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.

A BLOG POST ABOUT (DOING) NOTHING

"Here is a book that you should read!" The enthusiastic recommendation came from an always smiling lady who worked at a christian bookstore in the town where we lived. Her zeal came from a place deeper than a motivation to be a good salesperson. She held it out to me lying on her open palms as she might if she had been offering a Gutenberg Bible.

The book was "Search for Significance".

Honestly I said, "Thank you Mary. I'm glad the book has meant so much to you but, for me, I'm searching for a lot things, but I don't think significance is one of those."

Honestly, I still feel like that's true for me. Then and now, I search for peace, contentment, meaningful relationships, purpose, humor, creativity, open-minded conversation, honest faith, deep personal spirituality, solitude, and slow observation.

POPS AND JEREMIAH

Slow observation? We just returned from a trip with our boys, our beautiful daughters-in-law, and the magnificent seven: Karlee, Harper, Haddi, Nora, Everly, Malachi and Jeremiah. We stayed together in a floating cabin on Lake Murray near Ardmore, Oklahoma. My role was sitting on the dock, eating no-bake cookies, drinking coffee and watching the kids fish and beg to swim in the frigid waters. I excelled in my duties.

All I had to do was buy the train tickets, rent the cabin, buy some groceries and be otherwise insignificant. It was sublime.

I have a little book where I write down words that are new to me and intriguing. There are three that seem to fit together. I've heard them all spoken among the younger, hipper crowd. Even though I'm now neither of those, I can still get on board with these: niksen, hygge, and fika.

Let's start with Niksen. It looks like it could be a phonetic guide to pronouncing the name of another former president facing a well-deserved reckoning. But no. According to an article in Time magazine: Niksen “literally means to do nothing, to be idle or doing something without any use.” Practicing niksen could be as simple as just hanging around, looking at your surroundings or listening to music — “as long as it’s without purpose, and not done in order to achieve something or be productive."

Next up: Hygge. I didn't make note of my source on this Danish word, my notes say: hygge isn’t just a word; it’s a concept, and as such, there’s really no direct translation. Hygge is about cosiness and surrounding yourself with the things that make life good, like friendship, laughter and security, as well as more concrete things like warmth, light, seasonal food and drink.

How about Fika? It’s a moment to slow down and appreciate the good things in life. From the book, Fika: The Art of the Swedish Coffee Break, “Functioning as both a verb and a noun, the concept of fika is simple. It is the moment that you take a break, often with a cup of coffee, but alternatively with tea, and find a baked good to pair with it. You can do it alone, you can do it with friends. You can do it at home, in a park or at work. But the essential thing is that you do it, that you make time to take a break: that’s what fika is all about.”

THESE DAYS I SEARCH for niksen, hygge and fika. Significance? I can take it or leave it. Now if you'll excuse me; My Amazing-Missus has made a strawberry ice cream pie. I'm going to brew a cup of dark roast and watch some Women's College World Series action.

FAMILY IS A LOT LIKE GUMBO

Gumbo, or in Louisiana Creole: Gombo, is a soup consisting primarily of a strongly-flavored stock, meat or shellfish (or sometimes both), French dark roux, and the Creole "holy trinity" ― celery, bell peppers, and onions. The flavor of the dish has its origins in many cultures.

TODAY WE HAD LUNCH at a place called Pappadeaux Seafood Kitchen. It's sort of a New Orleans / Cajun inspired place. It reminded me of trips to Louisiana to visit my Dad's family. Those roots start in the northern part of the state in a small community called Dubach, and stretch south all the way to New Iberia, north to the Memphis area, west to the DFW area and then north again to Oklahoma. My memories of visiting as a kid are deep and mysterious. On the long drive from Tulsa my little brother Rusty and I were prepped for each visit. "Remember to always say, 'Yes Ma'am. No Ma'am. Yes Sir. No Sir.' At least TRY every food on your plate; without comment." This was an adventure in itself. Meals would almost always include something newly caught or shot. Usually there was a bowl of rice and something called butter beans and other foods foreign to a Tulsa boy's palate. It was all, at the same time, elegant, exotic and delicious.

There was a mystique about it, a culture I could imagine belonging to Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn; or Jem and Scout Finch. The tall pine trees and still waters, the patterns of speech and choice of words; spending time there gave me a glimpse of how my Dad might have experienced his boyhood. I wish we could have spent more time with our cousins and aunts and uncles from that side of the family tree.

Of my Dad's siblings, only my Aunt Betty is living. Although I didn't get to spend a lot of time with her, the time we had was life-changing. She is a wonderful musician, teacher and encourager. She was a devoted leader in her church. She helped teach me the value of a lifelong pursuit of music and she taught me the value of the role of women in the church. Aunt Betty is proof that not only should women be leaders in church, but if there had not been strong women leaders, the church would have suffered more than it has already. She epitomizes a no-nonsense kind of unconditional grace.

