This Might Sting A Little

ONE OF THE COOL THINGS about the world-wide-web is the ability to google medical stuff and diagnose your own maladies. And I'm sure doctors love it when I go to the office and start the conversation with, "I Googled my symptoms and..."

Say what you will, I love being able to get a second opinion for free. Here's an example. A recent bit of online research yielded this bit of wisdom from a doctor I trust a great deal:

When at last we are sure
You've been properly pilled,
Then a few paper forms
Must be properly filled,
So that you and your heirs
May be properly billed.

--Dr. Seuss

This is highly relevant to my world the past few weeks, all leading up to tomorrow's big event.

First let me say this: Some kinds of bragging I celebrate, like Kevin Durant talking about his teammates, or parents and grandparents sharing pictures and the exploits of the kids. (Here's an excellent example)

The Grand-Girls. I'm not sure even the flowers are as lovely--but that's just me.

There are some kinds of bragging that further turn my messed up belly, like: people trying to impress you with how busy and significant they are by telling you how many emails they have in their inbox. Or, those who want to talk about how many surgical procedures they've endured, which inevitably includes a Show & Tell for each of their scars. Unfortunately, this kind of stuff is a staple for conversation of us mature adults.

That said--a couple of weeks ago after a few days of stomach uneasiness, my gall bladder attacked me. I went to the ER where this pretty little girl, that I'm guessing was 15 or so, squirted some kind of jelly all over my stomach and then rubbed a probe all over, like she was hunting for coins at the beach with a metal detector.

The doctor studied images from her procedure on the monitor. They looked something like a Rorschach test. "It's time for you and your gall bladder to part company," said the Doctor.

I wanted to argue; we've been through so much together. But this sucker had betrayed me, and I realized that if I said, "No thanks, Doc, I'll keep it," it would only be the drugs talking.

So tomorrow, one of those spare parts that only God knows why He put in the mix, like tonsils and appendixes, is coming out. 

Remind me next time we meet and I'll show you the scar. ;-)

Graduation and Tarzan

Our Alma Mater,
Thou art strong and true
Thy name shall live in the deeds thy children do.
Thy gift will be in life our guide,
We will be true to thee,
Will Rogers High.

Remember graduation? Here's my ode to graduation day:

A GRADUATION POEM
By POPS

O' the thoughts that ran through
The mind under that mortarboard
The emotions that quickened the heart
And stirred the butterflies
In the belly beneath that robe.
Mission accomplished! Oh, crap; what now?!

I was a member of the Class of '69, Will Rogers High School, Tulsa, Oklahoma. I wasn't much of a member really; I only went to school there my senior year. Prior to that I was a Jenks Trojan!

BTW: the term Alma Mater is Latin, meaning "nurturing mother". Obviously it is used most often these days to refer to the school one attended, but it also refers to the school song or hymn, as in the case of the lyrics at the beginning of this post.

2014 grads of Oklahoma Baptist University. (borrowed from the OBU Facebook page without permission)

Though my time at Will Rogers High was short, I grew to love that little song. The tune is as nice as the lyrics. It's kind of cool that it is literally the school's Alma Mater--the song, it's about our Alma Mater--the school, and it's written using the literal meaning, "nurturing mother", as a metaphor of the school as mother and the students as the "children."

If you're still with me, which is probably unlikely, how about digging through whatever box might contain the old school tassel, or grab a school yearbook. Reminisce a bit. Then say to yourself, "Life is full of transitions and graduations, I survived that big one and I'll survive the next." Now move your tassel to the other side (figuratively of course), and let's take the summer off.

Tarzan and the fam.

Oh, one more lesson before we go: My friend Grady Nutt observed an important life lesson from Tarzan. For those who don't know Tarzan lore, his favorite mode of travel through the Jungle was swinging from one vine to the next. Grady pointed out that if Tarzan had been afraid or unwilling to let go of one vine to grab the next, he would have been known as a real swinger, but would have never gotten anywhere.

Congrats to all you grads wherever you are.

Playing The Glad Game

I'm man enough to admit it: I like Facebook. And, as every delusional, fibbing dude SHOULD have admitted when he bought a copy of Playboy back in the day, claiming he liked the magazine for its insightful articles; I like Facebook for the pictures. It's a great way to keep up with old friends, their kids and grandkids.

Lately I've really been enjoying posts of prom pics and spring sports and kids I feel connected to who are doing well--like a young pole vaulter named Brenon winning regionals, advancing to state, accepting a scholarship and signing with a great school, with a stellar track program.

For many years, I had the privilege of working with teens, watching them grow and discover. I got to be friends with some very creative, fun, wacky people. It was a blast walking with them, seeking some hope in the despair. 

I am a very proud dad of two sons. The youngest serves in a role that brings him in touch with some of the ugliest, cruelest, most tragic elements of our society. I don't know how he does it, but I'm grateful to him for serving in a way few of us would.

Do you see the ends of the broad spectrum I'm trying to paint here? On the one end: happy, healthy kids in photos with prom dates or their winning teammates. On the other end, photos of people often in a drug-addled state standing against a wall with height markers, holding a number. I know it not as clear cut as that, but...

Does it seem sometimes like the floor is tilting the wrong way?

Best I remember, my first movie star crush was with Hayley Mills in the movie Moon-Spinners. I was thirteen. She was eighteen. It didn't work out.

