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."

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.

GOOD ENOUGH

If you hear of someone described as a "good boy", what characteristics come to mind? If you hear of someone described as a "good girl", are the characteristics the same?

Is good enough?

Today is my first official work day to not be at work anymore; in the strict vocational concept of work. Over my years of working a lot of my reading was in books of leadership, branding, marketing, motivation and such. There is a list of books of this genre that have endured. One is Jim Collins' book, "Good To Great". The most often quoted line from the book, the one people recite to prove they read it is: "Good is the enemy of great." Is it really? Now, I'm looking at things from a different perspective.

I remember back when shopping was done at stores like Sears, Montgomery Ward, OTASCO, etc. They used a marketing technique to sell the most expensive stuff like lawn mowers and washing machines. In pictures and in point-of-sale displays they would have three--lets say TVs: GOOD, BETTER and BEST. Who wouldn't want the BEST. I always felt kind of sorry for the BETTER. I mean, who's going to choose that? If you don't care whether the rabbit ears were built in, or you didn't need dual 6 inch speakers, GOOD was enough. But if you going to buy the better, why not go big and get the BEST? That's was their bet.

There was a time when living the GOOD life was good enough. Even Martha Stewart believed in the goodness of good. Remember when she would show us important things like how to take the core out of a head of lettuce? She would establish its value by proclaiming: "It's a good thing!" By golly Martha said so, good is enough.

I heard a comedian do a bit about every house needing to have at least one good chair in the living room. (I'm pretty sure he stole the idea from a skit that Tom Hanks did on SNL.) You needed at least one quality chair for when Pops came to visit. As soon as he would walk in the door, someone would say, "Let Pops have the GOOD chair."

We're visiting one of the places in South Texas where retirees go for the winter. We're renting a lovely "park model" trailer and enjoying the 80 degree weather. It has a microwave, a coffee maker, a full-size fridge, AND a good chair.

There's a comic named Dusty Slay I really like. He talks about different kinds of money: well-earned money, found money, fast money, easy money. You get the idea. Dusty says that in his home growing up they had one kind of money: Good Money. He says one day he laid his bike in the yard rather than using the kickstand. His dad told him, "You better take care of the bike. I made Good Money for that."

While we're here in the compound with folks from Canada, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa and other frigid parts, I'm looking for good weather, good fellowship, good friends, good food, good times and a good memory or so.

The hard part so far (Day two), is adjusting to the schedule. Dinner is at 4:30p, curfew is at 8:00p, lights-out is at 9:00p. WHY!?

My Amazing-Missus woke me up around 6:00a getting ready to go to the crafts building for Busy B's sewing. It's now 10:30a and I feel like I've been up all day. I'm hoping for lunch around 11:00a, and then a good nap in the good chair. Texas Hold'em is at 1:00p and there's four dollars with of good money at stake. I need to have my wits about me.

It's all good.