FREE?DOM

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WHAT DO KATY PERRY, THE JONAS BROTHERS AND POPS have in common?

Well, Katy’s real name isn’t Perry and Pops is not my real name (except to my Grand-Kids). But as far as I know the Jonas Brothers use their actual names, so it’s not that.

Fun story: I’m a big fan of the app for ordering from a certain fast food place. I registered for the site using my Google account so my name shows up on my orders at this place as “Pops”. The other day I was picking up an order there. The young lady delivering my order asked, “Is your name Pops or are you a Pops?”

I told this story to one of the Grand-Girls and she replied “Both!” Well, to her anyway.

Back to the puzzler—what do we all have a common? At least two of the three are nominal musicians? Maybe, but not the answer we’re looking for.

We’re all P.K.s! Preacher’s Kids.

There is a P.K. stereotype. Maybe two, or more:

“First, there’s the model child, who lives by the rulebook and follows in the footsteps of his or her minister parent. In many churches, this is an expectation as much as it is a stereotype. Yet perhaps the dominant stereotype of the pastor’s kid is the prodigal—the wayward child, the rebel who has fallen away from the faith, the backslidden who’d rather strike out on their own than live in the shadow of the steeple.” —barna.com

This is the kid who may or may not have released a flotilla of rubber duckies across the baptismal waters during a service, or added a touch of Boone’s Farm to the communion grape juice, etc. Then other days he might be found mowing the yard of widowed member of the flock.

From my experience the P.K. explanation from Barna, quoted above, isn’t an either/or proposition. It is possible to drift and hover between the two extremes over a lifetime.

Here’s an example: I wasn’t hell-bent on being a full-blown prodigal but I do remember the first time I exercised my FREEDOM to NOT go to church. In our house, we went to church. Twice on Sunday, Wednesday nights, revivals, January Bible Study Week, Vacation Bible School, and any other time the proverbial doors were open. I never saw the end of an episode of “Lassie”, or “The Wizard of Oz” because they aired on Sunday nights.

But when I set off for college, I was free; free to not go to church, for the first time in my life. I took full advantage of my newfound freedom.

Late one Sunday afternoon in the first week or so of my first semester, a couple of guys stopped by to say they were going to a local church for a cookout and “co-ed fellowship”. “Want to go?”

“No thanks. I’m not really going to church right now—especially on Sunday night. I’m free to NOT go, you know.”

They left. I sat there alone, solitary, imagining a bunch of students having a great time together. I had literally become a slave to my definition of freedom. Why couldn’t I understand that actually being free meant I could choose; all by myself. I guess in a way I did: I chose loneliness that night.

All of this came to mind the other day when I heard someone explaining that they were FREE—No one could make them take a COVID vaccination! And I wondered, maybe deep down inside if they would really like to have that vaccine. Secretly, maybe subconsciously, they would like to have the sense of relief and safety it brings. But, maybe they’ve become a slave to their freedom to say, Nope.

Before I wrap up this exploration of the Preacher Kid persona… Could it be that there’s a third stereotype? A rescuer, teacher, good communicator? This version is immortalized in a song. A song from the good-ol’ 60s, by Dusty Springfield:

The only one who could ever reach me
Was the son of a preacher man
The only boy who could ever teach me
Was the son of a preacher man
Yes, he was, he was, ooh, yes, he was

He was the sweet-talkin' son of a preacher man

I suggested to my Amazing-Missus that maybe this could be her theme song. She, in turn, had a suggestion or two for me.

UNDERSTAND?

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UNDERSTANDING. That’s a big concept isn’t it? And, this essay could go off in numerous directions. For example, we could consider the difference between seeking to understand and seeking to be understood.

Take seventh grade algebra. Why couldn’t I understand this stuff? How hard could it be? I wasn’t stupid. I could conjugate verbs all day. I never doubled my negatives or dangled my participles. I could diagram any sentence; so why couldn’t I get how to graph an equation? Logic is logic right?

My folks hired a tutor, a nice man who parted his hair near the middle, had dirty glasses and dandruff.

Mr. Tutor: “Do you understand this,” pointing to a paper where he had written something like: If the nth root of 1,296 is 6, then what is the value of n?

