REVOLVING AND RESOLVING

IT'S LIKE I'VE BEEN HANDED A BRAND NEW PUZZLE: Here's your life now. I feel like I just finished the last one and now it's going back in the box.

Allow me to wear this metaphor plumb out. Just before Christmas I bought a puzzle for the GrandKids to piece together while they were visiting for Christmas. Some were interested, some not. Jeremiah, the youngest, soon to be three, decided to take a turn. After a few seconds at the table I knew that at least one piece was missing. It was an edge piece because we had already put the entire border together. I lost interest. I said to Haddi and Harper, "How can you all keep working on that puzzle knowing it has at least one missing piece? It will never be complete!"

Haddi explained to me that when you have younger siblings you don't expect that all the pieces of the puzzle will be there. Harper added, "We might find it later, but if we don't it's no big deal."

NO BIG DEAL!?

My new puzzle is called retirement. I don't know what it will look like, I don't know how many pieces are in the puzzle and I don't know if, when it's finished, all the pieces will be there. Maybe it's no big deal. I will admit that the process of our family Christmastime puzzle was glorious. With about 50 pieces to go Haddi, Harper, Malachi and I sat at the table and brought the thing together, excitement growing as each of the final pieces became a part of the whole (or nearly whole). That last piece is still missing. It actually offers a bit of hope we hang on to that someday it will be found; and to some degree I don't want it to be found. I love that there is still a project with my GrandKids to be completed.

I have a friend that is reading a book that uses a concept called "pivot points" to talk about leadership. I like this picture of life being a series of pivot points, places where we can and should revolve a bit, seeking our best path forward. No doubt, life hands us some of those points, the ones where the only option is to pivot. And that's okay. A puzzle missing one or two pieces creates a pivot point and is still fun and fulfilling.

One of the most revolting words in our lexicon is the word: squander. It means missed opportunities, foolishness, waste, arrogance. When we close up and close off, letting prejudice, dogma, and maybe even sometimes, orthodoxy bind us and blind us, we squander. We lose the chance for experiences, relationships, adventure. Not only do I hate squandering, I fear it.

I'm at a pivot point, needing to revolve, needing a new resolution. Here's my thinking about that.

As much as I am appalled at squander and squanderers, I am encourage and vitalized by creators, wide-eyed wonderers, brave wanderers, those who squeeze all there is to be squeezed, unconcerned with the possible disappointment of potential missing pieces, people obsessed with excellence and the pursuit of the sublime that exists at every pivot point.

Here's an example: Brian Wilson of The Beach Boys, pursued his musical genius with reckless abandon--almost too much. Through his mental illness he broke musical ground with a boldness that has inspired many. I'm using this quote from Brian to challenge myself as I crack open this latest puzzle box.

“Beware the lollipop of mediocrity; lick it once and you'll suck forever.”

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.

HARK!

FOR THE MOST PART I was a pretty good attention-payer. Occasionally, a teacher or other authority figure would ask, “Are you paying attention?” It was a legitimate question. I’m a daydreamer. A blank stare off into space could cause someone to question if a daydreamer is paying attention.

HADDI’S SNOWPERSONS CREATIONS

That’s a weird figure of speech, isn’t it: paying attention? I did a bit of research to see if I could find an origin; not much luck. It almost sounds like a currency of courtesy. Let’s say one of your grandchildren is going into deep detail about how she solved the Wordle puzzle in three guesses and why it took you six. Out of respect for this grandchild, and her uncanny ability to solve word puzzles, you pay her with respect by giving her your attention. [This is the grandchild who can’t watch “Wheel of Fortune” without losing her mind, yelling the puzzle answer at the TV while questioning the intelligence of the players, “These people are adults! How can they not see the answer?!”]

Grandkids want even more than our full and undivided attention. I use an email address from time to time that is a line I've heard often from them: hey.pops.hey@gmail.com. If someone sends me an email using that address, I can't help but pay attention.

