How Did This Elephant Get In Here?

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The “elephant” in this “room” has grown so large it seems to be blocking out the light. It’s nearly impossible to even see around it, or to have a conversation about it; or anything else for that matter. It might be good to move on, if only we could find the door.

Back in the early 70s, I was campaigning for George McGovern and playing drums in little coffeehouses that were opening up across the land. Our band was riding the wave of the Jesus Freak movement, playing a new genre of music called “Christian Rock”—an oxymoron to most church-goers. We were funded by a group of benefactors interested in “reaching out” to the youth culture.

One of those was a man named John Frank. Mr Frank was a kind, generous soul, a potter and successful business man. He was a ceramics professor at Oklahoma University and founded an earthenware business called Frankoma Pottery.

Our band was playing at a gig where Mr. Frank was speaking. After the event, he came up to me as I was packing up the drum set, and told me thanks for what we were doing. I was surprised that he had listened, saw the opportunity, and was financially supporting what we were doing. We talked for a while and then he offered me a job.

I took it and began working in his fascinating business. Each day after class at the University of Tulsa, I would drive to the Frankoma plant in my VW with the “McGovern” sticker on the back. If Mr. Frank resented my politics, he never said so. He could have. He was a staunch Republican. In 1968, he designed and produced a ceramic GOP elephant mug to help raise funds for the Republican Party. Every year he did a special edition elephant mug.

After he died, his daughter Joniece Frank took over the operation and introduced a DEM Donkey mug in 1975.

Not long after that, the enterprise failed. (No doubt some will say, “Of course it did!")

But this isn’t just a story about the donkey. It’s about this big huge metaphorical elephant in the room. There, I’ve acknowledged it. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with elephants in rooms? Can I move on now? Or do we need volunteers to shovel up after it? Just kidding… where’s our collective sense of humor?

 

Summer Rules

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A FEW DAYS AGO I walked into “the second room on the left”, ushered by a young woman who told me to remove my shirt. Then she left.

Thirty-six minutes later another young woman came in, accompanied by the first. She ran her hands over my face, shoulders, arms and pointed out the obvious, “You grew up in the days before sunscreen.” More of a statement than a question.
“But I wear it now!” quickly springing to my own defense.
“What SPF?”
“Thirty, I think.”
“Throw it in the trash and buy some Eighty-Five minimum and reapply every hour.”
“Every hour! That stuff’s expensive.”
“So is skin cancer.”
“I HAVE SKIN CANCER?!”
“Not yet.”
Then she blasted liquid nitrogen on several spots atop my bald head, gave me a coupon for $2 Off a tube of approved sunscreen, and ushered me to the money lady.

In the headlines, again, “Don’t Eat Raw Cookie Dough.”

When school was in session the rules were clear and ever present. (at least back in the good-ol’ days.) No talking, no gum-chewing, stay in line, color inside the lines, no wise-cracking, don’t walk up the down staircase, etc.

Summer’s rules were different (back then). No swimming until the temperature is at least 80. Only one on the diving board at a time. Wait 30 minutes before going in the pool. Don’t pee in the pool. No horseplay. Don’t run. Quit popping your brother with the towel.

The summer’s of my youth were pretty much spent at the pool. (I have scars from nitrogen burns to prove it.) My Aunt Betty belonged to a church that not only permitted “mixed bathing”, they apparently encouraged it. There was a pool at their church, so she would take us swimming there most every day. I loved it.

For a few days each summer we would go to visit our maternal grandmother’s house. The rules were few there, but the ones she had were strictly enforced. She would whip the backsides of your bare legs raw with a switch she made you cut yourself from the old elm tree in her front yard. 

We were allowed to roam freely in her hometown of Okmulgee, Oklahoma. She would give us enough money to see a matinee or buy some candy at the Kress Five and Dime.

Adventures there were sweet. I remember asking her if it was true that if you put a penny on the railroad tracks the train would smash it flat. She confirmed it would. On our next trip to downtown she gave us a penny with instructions to “stay away from those tracks.” A train will indeed smash a penny flat.

You never, ever got sick at Nan’s house. The first time you mentioned to her that you weren’t feeling well she would ask, “Do you think you need to have your throat swabbed with iodine or do you need a good enema.” “I’m feeling fine now, thank you.”

Many of her rules made practical sense (as opposed to some of the rules at school like: Boys must keep their shirttails tucked in.) (Nevermind that that rule ended in a preposition—a rule breaking a rule.) Not far from her house was an overgrown lot, that we imagined to be a forest for adventures. “Don’t go in those woods,” she would warn, “You’ll get a chigger on your wigger.” No one wants that.

Here we are at the season for Independence Day which of course means Fireworks. The Summer Rule Book has a chapter dedicated to this topic. Most every rule comes with a horror story to reinforce it. For example, we apparently had a distant uncle that chose to hold a roman candle in his hand while it shot firey balls into the summer sky. Well, it back-fired (or maybe he was holding it backward), anyway, the ball of fire hit him in the belly and he apparently had the scar to prove it. So we were taught to hold no fireworks in our hands, and as it turns out we were also to no longer put them inside frogs. 

So, have fun this holiday, but be safe with the fireworks, wear sunscreen, and mosquito repellent. Don’t eat raw cookie dough or warm potato salad, and don’t go in those woods.

Home Sweet Home

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MAKING A HOUSE A HOME; even if it's a tiny one on wheels. Our little trailer came from the factory with a lovely bedspread and “accent” pillows. We hadn’t even more gotten her home when she was stripped of those generic, factory goodies and replaced with just the right touches by the Amazing-Missus.