One of my favorite memories was a time when I was 14 or so. I was playing drums in a band that was actually getting to play a few gigs: School dances, Teen Towns, Battles of the Bands, etc. It created a bit of angst because my Dad was a Baptist pastor, and at that time, Baptists and dancing were kind of like me and crawfish etouffee--they wanted nothing to do with it.

There was a guy from Dubach who was enjoying some local fame as a rock musician. He and his band practiced at the long-shuttered old movie theatre in town. My Aunt Betty had been his music teacher at school. We were in Dubach for a visit and she contacted him and arranged for me to sit in on one of the rehearsals. I vividly remember sitting there with my Aunt Betty while the band played, "I Had Too Much To Dream Last Night", and thinking: if my Aunt Betty says that it's okay for a baptist kid to play rock and roll, then it's okay with God too. The drummer even let me sit in on one of the songs. Stuff like that makes a kid love music and his Aunt Betty.

I'm proud to have Louisiana roots, even though those roots include having the Fuller hairline. I'm grateful for the memories of fun times with family there; with grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins who lived the southern culture of respect and reverence but also enjoyed occasional irreverence and a good, hearty laugh.

At the Pappadeaux Seafood Kitchen, My Amazing-Missus and I were splitting an entree. I know she would have chosen the Shrimp and Grits (her roots are in South Carolina). I'm confused about grits and something she likes to eat called Malt-O-Meal "cereal". I like food that I can chew at least once. Anyway, since we're now retirees living on a fixed income, when we go to a place like Pappadeaux we're going to split a dish: it's smart financially and reduces the likelihood of the sin of gluttony. I have tried grits. It was one of those things that could show up on the breakfast table in Louisiana where we were required to try a taste of everything.

We were having lunch with a couple. Follow closely now: the guy of this couple is My Amazing-Missus' oldest brother, whom we call Hugh, but everyone else in the world calls Fred. The lady is my first cousin, Coral, who is the daughter of my mother's sister, my other Aunt Betty. Coral and Hugh met at our wedding and later had one of their own. They spend the winter in South Texas and we are here to visit for a few weeks.

It's a great match. Coral and Arlene sew and sew and sew. Hugh and I sit and solve the world's problems. Then we take them to Hobby Lobby and some obscure, out-of-the-way quilt shop where they can restock on thread, fabric, and inspiration while we follow them around.

Yesterday we were in a new quilt shop find. Hugh pointed to a quilt hanging on the wall. "That one is pretty," he said. "That's your basic double wedding ring pattern," I replied. He called our spouses over for verification, discovered I was correct and then prescribed a quick trip to Harbor Freight to somehow recapture a bit of our manhood.

As I said, Coral and I are cousins. We grew up living next door to each other. I was raised dually by my parents and my Aunt Betty and Uncle Bob. I feel almost guilty having TWO aunt Bettys when some people have never had even one. My Louisiana Aunt Betty is tall and lean. My Tulsa Aunt Betty was neither, but outside of my own parents I don't think there is anyone who loved me more. She too, was always the encourager, especially when it came to music. She sealed the deal for me being able to be a baptist rock and roll drummer by arranging for our band to play at a youth group dance in their church's fellowship hall. Lightning didn't strike the church, and as far as I know, among the teens there that night, no children were conceived.

Most of the cousins on my Mom's side lived in Tulsa. On summer Saturday nights we would gather for burgers or tacos, a ball game and catching fireflies. My Uncle Vernon would bring his hair trimmers and give us a flat top haircut so that all we would need to be ready for Sunday school the next morning was a bath and shoeshine. It was an idyllic time and place to grow up.

The only cousins that we didn't grow up near were those of my Uncle Bill and Aunt Joyce. They moved to California when we were young. Chuck, the oldest of their crew, and I were close to the same age, along with our cousin Tom. I envied both of these guys. I could just imagine Chuck surfing and skateboarding in Southern California and how boss that would be. Tom was a great athlete. Did I mention I played in the band?

It's funny how having time and space in the warm sunshine of south Texas can cause an old man to remember and ramble on about family and growing up. My Uncle Bill still lives in California. Just as my Louisiana Aunt Betty is the only living sibling of my Dad's, Uncle Bill is the last of my Mom's. Their brother, my Uncle David (and my namesake) died too soon and too young, even though he lived a long, good life. I wish I had just a portion of his amazing sense of humor. He always called me David Lee, he was the only one that did. I appreciated the uniqueness of that bond.

When our Mom passed, Uncle Bill was so gracious and helped us to make sure that Mom and Dad could be buried near family. I wish Uncle Bill and my Louisiana Aunt Betty could live forever. I'm afraid of the complete loss of a generation of family. But, I'm grateful that we are family.

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.