Tidings from Tim

Our Christmas Letter 2020

Greetings from the Piatts

This December we share in the national grief over the thousands of lives that are lost and upended, and we pray for a sunnier and healthier 2021. Also upended are familiar traditions and routines.  We cannot gather in the usual numbers, travel is severely limited, and our shopping is online.  On the other hand, we are not searching for parking places, standing in long lines at the checkout, or dealing with the normal frazzle at this time of year.  We have found more time to sit on the sofa, hold hands, pray, and consider the abundant blessings of this year.

Our New Home.  We moved into our new apartment in April.  We have the luxury of our own space, with easy access to Emily and Darren’s house, patio, garden, and pool.  Liza is still and always the “mamarazzi,” creating photobooks for the family. Tim started this blog in April. You can read his stories at tidingsfromtim.com or on his FB link.

Our Daughters.  Wendy works for a renowned doctor and researcher who is looking for cures for cancer, and by night she is a gifted singer and songwriter.  Check out “Christmas Without You” by Sweetlove (Wendy’s performance avatar) and Wes Hutchinson on Spotify.  Annie has years of experience in HR at the university level, fights for social justice, and takes flight as an aerial dancer.  She and her beau Louie were married in November — Huzzah!  He also works in HR, plays a mean trombone, and appreciates beauty in all its forms. Emily 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. (See @eatsweetems) Darren has been blessed to work for Amgen from home all these months.  He is a warm and loving husband and devoted Daddy.  Our daughters are amazing in their professional and artistic pursuits.  They are also amazing in their devotion to their parents and their love for one another. 

Our Grandsons.  Clark (six) is in kindergarten, and his cohort is now on site. He is a kind big brother to Calvin (three next month) and Davey (16 months).  Living under the same roof with these boys is magic.  Everything they said about grandparenting … times 10!

Our Church.  We appreciate the attitude of our church leadership who have complied with the governing authorities and are considering the safety of our congregation and our community.  Our God resides in our hearts, not in a building.  Until we can resume normal attendance, we “zoom” worship in our jammies.      

May the Lord bless you and keep you … and give you His peace!

Love, Tim and Liza

They could not get the plane off the ground.  Just three days before Christmas and I was sitting in a DC-9 at the airport in Austin, Texas, hoping and praying to make my connecting flight from Dallas to Los Angeles. As we watched various minions of the ground crew scurry in and out under the plane, everyone was asking: “What are they doing?”  “What’s wrong with the plane?”  “Will they get this bucket of bolts airborne anytime soon?”   

It was finally announced that an electrical problem had grounded the plane.  They herded the passengers – bellowing and bleating – through the terminal and onto another plane.  We took off almost two hours behind schedule.

When we arrived in the Big D, I sprinted from the arrival gate to the departure gate.  They were just closing the door.  Waving my ticket, I huffed and puffed my way through an explanation.  This guy took pity and made a hasty phone call.  He pushed a button, re-opened the door, and led me out to the plane.  In those days they did not have those protective tunnels.  It was cold and the weather was threatening as we walked outside to the mobile stairway and climbed on board.  The flight attendant walked to the back of the plane to fetch the passenger who got the last seat at the last minute as a stand-by. 

Too bad for him; lucky for me.

As I waited by the galley, I was aware of the scrutiny of the scowling passengers in the first two or three rows, and many others who were leaning out from their aisle seats to get a glimpse of the idiot who was responsible for this delay.

Turning away from the stares, I found myself face-to-face with the unfortunate stand-by who had come from the very last row and was no doubt thinking that he almost made a clean getaway. One look at him, and I knew in my bones that it was going to be a long night for me in Texas. 

Standing in front of me was a young man with sidewalls for a haircut, shouldering an olive-green canvas duffel.  His dress cap was neatly tucked under his epaulet, the seam on his trousers razor-sharp, his gig line straight, his buttons polished, his shoes glossy black, and his back ramrod straight.  An incredible picture of the effects of spit, Brasso, and discipline.  And not a day over nineteen!

As he tried to squeeze by me, I put out my hand to stop him and asked, “Where are you headed, soldier?”

Him: “Home, Sir. I’m headed home.”

It wouldn’t have been so bad if he had not called me “Sir,” and me at the ripe old age of twenty-four.

