even if they might be a little prickly.

There's fellowship, story-telling, problem solving: I've heard several solutions to the current egg price crisis. And of course, every story told has a storehouse of historical content about it. We've lived a long time--60, 70, 80 and more years. We've got experiences and opinions, and talk about hindsight; we're drowning in it.

Unfortunately, because of the average age among the campers, many of the stories are sad ones. The other day I was standing in a back corner of a large room listening to the residents of the park have a "jam session". That's where each resident that plays an instrument and/or can sing (or could sing), (or someone told them they could sing) gather together to make music. I have to admit it was pretty good and the audience was loving it. There were even a few couples (I'm assuming Methodists or Catholics) dancing. Sitting at a table all alone, back near my corner, was an older gentleman. The band was playing a country-western song about heartbreak and loss. I looked over at the old guy. His head was bowed and he was wiping tears from his cheeks. I thought to myself, I bet this year is the first migration for him since his spouse passed.

I thought about asking him the typical array of questions down here: where are you from? motorhome? fifth-wheel? bumper-pull? park model? How long have you been coming here? Just to give him an opportunity to tell me his story if he wanted to. Then I thought, would I want to talk if the roles were reversed? No. I would want the moment to myself. It sounds cold, but I did not want to empathize with him, sympathize yes, but not empathize. Empathy would require me trying to put myself in his shoes. I won't allow my mind to go to a place where I would under any circumstances have to do this without My Amazing-Missus. But wait. Maybe, I misread his situation. Maybe he has a new wife and she brought her cat--which he is allergic to--into the new marriage, in which case I have neither sympathy nor empathy.

This picture above is an illustration of a book cover my oldest son put together, in fun, from a couple of photos I sent him. It has served as a prompt for this post: what if I did write a book about the migratory patterns of We Boomers? Maybe this would be the first chapter. Subsequent chapters might feature some of the characters I've met along the migration. For example, the guy in the picture on the front of this faux book cover is someone I met out for a walk one morning. I had seen him scooting around the grounds before, but at a distance. Is that a real pigeon riding on his cart?! On the day we met to say Hello, I said, "I saw you the other day and couldn't tell if your pigeon was real or not." He didn't say it wasn't real, he just said, "That's my homing pigeon. I know if I just follow him, I'll end up at home."

Is that where the migration ultimately ends up: home? For the Monarchs, which end of their migration is home? I suppose that since their migration is a multi-generational and a marvelous miracle, it's hard to know where home is.

There's a business leader and visionary that I highly respect. His name is Seth Godin. I've read most all of his books, some, multiple times. Seth publishes a daily post which I subscribe to. His post for Saturday, January 14, 2023 read:

AN EVENT OR A JOURNEY?

They're easy to confuse.

An event happens at a date certain, then it's over, nothing more to be done.

A journey might include an event, but it's bigger than that, and ongoing.

A wedding is an event, a marriage is a journey.

The focus and energy we lavish on events can easily distract us from the journeys we care about.

For us, our visit to South Texas is more of an event. We're posers, you might say. We'll be heading back in a few days and that's when the retirement journey really begins. Or, as I prefer to call it: The Quest (for what, I don't know).

I'm counting on the wisdom of C.S. Lewis to be true:

There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.

ELVIS AND POPS

ELVIS IS DEAD AND I DON'T FEEL TOO GOOD MYSELF. Actually I feel pretty good for an older dude. I wasn't commenting on my state of being. That line is the title of a book by one of my favorite writers, Lewis Grizzard (RIP). His other writings include "Chili Dogs Always Bark At Night," and "Shoot Low Boys They're Ridin' Shetland Ponies."

Today is Elvis' birthday. I know that, not because I'm a big Elvis fan, but because it's my birthday too. It's the only thing he and I have in common, as far as I know. For example he's "All Shook Up". I'm relatively calm, introverted and contemplative.

Elvis asks, "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" I do miss our grandkids and we've only been gone for a week. But, no. I'm not lonesome. When you love solitude, just having someone in the same trailer is enough. She is sewing. I'm reading or writing--kind of like Father McKenzie, "writing the words to a sermon that no one will hear." (I've always favored The Beatles over the "King".) But, this is about his songs and our shared birthday.

I was born at St. John's hospital in Tulsa (not "In The Ghetto"). It is on 21st and Utica, right across the street from Utica Square which I still consider to be a magical place at Christmastime. Just this past Thanksgiving weekend we went to Utica Square to see the lights and the animated toys that create scenes from The Nutcracker. (Listen. In the background, can you hear Elvis crooning "Blue Christmas".)

I wondered if my Mom and Dad were able to see Utica Square from the hospital nursery and if the lights were still up. Probably they weren't. It's a full two-weeks after Christmas after all. For a fact they couldn't. Utica Square didn't open until the next year after my birth.

Thankfully my parents decided to keep me and take me home in the winter of 1951, rather than put a tag on me that said, "Return To Sender". Maybe I looked at them with my baby blue eyes and they could sense me imploring them to "Let Me Be Their Teddy Bear."

As I've said, I was not a big fan of Elvis, although the years have given me a higher appreciation for his music. But hey, Elvis if you're listening, here are a few lyrics I'll borrow from my favorite songwriters: Lennon and McCartney, who, by the way, say you were a real inspiration to them:

You say it's your birthday
Well it's my birthday too, yeah
You say it's your birthday
We're gonna have a good time
I'm glad it's your birthday
Happy Birthday to you

Well, I hope I haven't offended any Elvis fans out there. I meant it all as fun and not sacrilege. Maybe I need to heed the words of wise men who say "only fools rush in."