After The Dance

SO, WE WENT TO OUR FIRST DANCE RECITAL. Unfamiliar with the protocol, we arrived very early as we had been advised. Soon the parking lot begin to fill with vehicles carrying little dancers, each with their entourage, some carrying costumes and bags, some running along behind their little Shirley Temples, spraying hair spray, glitter and something that gave the little girls a sort of orange tint. There were bored-looking brothers, dads with iPhones, grandparents with Kodaks, and others bearing enough flowers to make every florist in town profitable even before Mother’s Day.

Soon our tiny dancer arrived. My first thought: “How could this be? How could she be growing up so fast? We’ll turn around soon and she’ll be on the arm of some creepy boy on her way to the prom.”

As we walked into the performing arts center, I was surprised to find plenty of seats available. But quickly we discovered that evey seat in the joint was SAVED. And their saved status was guarded by some aunt or someone, with bedazzled jeans, at least one visible tattoo or two, and a too-tight t-shirt that said, “Don’t Mess With The B!” So I didn’t.

Soon the house lights dimmed. The first group was herded on stage to “Wild Thing” by The Troggs, a song I used to play as the drummer in a little rock band at teen dances back in the 60s. I will admit they were too cute not to be entertaining, althought they apparently abandoned every move they had been taught, opting for an improvisational style.

It will come as no surprise when I tell you that once my Grand-Girl’s group FINALLY tapped onto the stage, the lights got a little brighter, a hush fell over the crowd, and she danced and danced and danced. And if I had had once of those bouquets, I would have thrown it onto the stage, although apparently you only do that at figure skating recitals.

If you know me well, you know I pretty much have a C.S. Lewis quote for every occasion. This one is no different.

“As long as you notice and have to count the steps, you are not yet dancing, but only learning to dance.” —C.S. Lewis

At first each little dancer was aware of the crowd, and some were frozen, as in standing stone-still, not "Frozen" like that movie that all of these little princesses are so obsessed with.
Some were carefully watching their teachers who were doing the moves to the dance just offstage in the wings.

But there were times when most of them, almost losing themselves in the moment and confident of their learned lessons, just danced.

Not that I have to make a moral of this story, but isn’t life fun when we just quit counting the steps and dance? Saturday I did a lot of dancing. Not the kind that anyone could see. But I did the inner dance of a very, very proud Pops.

Thank you Karlee, for teaching your old Pops to dance.

Going To A DANCE

Sometimes people ask (well, someone did; once), “What does the name of your blog mean, ‘About Pops’”?

It sort of has to do with a stage of life, what I call the second-coming-of-age and all that comes with it, stuff like: looming retirement, senior adulthood, your body committing mutiny. But, then there is the glorius side of it all, being a grandfather, or as I’m known to my Grand-Girls, “Pops”.

This Saturday morning is a very exciting for a Pops like me. I’m going to my first dance recital. While I am excited, I’m also a bit anxious. You see I grew up in the Southern Baptist tradition where evangelist warned that Jesus would almost certainly return during a dance at Teen Town. “Is that where you want to be when The King Comes!?” And in my 13 year-old brain I’m thinking “As opposed to…?” (More than likely I’m thinking how does he get his hair to stay all puffed up in that big hairdo?”)

Looking back, I think I wouldn’t have minded at all if Jesus had come back during a school dance. I think he would have enjoyed it. In fact, I think even the full-time evangelist would have had a good time if he could have chiseled through all the pomade keeping his pompadour in place and let his hair down.

Today’s recital stars our oldest Grand-Girl, Karlee. I think maybe there will be other little dancers there too.

Thats Karlee, on the left. Today she will be the star!

If you have a problem with me unbashedly bragging on her, in the words of Steve Martin: “Well, exxxxuuuussssee me!!!”

You see this tiny dancer is the one who made me POPS. She has patiently turned me in to a dewy-eyed, sentimental, very proud, old man.

I am so grateful that she can dance without shame. That she can know the joy, the freedom, the beauty of being a little artist. 

I could go on and on and on, but I have a dance to go to. And, if Jesus were to be ready, I think he would really enjoy this, because the children will be dancing.

Fore Friends

I'M GOING TO ASK YOU TO TAKE A BIG LEAP!

The leap is from an episode of Seinfeld (one of his best comedic bits, in my well-tuned opinion) to a self-analysis on friendship.

