Month: November 2020

There is a great volume of complaints these days.  C’mon, admit it.

We grouch about the outcome of the recent presidential election … or we grouch about the refusal of the president to concede.  We murmur about the inconveniences of the coronavirus lockdowns … or we murmur about the people who refuse to mask.  We grumble about the motivations of those who sit across the aisle … or we pule and whine about the people in our own affiliations who are not conservative enough, or not progressive enough.

In the middle of my own personal gripes, I was hit upside the head while reading the Apostle Paul’s letter to the Philippian church.  Here are two excerpts.

Do all things without murmuring or complaining.  (Phil. 2:14)

Finally, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, let your mind dwell on these things.  (Phil. 4:8)

In addition to these admonitions from Scripture, there are two events this week that demand my gratitude.  They will both occur this Thursday, November 26^th. 

Number 1.  Thanksgiving Day.

Number 2.  My oldest grandson’s 6^th birthday.

By a quirky connection, our birthdays are exactly six months apart.  His birthday is my half-birthday; my birthday is his half-birthday.  He is exactly seventy-one and one-half years younger than his Poppa.  This happy birthday coincidence, the Day of Thanksgiving, and the words of Paul all remind me not to gripe, but to consider the abundant blessings in my life.  Here are my Top Ten reasons to celebrate what is worthy of praise … and be thankful.

One.  My faith.  I was five or six when my grandparents introduced me to the Holy Bible during their daily devotions.  This was the mustard seed of belief in my young life, and it has grown over the years.  A sinner saved by grace.  A child of the King.  In daily need of a Savior.  If I should ever be drawn into court and accused of being a Christian, I pray that my life would provide enough evidence to be found guilty.

Two.  My wife.  On an October afternoon in 1966 I met this girl, the strikingly beautiful Elizabeth Clark Bean, known as Liza.  Fell in love with her on the spot.  Love her still.  Fifty-two years and counting. 

Three.  My daughters.  Wendy, Annie, and Emily; also known as We, Annabelle, and Em.  By day, We works for a renowned doctor and researcher who is looking for cures for cancer, and by night she is a gifted singer and songwriter.  Annabelle has years of experience in HR at the university level, fights for social justice, and takes flight as an aerial dancer.  Em is a mom of three boisterous and beautiful sons, is a wonderful musician, and expresses her creativity in the kitchen where she has a vibrant and growing business of designer cookies.  Not only are these daughters amazing in their professional and artistic pursuits; they are amazing in their devotion to the parents and their love for one another. 

Four.  My grandsons.  We arrived a little late to the party.  For years we heard stories from our contemporaries about the joys of grandparenthood.  When I first held our first grandchild in my arms while he grabbed my little finger in his little fist, I got it in a flash.  Just never imagined how much I would love this little boy and each of his little brothers to come.        

Five.  My brothers.  My most cherished friends.  As the baby of the family, I was always under their protection.  They have had illustrious careers in law and are both retired judges.  They are men of unmatched integrity, devoted to family, voracious readers, well respected and quick-witted.  They are also really bad golfers; they take money off me, but hardly anybody else. 

Six.  My sisters.  Yes, I am the youngest of three brothers, and my mother suffered the crushing disappointment of losing two other pregnancies, both girls.  It was also a great disappointment to me, not having a sister; but while I do not have a sibling sister, I have a rich sisterhood by adoption.  My brothers’ wives and my wife’s sisters have enriched and complemented my life.  They are all accomplished women in full.  Their hearts overflow with love.  We can talk about anything and everything.  There is not just one definition of sister, and I am glad of it. 

Seven.  Cancer.  I was in treatment about a year when our youngest daughter asked, “Dad, are you the only person on the planet who likes going to cancer treatments?”  What on earth was she seeing?  From the first day of chemo in July of 2011, I have been blessed by the front-liners at Kaiser Hospital Woodland Hills; I have come to know them well after nearly three-hundred visits there in nine-plus years.  They help me to thrive.  They keep me alive.  I love them.  What is more, the threat of cancer has driven me deeper into a life of faith.  What could have easily taken my life has given me an eternal perspective on living my life.  In brief, cancer has become a privilege.