Me:    “Mustering out?”                   

Him:   “No, Sir.  Just on a leave.”

Me:    “How long?”

Him:   “Four days, Sir. I have to report back the day after Christmas.”

Me:    “Then what?”  I asked the question, but down deep I already knew the answer.  It was December of 1967.

Him:  “Vietnam, Sir.  We’re shipping out to Vietnam.”

With that I wished him a Merry Christmas, gave him a brief salute, did an about-face, and stepped off the plane.  Just then it started to rain, and by the time I descended the stairs and raced across the tarmac to the terminal, I was good and wet.  I returned to the boarding area and inquired about the possibilities, and that was met with a “lotsa luck” expression and a shrug from a guy behind the counter who had been too many hours on his feet.  And even though I was stranded in Dallas Love Field, my luggage made the flight.  Great!  Stuck in Texas and no underwear! 

I sat down and took in my surroundings.  They had put up some plastic Christmas decorations and were piping plain-wrap music.  They were trying to bring some cheer to those weary holiday travelers, but they were failing.  The crowds were maddening, frazzled and grumpy.  Just like me.   

So, there I was feeling sorry for myself, wet and cold, facing a long night in a real uncomfortable chair.  I dozed off for a while, awakened by a tap on the shoulder.  It was a woman in an American Airlines uniform who asked, “Sir, are you the passenger who gave up his seat for the soldier?”

She escorted me to the customer relations desk and explained to them what happened.  They tripped all over themselves, apologizing for the inconvenience.  They put me in an airport “limo” with several of their pilots and flight attendants and whisked me downtown.  At the expense of American Airlines, I was soon ensconced in a suite in the Dallas Hilton, offered complimentary room service, given credit at the hotel gift shop for overnight amenities, and got a free breakfast coupon.    

They brought me back to the airport in another “limo” and by 9:30 that morning I was on a flight to Los Angeles, which included an upgrade and real food.  When we deplaned in L.A., there was a representative of the airline holding a sign with my name on it.  When I approached, she presented me with a voucher for two round trip tickets to and from any American Airlines destination in the continental United States, good for one year.  I was floored.  Why all this largesse?

She explained that AA flight crews everywhere were buzzing about the flight the night before when a young soldier did not get bumped, and about the Good Samaritan with the Christmas Spirit who gave up his seat.   

I had to laugh, feeling a little embarrassed.  Yes, I made the right call, but my motives were somewhat mixed.  In that moment of decision, I had a vision of walking down the aisle of the plane to the very last row, with two hundred people staring me down, my having heartlessly booted the soldier, being hated all the way to L.A.  It was no-win situation. 

However, you could say I got a happy ending.  Home for Christmas, a limo ride, a night in a fancy hotel, and a flight upgrade!  With the two free tickets I took my mom to visit her kith and kin back in Austin. But the memory of those serendipities is not the takeaway for this Christmas story.

This is what sticks. The entire episode of the staring passengers, a chance encounter with a soldier, our brief dialogue, and my departure could not have taken more than two minutes; but those two minutes are frozen in time, and I wonder. Is his name among the more than 58,000 names etched in the stone of the Vietnam War Memorial, or did he survive?  Did he ever show up again at home for the holidays, or did someone from the Army show up on his parent’s doorstep with heartbreaking news?

There is always a pique of melancholy for me at Christmastime, because I never got his name, but I will never forget the eager face of that teenage grunt.           

Another love letter to Liza!

In the days that followed our meeting at a football game in October of 1966, Oh, the words that I spoke to my brother when I told him about you:  comely, fair, regal, classy, lovely, gorgeous, outstanding, keenly intelligent, better than the rest, striking, lofty in bearing, possessed of a wonderful figure, stunning in appearance, with that porcelain English skin.  We were in his law office when I told him that she was “the one,” the girl I would marry.  How I did go on!  And since then, my love, you have only grown in superlatives — like devoted, dedicated, faithful, and eminently good.

In a word, Liza, you are noble. 

