REMEMBER?

WHY DON’T WE CALL IT RE-MEMBERING?

I was listening to a medical doctor speak at a church. He was talking about the Lord's Supper or The Eucharist or Holy Communion or the Blessed Sacrament: the Christian rite (not "Right"). Christians believe that the rite was instituted by Jesus at the Last Supper, the night before his crucifixion, giving his disciples bread and wine, referring to the bread as "my body" and the cup of wine as "the blood of my covenant, which is poured out for many". Jesus told them to observe the rite regularly and to do it "in remembrance of me".

This medical doctor hinged his message on a key question. He set up his question with an example: when a person has an accident and loses a finger, we call that dismemberment. If we surgically reattach the finger or any dismembered appendage, why we don't call it re-membering?

Maybe we should. After all isn't that what remembering is? When we tell stories from our past, or look through old photos, or visit places we used to know, aren't we reconnecting; rejoining our present and our past.

Times like the holiday season are rife for re-membering. Indulge me. Last Friday, we visited Utica Square Shopping Center in Tulsa. Every year of my childhood included a Christmastime visit to Utica Square to see the lights, and wait in line for a chance to visit with Santa.

Most years we still make a visit there on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Here is a picture of this years visit. We're all there except Haddi and Everly who were spending the holiday with their dad. I truly missed them. A couple of notes on the photo: we should have known that the flood light shining on the nutcracker would have given a ghostly look to those in it's beam. Also, that tall building way in the background is St. John's hospital, where I was born, January 8, 1951.

My Mom saved the hospital statement from my birth, why, I don't know. Maybe as a sentimental keepsake or maybe to be able to say to the future son, "See, not only did I go through the trauma of childbirth for you but it cost us $82.00!" That's not a typo. The bill for delivery and three days in St. Johns was less than a hundred bucks. According to the Consumer Price Index calculator, $100 in 1951 is equivalent in purchasing power to about $1,214.09 today, an increase of $1,114.09 over 73 years. The dollar had an average inflation rate of 3.48% per year between 1951 and today, producing a cumulative price increase of 1,114.09%. Considering the price of having a baby these days, I was a bargain!

On our visit to Utica Square we took the whole crew to P.F. Chang's for supper. For what the meal cost, you could have had twins at St. John's in 1951. But! Strolling the sidewalks of Utica Square with the GrandKids in the warm glow of thousands of little lights, sipping hot chocolate or coffee: PRICELESS.

We stopped in at Santa's house for cookies. When he asked the boys what they wanted for Christmas, Malachi was still undecided. Jeremiah, the four-year-old, told Santa with solid confidence that he wanted a watch. Of all the years I sat on Santa's lap at Utica Square as a kid, I can never remember asking him for a watch, unless maybe it was one of those cool Dick Tracy walkie-talkie watches.

While I'm re-membering Christmases past, I have vivid memories of carefully researching and curating my wishlist. It usually started with the arrival of the Sears Christmas catalog around Thanksgiving time. Then, in the breaking days of December, the actual visit to Sears. Walking past a guy with a red bucket, ringing a bell, through the vast doors, there was the candy counter, brightly lit, the smells of chocolate and roasting nuts wafting through the store. On to the "Big Toy Box", which is what the marketing department at Sears called the toy department. I could watch the setup of running Lionel trains for hours. One year I got my own. Carefully putting that cantankerous track together, hooking up the transformer, and finally; movement and the smell of electrical current. Apparently re-membering includes, sights and sounds and smells too.

One of my favorite smells of the holidays was visiting OTASCO with my Dad. OTASCO, by the way, stood for Oklahoma Tire and Supply Company. The smell was a combination of new tires, fan belts, petroleum products and popcorn. At Christmastime, OTASCO had a great toy department. A Google search found me a catalog cover from back in the day. It's all there in a single drawing: Old St. Nick enjoying a cookie the little lad left for him. And, it looks like he's getting everything on his list: a teddy bear, a new wagon, a TV, a blender and a circular saw.

Listen! Did someone just say, "Merry Christmas to all and to all a goodnight!"? Remember that book?

Don't worry. In the home of my childhood and that of My Amazing-Missus, in the childhood home of our two sons and in the home's of our GrandKids we remember the reason for the season. And we re-member with truth and light by telling The Nativity Story again and again. We hold on to the promise and commit ourselves to the pursuit of those words that seem so elusive: Peace on Earth!

Merry Christmas everyone from Pops, My Amazing-Missus and the whole crew. To all those who are spending Christmas without someone who was once with them, we pray that somehow the season and The Story will provide rich opportunities to re-member.