Eight.  Our home.  It was a season of grief when we sold our house of forty-two years and downsized, but our mourning has turned to joy.  We have our own apartment and privacy, and it is under the same roof as our youngest daughter and her husband and our three grandsons.  When they invited us to live out our days with them, we sobbed in appreciation.  We are learning that another generation is in charge of Thanksgiving, and that we can give them help, when asked to do so.  We are learning to live the life emeritus.  It can be noisy, and it can be tiring; and it is altogether perfect.

Nine.  Our circles of friends, family, former students, and neighbors.  We may be in lockdown, often alone; but we are never lonely.  We may not have big gatherings now; but our online, phone, facetime, FB, texting, zooming and email connections keep us in touch.  The small masked outdoor chats have helped.  The coronavirus has narrowed our choices, but it has broadened our approaches to the village.  It feels as if the pandemic has driven many of our dear ones to try even harder to stay connected. 

Ten.  At this season of life, my appreciation for my parents has only grown.  The sacrifices they made to put their three sons through college were Herculean.  The personal struggles in their lives were withering, and some of them have been chronicled in earlier blogs; but they hung in there.  My dad died in 1971, but Audrey lived until 2003 to the age of ninety-nine.  She lived in our house for several years near the end, and we were witness to her final days as she boiled her life down to its most basic needs:  a cool drink of water, a fresh tomato right off the vine, a trip to the market with her son, phone calls from her grandchildren, sitting on the living room sofa on a wintry day as the sunbeams warmed her shoulders, listening to Charles Stanley on TV, getting to the bathroom on time, praying with her daughter-in-law who was her caregiver, having a piece of See’s chocolate, or hearing her favorite hymns at bedtime.  Oh, that I can age as wisely and as well.               

Happy Thanksgiving.  Be grateful.

A rap on our apartment door, and our daughter sticks her head in.  “Hey Dad!  Do you want to ride shotgun for a couple of hours this morning?” 

Flashback

Riding shotgun was a coming-of-age experience, a teenage pecking order ritual, and a regular feature of our car culture.  Heading to the beach with your high school buddies, or to the mall for some trolling, or just piling into the car for the five-minute ride to school; everyone wanted to ride shotgun, the front passenger seat.  It was like musical chairs, and the odd guys out had to cram into the back seat, which nobody wanted.

Riding shotgun meant you were the co-pilot, with extra legroom, extra elbow room, extra fanny room, and most importantly, control of the knobs on the radio.  When your friends in steerage shouted out, “Oh, turn it up; I love that song,” they were at your mercy.  Since everyone shouted “SHOTGUN” at the same time, it was generally agreed that the driver had the last word as to who rode up front.  This led to bribes of all kinds, from the cookie in your lunch to a compromising picture of your big sister. 

Flash Forward

Riding shotgun today is a reward for living long enough to have three adorable grandsons, whose mommy needs frequent help from Poppa to avoid going crazy.  Today we are running an errand and then heading to the working farm where you can take a hayride, pick a pumpkin, get lost in the corn maze, and talk to the goats.

When Mommy runs into Target, she does not have to get three little boys into strollers or a shopping carts; because co-pilot Poppa stays in the “Town and Country” to mollify the wild things with yummy snacks and endless verses of “The Wheels on the Bus.”

When we get to the farm, we meet up with Mommy’s bestie and her munchkin.  The older boys (ages three to six) dart hither and thither with the mommies in tow.  The baby (fifteen months) waddles and toddles like a penguin with Poppa in tow.  Davey and I check out the real chickens, and then the animatronic chickens who are singing children’s songs and sea chanties.  We are both mesmerized by “What Do You Do with a Drunken Chicken?” and other ditties.