Attention-paying is obviously a trait we want to develop in our young. It’s essential to civil discourse which is drying up and blowing away in our current culture. There’s a risk though. What parent hasn’t had one of those experiences where you discover that your child WAS paying attention when it might have been better if they weren’t. Here’s one of my favorite anecdotes:

True story. Dear friends of ours told me this story about an event at their church. This is one of those churches where a brave pastor calls the little children to the front of the church for a “children’s sermon”. One Sunday morning the pastor welcomed the kids. A little girl asked the pastor what he thought of her new dress. “It’s lovely!” he said. And, she replied, “Thank you. My Mom says it’s a real bitch to iron.”

If you’re a pastor, PAY ATTENTION. What she was saying is, “Please study hard, make every word of your sermon count, don’t waste our time. We’ve made effort and sacrifices to be here.” At least that’s my interpretation; sometimes paying attention allows us to read between the lines.

Paying attention seems grueling sometimes. Now we’re supposed to “pay attention to our bodies”, we’re supposed to stay “weather-aware”, we’re supposed to be vigilant of scammers and scoundrels. Look both ways before you cross the street. There are parking bumpers hiding in the cold, wet, wintry night. Pay attention or you could trip over one and be left wondering if your ribs will ever be the same again.

It’s tiring and it seems so inner-focused. Maybe that’s why it’s so difficult to pay attention to those around us, we’ve nothing left to pay. Our attention capacity is at a deficit or overdrawn. How about us? Is anyone paying attention to us?

I’ve decided it’s impossible to bankrupt your attention capacity because paying attention can be energizing, fulfilling, even life-giving. Let me offer a few examples: I have friends who are amazing photographers, technically and aesthetically. It is like their visual radar is on all the time. They see lighting, perspective, subtility, color, depth of field, composition in a way us mere-mortals don’t. It’s the same with musicians and poets. They hear melodies, harmonies, and feel rhythms. They understand life in moods, modes, points and counterpoints.

As a hobby-writer I have discovered I pay attention more, and deeper when I'm in a writing groove. I'm always questioning: what's behind that, why is it, when, where, ifs, ands, and buts. Discovery is so exhilarating and it happens when we're paying attention.

“If a work of art is rich and vital and complete, those who have artistic instincts will see its beauty, and those to whom ethics appeal more strongly than aesthetics will see its moral lesson. It will fill the cowardly with terror, and the unclean will see in it their own shame.” — Oscar Wilde

Our Grand-Girl, Nora, is an attention-payer. Not only does she listen with the curiousity of an old woman sitting under the hair dryer at the beauty shoppe, she will stare a hole, picking up quirky body language, nuance and stuff.

NORA. PAYING INTENSE ATTENTION.

There's a coffee house in our town that Nora and I visit from time to time. One day we were sitting enjoying coffee and hot cocoa. She carried her mug to a sofa in the corner and sat, looking, studying. Then she moved to the window seat and tried it out. Then she moved to a table toward the back where students were sitting with laptops open, staring at their phones.

Finally, she returned to our table and offered this:

"I really like the aestetics of this place. Karlee (her oldest sister, the one with her own bedroom), has good aestetics. Harper (her next oldest sister, with whom she shares a bedroom), thinks that when Karlee goes to college she's going to get her bedroom. I told her that when Karlee goes to college she's going to pack up all of her aestetics and take them with her."

I didn't say anything. I just paid attention. That's what she wanted: my attention, not an opinion or comment, just attention.

These days you might hear a certain song playing. I'm not talking about that Mariah Carey song. We're likely to hear that one several times a day. The one I'm talking about says, "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing".

Hark is a word that means pay attention. This song is about a story, recorded in Luke chapter 2 of the Bible:

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

On earth peace and good will. Yes, please. In the midst of the season, the busy-ness, the chaos. I need to remind myself to pay attention. Friday we went to Hinton to watch three of the Grands in the school Christmas program. I paid attention and it was beautiful. After the program, Haddi, the oldest Grand-Girl of our Hinton crew wanted to show me what she's been making. (She is an amazing maker.) She showed me a box of little snowpeople she's made from socks she stuffs with rice. The picture above is two of her collection. She explained how she makes them and her marketing strategies. I paid attention and was so proud of her.

My Christmas wish for and yours: go out there and do some harking!

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.