In this bit Jerry and Elaine are at the counter of a car rental company, “Worthy Rent-A-Car.” Jerry finds out from the attendant that while he made a “reservation” for a car, they do not in fact have a car for him. He then explains their problem: they know how to TAKE the reservation, they just don’t know how to HOLD the reservation. Here’s a link to the clip on Youtube. Watch and enjoy.

SEINFELD ON HOLDING THE RESERVATION

Now for the leap—Get ready, set, JUMP…

I’m very envious of people who can not only MAKE friends, but they can also HOLD the friendship so to speak. Maybe you’re one of those who has friends from childhood or college. I don’t. I’m not whining about it, but I do wonder why some people seem to have lots of real friends (as opposed to the category of friends we’ll call Facebook Friends).

Don’t get me wrong, or assume I’m completely misanthropic and narcissitic. Maybe it just that I live with someone who sets a very high bar when it comes to having strong, beautiful, enduring friendships.

It’s not that I don’t have some friendships like that (you both know who you are). I blame it on introversion. I Googled “introverts and friendship”. I found lots of things like “5 Keys to this,” and “3 Steps to that.” All of it had to do with getting out of your shell and MAKING new friends. There was a common theme though: “Try harder”; basically. 

I love to play tennis, and I used to play at least a couple of times a week. You would think I would have been close friends with my tennis partner, but my partner was a ball machine, that just mindlessly, and relentlessly shot balls at me. It always won, so I broke the relationship off.

Guys, especially among us “men of a certain age,” seem to prefer golf. So I’m going to give that a try. So far, my play has all been on a driving range by myself.

Lawdy, Lawdy, I’m having a pity party. But I’m not in despair. Just saying, that if you don’t mind playing golf with someone who might throw clubs and say bad words, give me a call. But, if it doesn’t blossom into friendship, know this: it’s me, not you. 

Perfect Attendance Lessons

It’s been awhile since I’ve put up a post here at About POPS. My promise to myself when I started this blog was that no more than a week would pass without a post. I have no excuses but this:

Do you ever have those moments when your commitment, or at least your good intentions break down, and you think, “What the heck, I’ve blown it now, so what does it matter.” You know like those times when you’re faithfully following your disciplined eating lifestyle, then you get invited to the all-you-can-eat-fried-catfish-with-hushpuppy place. “I’ll just have a salad,” you say to yourself on the way there. Then after your second plate of fried amazingness, you’ve passed the point of what-does-it-matter-now. So you stop at Dairy Princess on the way home for a chocolate dipped cone with nuts.

There’s a larger lesson for me here. I’m not trying to moralize all of this, hinting that there may be a lesson for you too. Just saying that for me…

When I was a kid, we went to Sunday School. Every Sunday. I don’t remember how old I was, but I remember it like it was yesterday: getting my copper-colored Three-Month Perfect Attendace pin. I was now a decorated little Sunday School soldier, with my eye on that silver Six-Month pin, learning not to hide my little light under a bushel (hold cupped hand over the raised index finger of the other hand, then rapidly move it).

Another six months pass. During a ceremony in the Sunday morning worship service I was awarded with my "gold" One-Year pin. The next level for us little Sunbeams was more lofty: the Two-Year Wreath that would encircle our One-Year pen.

Sometime during that second year I contracted measels or mumps or malaria, I don’t remember which. My perfect-attendance track ended. When it comes to pursuit of perfect attendance pins in the Baptist Church there may be “Amazing Grace” but there are no “excused absences.”

I probably had thoughts like, “What difference does it make now if I go to Sunday School or not?” That square on the Perfect Attendance Chart with no gold star haunted me and there was nothing I could do about it. But there were other; let’s call them motivations, to continue attending.

I’m reminded of a passage from a really good old movie called, “Kitty Foyle.” It goes like this:

Tom Foyle: From now on, you’re going to Sunday School every Sunday. Rain or shine, you’re going.
Kitty Foyle: But why, Pop?
Tom Foyle: Well, it’ll be giving you a little Christian upbringing. A sense of values.
Kitty Foyle: Oh. And then you mean I won’t ever sin or anything.
Tom Foyle: Well, it might not keep you from sinning, but by Judas Priest, it’ll keep you from getting any fun out of it.

So while there will be a few blank weeks on my Perfect Blog Post Writing Chart, know this:

I’m back baby.

BTW: the image of the little Sunday School family is from a poster project done by our oldest son, Corey. You can see the project HERE. This particular poster is called: Abby | Artifact 78 of 366 | June 10, 2011

In a book about the project, Corey writes: “I work in the church nursery from time to time and found this young family among the toys. Church toys have a pretty cushy job since they only work one day a week.”