“We shape our dwellings, and afterwards our dwellings shape us.”
— Winston Churchill

On one of our first adventures we were staying at site #51 in Red Rock Canyon State Park, Hinton, Oklahoma. Returning from a walk I noticed the paper tag on her backside. I thought to myself, “I wonder what license plate number the great state of Oklahoma will give us in exchange for a hefty tax bill?”

Wait a minute! Why settle for some state issued identity? Our little tin hut deserves her own personalized name tag. I mentioned the idea of a personalized tag to someone and they said, “Oh, you mean a vanity tag.” This has nothing to do with vanity. This is about… Well, I don’t know what it’s about, but it’s going to happen anyway.

So we secured the application from the tax commission. You’re supposed to choose six options, in priority order, I guess that's in case one or two or five are already taken or deemed unacceptable or inappropriate by some authority somewhere.

BTW: Remember when the quite contrary daughter of governor Mary had her RV parked in the backyard of the governor’s mansion? I wonder if she had a personalized/vanity tag for her trailer? If not, I would love to help her choose at least six names if she wants me to.

from thelostogle.com

from thelostogle.com

Okay, I’m back on track now. We would love to have your help. We’ve come up with at least six possibilities for our tag. Want to tell us your favorite, or better yet, offer another possibility. Keep in mind you only have seven spaces to work with and you can’t use words that might be offensive.

Feel free to comment here or on Facebook or Twitter. Here are our choices so far:

Fooling Around

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“In a culture where con men, hucksters and others desperately seeking power and influence have decided that they can profit by making truth seem relative, we’re in danger of every day becoming the first of April.” — Seth Godin

First of all: 

It’s April Fool’s Day. Seth Godin wrote a brillant little essay that includes the profound, apropos thought I opened this post with. I wanted to somehow archive this, so I’m embedding the link here.

Next:

“The Fool On The Hill”
The Beatles. Magical Mystery Tour.

Day after day, alone on the hill
The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still
But nobody wants to know him
They can see that he’s just a fool
And he never gives an answer

But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning around

Well on the way, head in a cloud
The man of a thousand voices talking perfectly loud
But nobody ever hears him
Or the sound he appears to make
And he never seems to notice

But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning around

And nobody seems to like him
They can tell what he wants to do
And he never shows his feelings

But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning around

He never listens to them
He knows that they’re the fools
They don’t like him

The fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning around

Next:

Our first born son wrote a piece recently. It was written as “A letter from myself in my 30s to myself in my 20s”. Here it is:

1. You’re going to have children—three girls. I’d tell you to prepare now, but there’s really nothing you can do. Good luck.
2. Your band won’t get signed. I’m just sayin’. You can keep playing music, but it will be nothing more than that.
3. You’ve gained some weight. You’ll gain more. And not just in your belly, your whole face will get sort of fat.
4. Your hair will get thinner while your eye brows get thicker. There’s technically no hair loss; it just relocates.
5. Religion. It’s a messy business, if it comes to that. You’ll get sort of disillusioned at certain points, but you’ll turn out okay.
6. Even though—right now—there’s all this uncertainty, you’ll eventually have a job that could be your job until you retire, and you’ll have a house that could be your house until you die, but sometimes you’ll kind of miss the uncertainty.
7. Finish your MFA. Do it now.
8. Don’t listen to NPR too much. It’s good to be informed, but not in heavy doses. It’s sort of depressing.
9. There’s a legitimate chance that Donald Trump will become president; work on thwarting that.
10. And I guess the last thing would be… You married a good woman. Don’t mess it up. You lose every fight you win.

There’s nothing foolish about that exercise. Is it a fool’s quest though to think we might be smarter and wiser going forward by pondering the folly of our youth? Maybe.

Next:

I’m taking the challenge, thinking about a letter that my 60-something self would write to my 20-something self. 

1. Floss regularly and use sunscreen. (Did they even have sunscreen when I was 20?)
2. Except for the undeserved grief and stress it causes your parents, you will survive a journey to the land of waywards and it will have been, in some ways, worth it. On the other side you will have a deeper understanding of grace, and hopefully it will make you more empathic.
3. You will regret being so self-absorbed. Stop it.
4. Treasure those people and experiences that taught you to love the arts. Music, art, and writing will be food for your soul when you’re old.
5. The Methodists were right; the Baptists were wrong: you won’t go to hell for dancing (as far as I know).
6. You seemed to have been right to register to vote as a Democrat, although you were idealistic. The Republicans seem to adopt a strategy which hijacks, distorts and cheapens the idea of christianity for political gain.
7. You will be given an opportunity, a gift really, to work with teenagers, and you’ll get paid to do it, not much, but enough. It will be your calling.
8. There will be this thing called “Facebook”. It will allow you to sort of reconnect with people you haven’t seen or heard from since high school, and maybe you’ll wish you would have stayed in touch over the years.
9. You should have gone to Woodstock. They’re still talking about it today. Oh, and the VW Bus you’re driving, keep it. It will be worth a fortune.
10. Sure, you’re only 21 and she’s only 18, and you’re half in love and half in lust, but definitely marry her. 40-some years later, she will still be your best friend, mom of your sons, grandmother of your Grand-Girls, your Amazing-Missus. Life without her will be beyond imagination.

Lastly:

A little April Fool's day humor from Gary Larson.