One of my earliest remembrances of that word came at Christmastime when we always had a noble fir tree, which my mom went crazy to decorate.  Audrey considered the noble to be the classiest, the most beautiful, better than all the other trees; and thanks to the high ceilings in our living room, and the huge number of ornaments that she had amassed, we always had at least an eight-to-nine-footer.  The noble had those perfect layers of branches, which provided the open spaces to hang her heirloom glass balls, her hand-made bows, her collection of whimsical unbreakables, and those ornament clusters of hers that lay on the branches, attached with glossy red ribbons that were my job to iron each year.  You could have placed the tree in the atrium at Macy’s.  Instead, it stood just inside the French doors to our living room, and to passers-by it was a wondrous Christmas tableau.                  

When at the age of ninety-three Audrey came to live with us, she brought her holiday treasure trove, and that just provided another opportunity to observe the content of your loving character.  A lesser woman might have balked at her mother-in-law’s Christmas tree mania, but you did not.  You never expressed anything like … “Well, he loves his mother’s cooking and tree-decorating better than mine.” 

You knew that as a kid I cherished those moments of lying beneath my mom’s tree and looking up and out through the wonder of it.  You embraced her artistry and her stuff, and then you grafted her vision onto your own.  You took it to another level and gave our family a new and unique set of traditions.  Our children have loved our Christmas treasures, and you have allowed and encouraged them to appreciate their Grammy.  You have risen to the occasion of the most noble and arboreal artistry.  When I see the love and labor you have put in year after year to adorn our tree and our house, it feels like a personal gift to me.  Thank you.

Noble Fir.  Noble Girl.

Merry Christmas.

Love, Me   

My mother swore that she would never set foot in a Walmart.  She had read stories about them.  In big towns and small hamlets across the land, the presence of a Walmart store killed off the “mom and pop” businesses.  It griped her that Main Street USA had largely disappeared.      

She also swore off Ralphs markets.  Allow me to explain.       

At my 35^th college reunion in 2000, we were all approaching sixty, and the big topic of conversation was what to do for, and what to do with, our aging parents.  Our parents were in their 80’s-plus, and we roundly discussed the blessings and the challenges of a generation of parents who were living longer than any other in history. 

Just three years earlier my mom had come to live with my wife and me and our three daughters.  She was ninety-three.  We thought she might last another year, maybe two, but she fooled us.  Through stubbornness, zest for life, and some good ole Texan Johnson genes; she almost made it to the century mark, dying just two months after her ninety-ninth birthday. 

She had resisted the move, wanting instead to stay in her cozy apartment, not wanting to give up her independence.  That is a common sentiment among oldsters, many of whom – like my mother Audrey — believe that getting old is a temporary condition.  My mom was sure that she would regain her strength of old, but too many falls had taken their toll.  She was black and blue from head to toe.  After she seriously damaged her rotator cuff, she finally gave up and gave in to our pleas to make her home with us.   

There were some hard adjustments for her.  She was stuck with a walker, could not lift anything off the stove or out of the oven, and could no longer make her legendary potato salad.  All her life she worked hard and served others.  It grieved her not to feel useful anymore.  So much had been taken away by old age and infirmity, that she desperately wanted to hold onto something.  She decided that she would not give up her yams – a side dish she had faithfully prepared for years for our holiday family gatherings.  Problem was, she could not do the yams by herself; she needed a sous chef.

Guess who?

Step One.  Buy the yams.  A trip to the market.  I volunteered to run the errand for her, but she insisted that we go together. 

But do you know the difference between a solo trip to Vons for a short list of items and a trip to Vons for a short list of items in the company of a ninety-five-year-old woman with macular degeneration?  Well, it is twenty minutes vs two hours.  Minimum! She had to get ready.  After all, she could not leave the house without a bathroom stop, combed hair, dressy shoes, a pair of slacks, and her red wool blazer. And we couldn’t just pop in the truck. Audrey’s popping days were over.        

But oh, how she loved going to the store! “A” of all, it was an outing with her son in the Dodge pickup.  “B” of all, she got to ditch the walker and push the shopping cart instead; it made her feel less like a frail older woman and more like any other shopper.  “C” of all, she loved to go up and down the aisles, touching everything, like a little kid.  When I picked up a one- pound can of Yuban coffee off the shelf, she peppered me with questions about the prices of all the other coffee brands.  This Depression Era lass was frugal to the max.  When we got to the produce section, she picked over the yams, touching almost every single one, choosing by feel to get the right amount of firmness. 

Step Two.  Prepare the yams.