When he starts to fade, he crawls into the stroller and we roll over to the goat pen where there are about 20 nannies and kids.  I push the stroller right up against the fence, and Davey leans forward to get a good look.  At first the goats are not doing much, but that changes when I break up a pretzel stick and toss a couple of pieces over the wire fencing.  My daughter will later scold me.  She says that we are not supposed to feed the animals.

Really?  Do goats have a restrictive diet?  Don’t goats pick up and swallow anything off the floor, just like my grandson does?  Are pretzels bad for goats? 

Not according to the goats.  By the time three or four chunks of pretzel hit the ground, the entire herd is up against the fence, with many of them balancing on their hind hooves, with their fore hooves on the fence.  They are staring right through the fence at Davey, just two feet away.  Oh, the bleating and the butting as the pecking order comes into play … the goats moshing before a deliriously happy audience of one little human kid.     

When you leave the farm, you experience what everyone experiences when they visit a tourist attraction.  You exit through the gift shop.  Today that is a good thing, because the strawberries were picked this very morning and are delicious. 

Not much to do in the shotgun seat on the way home!  The sun and the running around and the fresh strawberries are soporific.  The natives are dozing off in their car seats.  Once upon a time there was competition for the shotgun seat.  Now it is by invitation.  With the grandsons nodding off in the back, I sit up front, keeping my daughter company, sampling a fresh strawberry. 

How sweet it is!      

Another love letter to Liza

This is not just a birthday wish.  It is also a thank you letter and a writer’s acknowledgement.

The first entry to this blog appeared on the 30^th of April, and there were three concerns. Number One, I wondered if there would be enough stories to write about.  No worries! There is still a depth of family lore to probe, and a recent post was a whimsical meditation on bottle caps. So far, I feel safe on prompts.    

Number Two, there was considerable doubt as to the self-discipline required to meet a self-imposed, twice-a-week deadline.  Well, last Friday was # 55, and only once did a post appear a day late; but there was an earlier one that went up the day before.  Frankly, I have surprised and pleased myself by postponing my legendary procrastination. So far, I feel safe on that score also.

Finally, Number Three!  Would it be good enough to claim ownership?  That is not for me to judge; but based on the comments on Word Press and FB, there is a positive vibe from a small but friendly readership. That is largely attributable to the presence of a brilliant editor. 

Liza, I cannot thank you enough for your steadfast and spot-on contributions to this project that means so much to me.  We know there are no perfect people, nor perfect marriages; but there are people who are perfect for each other, who sharpen each other, and who help each other to thrive.  Your loving attention to my writing is a snapshot of your loving attention to me. 

Among the things that you bring to this writing table is your skill set.  Your French major educated you in linguistics and grammar in more than one tongue.  You labored off and on for twelve years crafting a book, and that has given you real insights into the writing process.  You sought advice and criticism from other writers, and that has given you a keen eye for the writing conventions that need refining.    

For example, when I get too wordy, you remind me that “less is often more.”  When I channel my inner Winston Churchill and write mile-long sentences, you are quick to see the run-ons. You encourage me to consider my inner Ernest Hemingway.  There is power in the simple sentence.  This give and take is just one example of working things out together to strengthen the final product.

And when you speak of antecedents, or complex and compound sentences, or the rhythm of a paragraph, or the proper use of commas and semi-colons, or the richness of word usage, or the beauty of conciseness and clarity, or the internal poetry of alliteration … well, I just love it when you talk dirty. 

But the best part of your editorship is not just the words on the page.  Something else has come sharply into focus.  Originally, I was determined to go it alone, selfishly wanting to bask in whatever credit came along.  It was vainglorious, and I became impatient with your desire to contribute. 