THE LETTER OF 2022

I don't know that I've ever written "The Letter" before. You know the one people write at years-end to tell everyone how amazing their kids and grandkids are? Maybe I haven't done it because I do it all year long in subtle and not-so-subtle ways.

Maybe because it's nine (9) degrees outside, what's there to do besides sip a hot cup of coffee and do some writing. The words that come to mind are attached to the memories of the past year. So why not compose them into "The Letter of 2022"? That's your cue, your escape hatch is open. Feel free to bail now with no blemish on your conscience. Think of this is as the trailer for a movie that people think sounds sweet but nobody wants to see: one of those happy family, almost too-good-to-be-true stories set in middle America geographically with a curmudgeonly old patriarch who's far enough left of middle to have a caring soul. This one has fewer sparkles and fluffy snow and a little more grit and dirt than a Hallmark holiday movie.

1969 was a lot. I graduated from high school, toured Europe playing drums in a band, moved to Shawnee, Oklahoma, to attend Oklahoma Baptist University. As I look back it marks my first coming-of-age. Fast forward.

Before Covid, I thought my 69th year of life would be a pivot point--my second-coming-of-age, the year I would retire and we would hit the road. I joked that if I were going to get a tattoo it would resemble a "Best By" stamp, like the one on a milk carton. It would say, "Best By 69". There were already signs that I might be "turning", turning to something a little sour, fermented, and on the edge of curdling. But the pandemic changed that and lot more. It offered me a chance to be a part of a transition at the place where I had worked for over 30 year. I am grateful for those extra months.

Early in 2022, a firm date was set. I would retire from my job at the end of the year. The need to face a new reality was pressing hard on us. Where would we live in retirement, what would we do, what the heck is medicare and how do we get it? Have we saved enough?

Tulsa is our home and we always felt a nosalgic pulling force to return there to live out our golden years. Deep down though, we knew that the Tulsa we remembered from our youth didn't exist. So, we followed the advice of others and decided to move where we could one day become a burden to our kids. Kyle and Brooke and four of our grandkids: Haddi, Everly, Malachi and Jeremiah, lived in Alva, Oklahoma. Corey and Kara and three of our grandkids: Karlee, Harper, and Nora, lived in Shawnee. Shawnee is closer to Tulsa, closer to doctors, closer to Trader Joe's, closer to Costco. So, Corey and Kara lost the lottery and we moved to Shawnee just as I had in the summer of '69 to start something new.

It all happened fast. The crazy real estate market worked for us. Our house sold in one day in a bidding war. We were able to find a house in Shawnee that was in the last stages of construction. It wasn't what I had dreamed of for our last home, before the great whatever, but as we've settled in, it has become home. It has a room where I can hang out, write, read and listen to great music. It has a room where My Amazing-Missus can sew and make beatiful quilts and stuff. She even let me put my leather-working bench in there. Occasionally we fill the room with the sights, sounds and smells of creativity.

Kyle and Brooke graduated from Hinton High School one year apart a few years back. This year they returned to Hinton to live. It is sheer blessing for us. Not only are they closer, but they have built a bridge of connection back to a community that we loved being a part of for so many years. This year Brooke, Dr. Brooke, received her PHD and accepted a full-time professorship at Redlands Community College in El Reno. In addtion to teaching, she coaches in sports and performance psychology. The move also brought a career change for Kyle. After years of serving in law enforcement, Kyle is now working for the bank where I've spent most of my career years. I am so grateful that the legacy at Legacy Bank will continue. Another generational bridge is built. The kids seem to be doing great, adjusting quickly and becoming little Hinton Comets. Obviously they are some of the most talented, smartest, gifted and beautiful kids in the entire county.

Corey and Kara live only a few minutes away. We are heeding the advice of our mentor, Doug Manning, who told us: don't make your kids be the center of your social life. So far, so good. We are going to the same church where they have gone for several years now, but we're finding our own path and circle. Kara is the director of early childhood education at North Rock Creek public schools. That is where the girls go to school. Obviously they are some of the most talented, smartest, gifted and beautiful kids in the entire county. Corey teaches graphic design and serves as chair of the art department at OBU. It is so fun to have that connection with my first university.

This year we celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary. We told the kids we didn't want to have a party of any kind. My concept of 50th annniversary celebrations was of really old people gathered against their wills to eat cake, nuts, and pastel mints, whispering their guesses as to whether the happy couple would make it to #51.

But we had a party! Our kids put on an event that suited us perfectly. They worked so hard, and for My Amazing-Missus and I, it was perfect. We got to remember, and celebrate, be with family and friends--new and old.

Remembering and celebrating. That's not a bad agenda for retirement. Legacy Bank where I have worked for a lot of years now has been so good to help us do just that. They are making it possible for me to continue to be a part of it all. I'm grateful.