Under Mom’s careful directions, I parboiled the yams, allowed them to cool, skinned them, and sliced them into one-inch rounds.  Together we arranged them in the glass baking dish.  I dusted them with Audrey’s special recipe blend of brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and pats of real butter.  For the record, Audrey was mortified at the thought of little marshmallows.  We covered the yams with foil and put them in the fridge overnight.

Step Three.  Audrey’s outrage.

We all packed and piled into the car the next morning for the drive to my brother’s house, a 90-minute trip.  We were about fifteen minutes from our destination when Audrey shouted, “STOP THE CAR.  WE HAVE TO GO BACK.  I FORGOT MY YAMS.”

We checked the trunk, and sure enough, no yams. 

“Mom, we can’t go back.  That’s a round trip of more the two hours.  Let’s look for a market.”

“No market will be open on Christmas.”

We hadn’t driven more than three more blocks when lo, there was an open Ralphs right there on Foothill Boulevard in Claremont. A granddaughter accompanied her into the market.  We were relieved; we would have just enough time for a yam do-over before dinner. But when she returned to the car, Audrey sat down with a bag of yams in her lap, a scowl on her face, and a “harrumph” in her voice.

“I am never shopping at Ralphs again.”

“What happened, Mom?  Were they rude to you?

“I’ll tell you what happened.  They make those people work on Christmas Day.   Shame on them! Those workers should be home with their families. I am never shopping at Ralphs again.  NEVER!”    

Audrey was stubbornly true to her word.  She never again darkened the door of a Walmart or a Ralphs. She wanted me to boycott them also; and out of loyalty I have largely avoided them, talking my patronage to Target and Vons instead. However, the need occasionally arises for me to visit one of her forbidden places. But I always wear a big hat, not taking the chance that my late mother will gaze downward from the heavens and recognize me … and be mad. 

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.

Halloween 2020

Another love letter to Liza

Me:     “Do you know what I love about you, Liza?”

Liza:    “Ooh, I can’t wait to hear it!” 

Me:     “Well, I love almost everything about you, but what I am thinking of today is that you can be downright scary.”

Before going any further, let us clarify that “scary” is not just about ghosts and goblins on Halloween, or to describe what the president is tweeting today.  “Scary” is on a list of words and phrases with multiple and often contradictory meanings.  For example:

• “Wicked” is defined as horrific or evil, but in common high school parlance, it is often just the opposite, with a touch of the unbelievable.  “That three-point shot was wicked.”    
• “Dope” can refer to a controlled substance; but out on the Quad, it is high praise.  “Oh, show me that move again; it was really dope.”
• “Shut up” usually means zip your lip, but my daughter and her friends use it  as an interjection to describe greatness.  When her friend Molly told me to “Shut up” as I was offering her some chip and dip, Molly was not rudely telling me to be quiet.  The reference was to my sublime “shut-up guacamole.”  It had left her otherwise speechless.

Likewise, my love, when I say you are “scary,” it does not convey fear.  It conveys an extreme of feeling or affection.  For example:

• You are “scary” smart.  When we encourage each other with the L.A. Times Crossword, the Sudoku, or the Jumble; your left-brained and analytical mind dazzles me.  When we discuss politics or baseball or last Sunday’s Zoom sermon, your questions and your reasonings are most insightful. 
• You are “scary” beautiful.  From the time we met at a football game more than fifty years ago, right down to this morning at the breakfast table, you are still the pretty one.  I love it that you still stir the “hubba-hubba” within my heart. 
• You are “scary” generous and helpful.  You nurtured my mom in her dotage.  You are always thinking of our nonagenarian neighbor.  You take cookies to the college boys down the street.  You spend the time and the energy to edit my blogs, making them better.  You fill in the gaps for me by keeping the calendar, the paperwork, and the checkbook. 
• Finally, you are a “scary” wonderful gramma.  Clarky is five-and-a-half; you love to monitor his kindergarten zoom class.  Calvin is two-and-a-half; the two of you do the farm puzzle.  Davey is fourteen months; you read the board books and make the animal sounds with him.                      

In brief, Liza, you are frighteningly good, and the good thing about your “scariness” is that it is not confined to October 31^st.  Your intelligence, your beauty, your generosity and your grammahood are in evidence 365 days of the year.  On Halloween and every other day…

You are my Boo!