It took me a while to see that our journey together on “blog prep” is just as important as the online destination.  These editing get-togethers are lovely touchpoints for us.  I had been seeing your help as a path to improve my writing.  You saw it as a path to improve us.  With your love and support, I believe both things are true.  Thank you.

Happy 75^th Birthday!

Love, Me                              

In the classic 1948 motion picture “The Treasure of Sierra Madre,” the gold prospectors are confronted by a gang of Mexican banditos who claim to be the federales.  What follows is one of the all-time snippets of film dialogue.  

Prospector: “If you are the police, where are your badges?”

Bandito: “Badges?  We ain’t got no badges.  We don’t need no badges. I don’t have to show you any stinking badges.”

It is amusing to remember that there was a time in American culture when you really wanted to show your badges.  For a while in the 50’s it seemed like all the junior high kids were collecting and wearing a certain kind of homemade badge; and you found the raw materials whenever you popped open a Pepsi, an RC, or an Orange Crush.  Before screw-top plastic bottles or pop-top cans, a soft drink came in a glass bottle with a little metal cap, crimped around the edge. 

Inside each cap there was a flat piece of cork that formed the seal.  To make a badge, you carefully removed the cork.  Then you slid the little circle of cork inside your t-shirt and pressed it back into the metal cap, which was on the outside of the shirt.  If you did it just right, the cork and the cap locked together to create a shiny one-inch badge, and you became a walking endorsement for your favorite soda.  We were the original influencers. 

Some kids wore just one badge, while others sported three or four; and there was a brisk business in bottle cap trading.  Some kids had badges of different sodas, creating a rainbow effect, while others collected only the bottle caps of their favorite drink.  This one fanatic named Tony had about twenty Dr. Pepper badges spread across the front of his shirt.

This crazy fad was practiced by boys and girls alike, and in fact there was a group of girls who carried it a bit too far.  Each of the girls wore exactly two badges right over … well, you know where.  They drew a lot of attention, and they got busted for dress code violation. 

When it was time to launder your shirt, you stretched and pulled the material, and the badges would pop off.  The good news was, you could re-apply a badge several times, until the cork wore out.  When that happened, you had to buy more soda; and many parents got tired of buying soda by the case just to feed the frenzy.  If only there was another source of bottle caps!      

Once my father and I were on a road trip and we made a pit stop in Bonsall, California, a northern San Diego County wide spot in the road that you will not find on any map.  We pulled into a hot, dusty general store and café that featured a horseshoe shaped lunch counter with about a dozen stools upholstered in torn plastic. 

By the checkout was a big red cooler.  Each day they loaded it up with bottles of pop and smothered them with crushed ice.  As the ice melted, the water was so cold that the proprietor could barely keep his hand in it long enough to pull out a Coke, or a Nehi, or a Cream Soda, or whatever you wanted.  He ran his hand down over the bottle to wipe off as much water as possible.  It was a stifling summer day and it felt fantastic to press that frigid bottle against my forehead. 

Next to the cooler was a bottle opener attached to the wall.  Dad and I popped open our drinks, and the bottle caps fell into the trash can below.  I looked down and … EUREKA!  There must have been 200 bottle caps.  How was this possible?  Obviously, the junior high students in Bonsall had not caught up to the bottle-cap badge phenomenon.

The guy was happy to get rid of them, and after we got home, I was a badge hero and largely cornered the market.  However, my entrepreneurship was short-lived.  The bottle-cap mania ran out before the bottle caps did, leaving me with a bucketful of reminders of a craze come and gone.       

This flashback was prompted when my five-year-old grandson and I were watching “UP” by Pixar.  An important plot point is introduced in the first five minutes of the film.  Do you remember it?  It is when this shy little boy named Carl meets Ellie, the outrageous tomboy.  She removes from her own shirt a purple bottle-cap badge with a cluster of grapes and the words “GRAPE SODA.”  She pins the badge onto his shirt, welcoming him into her adventure club, kicking off their life together; and Carl never removed the badge.