As the year wraps up, I'm aware of the events of 2022 and realize that many of them were a total surprise. What does 2023 hold? On the first day of the year, we are heading out on our first road trip--chasing 70 degrees. Our hope is that it will be the first road trip of many. As soon as school's out we'll be off on a trip with our kids and grandkids. Can't wait. This is the kind of thing I'm looking forward to most--being with our kids and grandkids, going to games, and recitals, and parties, and trips. I just hope the grandkids (and their Mimi) will remember that old Pops is old and on a fixed income. I'll try to keep up and then I'll settle in for a long nap. There's nothing like be grandkid-tired at the end of the day.

I hope for the sake of those who have to be around me, that my "Best By" date can be extended for a time.

[cut to a scene of an old man sitting at the wedding of a beautiful young princess standing next to a handsome man who is not worthy of her. Or, maybe it's a scene of the weepy old geezer at a piano concert, or a ball game, or a dance performance, or a gymnastics meet or a graduation, or the birth of a really Great Grandchild. Or, maybe it's just a shot of the old phart, sitting and typing and remembering and dreaming and thanking God for life and love and peace and goodwill toward ALL!]

Well, they'll all be here soon and the house will be full of energy and excitement, and potentially a few tears and injuries, and laughter and noise. I better get a nap before they get here.

P.S.: When the kids decorated for our 50th, the had a record player set up with a fake record of our Greatest Hits. The album they chose to display was "Blood, Sweat & Tears". Those are all wonderful things! They are life, the visible sign of a race well-run, and the proof that joy comes from deep, deep within us.

Have a wonderful Christmastime.

BEHOLDER'S EYE

A FRIEND ASKED ME, "Do you think maybe you've already read your favorite book, heard the best song you'll ever hear, seen the best movie you'll ever see?"

At 70-something, I would say there's a good chance that I will never read a book better than those in my top 5 or so. I'm pretty sure the best music that can be written has been. Of course all of this is subjective and choice of best movie ever is even more a matter of taste and my tastes are apparently way outside the mainstream. For example, browsing through the list of the 100 Greatest Movies of All Time , you have to get all the way to number 43 to find one in my top 10. That one is "To Kill A Mockingbird". Then it's all the way down the list to number 83, "The Graduate", to find another of my all-time favorites, and those are the only picks of mine in that list of "greatest".

Music selections from Rolling Stones Top 500 confirm it: I'm out of touch, overly opinionated, and convinced that those under 20 have little idea of what really good music is, unless they are lucky enough to have a Pops that will play the greats for them, like Otis Redding's "Sittin On The Dock of the Bay"; The Beach Boys', "God Only Knows"; Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On"; The Beatles', "My Guitar Gently Weeps", Neal Young's, "Southern Man"; Crosby, Stills & Nash's, "Suite Judy Blue Eyes"; Bob Dylan's, "Like a Rolling Stone".

I'm not totally stuck in the 60s. For example, I'm pretty sure Diana Krall holds a place with the jazz greats of all time. Adele is magical. Brandi Carlile deserves a spot in the best of the best. Even two of my favorite Christmas songs are by young artists: "Snowman" by Sia and The Bahamas arrangement of "Christmas Must Be Tonight".

Can you believe that "White Christmas" didn't make the Rolling Stone magazine's list of 500 best songs ever? "I Can Only Imagine" by Mercy Me didn't either.

Will a song like "Silent Night" ever be written again? Could it? Several years ago I wrote a piece for an online magazine called "The Curator". It was about my favorite story--one I've heard all of my life, and about that song and it's power. You can click on this title: A Fear Not Story, if you would like to read it.

Just for fun, let's talk about one of the favorite childhood Christmastime books of Baby Boomers: "The Sears Christmas Wish Book". It was our Amazon. Between the time it would arrive in our mailbox until Christmas Eve I would rifle through that book trying to decide between an Erector Set, Lincoln Logs, a Chemistry set, or Johnny Unitas football helmet.

As I "shop" for our Grandkids, I wonder, is there any thing out there these days that would bring as much happiness and fun as a Mr. Potato Head, or a Slinky, or a plastic egg full of Silly Putty? Have the best toys already been made? If they reached into their stockings and found an assortment of nuts, an orange and a few pieces of hard candy, would they look at me like I was playing some kind of cruel joke. I already have a book for each of them. Maybe a book, a warm hug and a round or two of UNO and hot cocoa will be enough. It will have to be. Just as I'm out of touch with current movies and music, I'm clueless about the kids' taste in toys. Anyway, I'll be retired in a few days and My Amazing-Missus and I will be on a "fixed-income". I'm sure that answer will satisfy our little wide-eyed flock in their matching pajamas.

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.