Ms. Mills was probably best known though for her portrayal of Pollyanna in the movie of the same name. Pollyanna was an eternally optimistic little girl who would NEVER have had a "SH#T HAPPENS" bumper sticker on her car. She liked to play a game called "The Glad Game" where she could turn every negative into a positive.

If Pollyanna were still alive, and if she had somehow insulated herself from the infectious, slimy ooze of the 24-hour A Day TV news shows, and if she had somehow found a place for herself in the hateful, vitriolic, political rhetoric that has become the norm for us citizens of the not-so-United States; it would be fun to follow her on Twitter and Facebook. Would she still be playing The Glad Game? Would she post selfies of herself smiling from ear to ear after realizing she wouldn't have a date for the prom? (But she would of course--she's Hayley Mills.)

It got me to thinking about the roles I play. (BTW: the plural "roles" is appropriate for all of us because we do play many.)

If you follow this blog (bless you), you know that I am known to my Grand-Girls as "Pops." Here on this blog I also use the term as an umbrella term for the roles of grandfather.

As you know, the prefix for "many" in our language is "poly." So, I'm hereby branding the persona of a grandfather who plays many important roles as: PolyPops. It will remind me that one of the roles we  must play is Pollyanna-like; to play a version of The Glad Game when the need arises, to help find things to celebrate.

Hayley Mills as Pollyanna

Occasionally, in the midst of all the mistrust and oneupmanship and bullying and bitterness and bad news so pervasive in our world, maybe the highest calling for grandparents is to bite the bullet and go to Chuck E. Cheese's, or to say, "Yes, let's do jump on the bed, but be careful because all we have now is Obamacare which apparently is the end of life as we know it," or "bedtime; schmedtime, let's have some fun, because life is short and your parents can time-out-chair you back in to shape when you get home." PolyPops to the rescue.

"Youth is the period in which a man can be hopeless. The end of every episode is the end of the world. But the power of hoping through everything, the knowledge that the soul survives its adventures, that great inspiration comes to the middle-aged." --G.K. Chesterton

A One And A Two

In 1955, a popular local Los Angeles TV show, was picked up by ABC and swept the nation. You can still see it in reruns every Saturday evening. The star of the show was a Ukranian-born German named Lawrence. Little Larry's family migrated to the U.S. when he was a wee lad. Dirt poor farmers, the Welks struggled for food and shelter. At some point, according to the lore, Lawrence asked his dad to buy him a mail-order accordion. In exchange for this extravagance, Lawrence promised to work diligently on the family farm until his 21st birthday.

Lawrence Welk

And, as so many have done throughout history, sacrifices were made because people understand the arts are worth it--we need music, we need poetry, we need art and design and beauty.

When I was 5 years old, however, I didn't see it that way.

I remember it like it was yesterday: I was with friends, hiding in the bushes in front of our house on South Owasso Ave. Our plan was to throw pebbles at passing cars. A couple of issues became quickly apparent: 1. Very few cars passed on our street; 2. The distance between our hideout and the street exceeded the length of our best throw.

Finally, here came a car and we gave it our best shot, which fell way short, but the strange car stopped; right in front of our house. Yikes! It paused, then pulled into our drive way. A man I had never seen before got out, opened his trunk, pulled out a suitcase and carried it to our front door. (Oh, the curse of a fertile imagination.) I watched from the seclusion of the bushes while he knocked on our door. I heard my mother invite him in.

Anxious moments passed and I heard my father call my name. I walked into the house expecting the worst. It was worse than I imagined. I walked it and noticed In the man's open suitcase was a shiny little accordion. I was being signed up for accordion lessons.

Dang you Lawrence Welk.

I don't know for sure, but I'm guessing that accordion sales soared during the early years of the Lawrence Welk Show. I also don't know for sure, but I'm guessing that like Lawrence's family, my accordion and lessons were probably a big sacrifice for my parents. Did they envision that I would some day be the leader of my own polka band?

I did learn to play the accordion well enough to make my family proud when I played "The Little Indian Dance" in a recital with other young Lawrence Welks. I also learned, although it didn't occur to me until years later, that I loved music, I loved being a musician, that music is worth sacrifice. Thanks Mom & Dad.

Gratefully, our two sons love music. Both are skilled drummers. Yes we spent money on drums and lessons at a level some would call excessive. It was worth every penny. My Amazing-Missus and I have always agreed on this. She grew up in a music-loving family. Her mother was a wonderful pianist and made sure her daughter learned to play as well. Her twin brother married a very talented musician and their son is a gifted trumpet player in a world class band, just home from a concert at Carnegie Hall in NYC. Last night we had the privilege of hearing him play once again with his jazz band. (There's nothing better than live jazz.)

Now; the Grand-Girls. I am so grateful that their parents allow us to be involved in their lives. I hope we never take advantage or take it for granted. Since the girls were tiny, they've been in a program called, "KinderMusik." It is wonderful and it has been fun to participate with them from time to time.

Harper & Pops at KinderMusik

One of the greatest joys for me as Pops is watching the next generation grow to love music.

Thank you Lawrence Welk... and Mrs. Kaylor, and Aunt Betty Brady, and Betty Cox, and Mr. Churchill, and Tom Durham, and James Keyes, and Miss Conchita.