Until the end of the movie!

By then he was an old man, and he had worn that badge all his life in memory of Ellie.  He took it off his lapel and ceremoniously pinned it on Russell, the young scout who shared with Carl the great adventures of the film.           

What fun to see that a silly, short-term, long-ago tweener obsession about bottle caps had become immortalized in another classic film about badges!

The coronavirus pandemic has stolen from us so many outings, routines, and simple pleasures.  How I long to stroll through Trader Joe’s, to visit the local cineplex on a Saturday morning for a “Live in HD” performance of the Metropolitan Opera, to sit shoulder to shoulder in the pews on a Sunday morning, to volunteer in my grandson’s kindergarten class, to meet my lifelong buddy Frank at Philippe’s for a French Dip sandwich and a slice of lemon meringue pie and a steaming cup of coffee in a sturdy ceramic mug!   

Or to answer the bell on Halloween and greet all the kiddos on our doorstep who yell, “TRICK-OR-TREAT.”  We have always loved to open the door to all the pee-wees in their costumes who hold up their bags and buckets … and to wave at the parents out there on the sidewalk.  At about 7:00 all the little ones would go home.  We would then welcome the second wave of revelers – the marauding packs of 8^th graders who were barely costumed – and happily fill their pillowcases too.  

So, imagine our chagrin when the powers-that-be reminded us that
“trick-or-treating” does not fall withing the safety guidelines of “social-distancing.”  We get it.  We do not argue with it.  It makes perfect sense.

Yet, it still feels like we were robbed.

Of course, this potential loss of fun and candy does not come close to the loss of jobs, or the misery of the long-haulers, or the loss of life which robbed a quarter-of-a-million families nationwide.  By comparison, our Halloween inconvenience is more like petty theft.

However, even in the direst of circumstances, we search for connection, a slice of normalcy, a sliver of hope, especially for our children and grandchildren.  So, the good news is — to use a familiar metaphor — when the doors were slammed shut on our street, the windows flew open.

There are fourteen houses on our cul-de-sac, and half of them are home to kids ten-years-old and younger.  This herd of half-pints, this gaggle of grandchildren, this army of ankle-biters, this regiment of rug rats?  We made sure they were neither forgotten nor left out this year.

Rather than opening doors, the families on our street laid out the plunder outside on tables with spooky decorations.  All munchies were individually wrapped, like those little packages of M & M’s, or the mini Almond Joy candy bars, or the heat-sealed baggies of homemade cookies.  The “trick or treaters” worked their way up and down the street and helped themselves. 

Then we all gathered at the end of the cul-de-sac.  Everyone was appropriately distanced, and the parade began.  We had raucous music and a microphone, and each family (kids, parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles – whoever) in turn was introduced and proceeded to skip or saunter, boogie or moon-walk, sashay or shuffle in a loop within the huge circle of families and friends.  There was wild applause throughout.      

Perhaps because of the limits on celebrations this year, the families went crazy with the costumes.  One family rocked Super Mario Bros. — the sons were Bowser, Mario and Toad, Mom was Princess Peach, and Dad was Luigi.  Another family paid homage to the superstitions — Dad wore a Friday the 13^th calendar page on his chest, one daughter was a black cat, another was framed in a mocked up shattered mirror, and Mom was walking under a cardboard stepladder. The three tweener witches were probably inspired by Shakespeare. One family channeled “The Wizard of Oz.” The neighborhood had just jumped in with both feet. 

Never have we experienced the holiday with such a feeling of family and of community.  It was fun for young and old alike.  The costume parade was hilarious.  The kids did not get so much candy as to become over-sugared for days after.  Everyone wore masks, many of which were part of a costume, and no one had to drive anywhere.

We have all suffered to some degree the isolation and chaos that have accompanied the pandemic lockdowns.  In our corner of the world, we experienced a couple of hours of the strength and the comfort of a village.

It was Halloween magic.