Me: “No. Do you understand me?”

Then there’s the question of understanding that seems to have a warning built in to it: “Capisce?!”

ca·​pisce | \ kə-ˈpēsh
—used to ask if a message, warning, etc., has been understood

“If you fail Alegbra One it will be an irreversible blemish in your permanenet file, capisce?”

Recently we visited a couple of very busy, public places—four adults, seven kids, ranging in age from 12 to 1.5. I liked our odds. Two of us four adults though are not as fast as we used to be and all seven of the kid group are quick, curious, and confident. Two of the adult group are parents to four. They had theirs managed. The other three were the responsibility of the two us who are less agile and whose warnings seem to carry less weight.

The older two were fine and a big help. The youngest (just turned 7) is quick as lightening, can disappear like a vapor, turn your back and she’ll be up a tree, in a tunnel, scaling a boulder or off to see the next attraction. Her own parents write their cell phone number on her arm when in a large group so someone will know whom to call if they find her.

I suggested to her that we do that and she sought to help me understand that that wasn’t necessary. Then I had an idea: I made her a little leather bracelet and stamped her Mimi’s phone number into the leather. Her dad rehearsed with her how to find a grandmotherly looking lady, how to show her the bracelet and ask if she would call her Mimi. “Capisce?!”

She wore her bracelet the whole trip: swimming, sleeping, climbing, running and all. Here is her photo at a river parks playground. Notice her little snowcone stained bracelet.

IMG_0476.jpg

It probably won’t be too many years before I’ll need a bracelet with somebody’s number on it. I understand this. It will be good when they put out the “silver alert” for an old man wearing a bracelet with a loved one’s number. Hopefully when someone calls the number the loved one will answer and come and get me.

Sometimes Nora misunderstood me. She saw our concern to know where she was every moment as unnecessary and inhibiting. I could emphathize with her. When she would say to me: run over there with me, or let’s climb up those rocks, I too felt shackled. I tried to help her understand that I’m too old. She would say, “Oh, Pops.” I love the confidence she has that I can still do the stuff best done in our youth.

For now, she doesn’t understand. One of these days though… It will be like my algebra tutor said, “one of these days it will just make sense.” He was right. At least enough of it made sense that my permanent record shows a pass on Algebra One.

I want to thank those seven grandkids, their parents and their Mimi for understanding, for including me. I like to think I’m self-sufficient, that I can meet all my own needs, but the fact is I need all of these people.

There is a line I like from the story, “A River Runs Through It”. In fact there are many lines from that movie that I like. This one is near the end. A pastor is talking about people that are sometimes difficult to understand and to love.

“Each one of us here today will at one time in our lives look upon a loved one who is in need and ask the same question: We are willing to help, Lord, but what, if anything, is needed? For it is true we can seldom help those closest to us. Either we don't know what part of ourselves to give or, more often than not, the part we have to give is not wanted. And so it is those we live with and should know who elude us. But we can still love them - we can love completely without complete understanding.”

HABIT FORMING

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I STARTED TO CALL THIS PIECE “7 Habits of Highly Effective Old Guys”, but I don’t have any evidence that my theories are valid. I haven’t studied a group of grandfathers, pawpaws, or even pops. Let’s call this researchless speculation.

The second problem with this exercise is that I’m treading on a sacred path. I’m daring to dabble with THE book: “7 Habits of Highly Effective People” by Stephen R. Covey. I’m aware that this ranks up there with the King James Version of the Bible, “Atlas Shrugged” by Ayn Rand, and “Animal Farm” by George Orwell, as texts on the high shelf of many.

I’ve read all of these. I’ve even heard Stephen R. Covey teach the book live many years ago. I like the book. Although I’ve always been skeptical of books that tout formulas like: three keys to this or four steps to that, my satirical reimagining is not meant to diminish or devalue the work at all.

Enough of the qualifying. Any more and I’m violating this first Habit.

Here’s how this works: I’ll start with Mr. Covey’s Habit and an excerpt from his writings and then I’ll offer an alternative that might be useful for us men-of-a-certain-age.

STEPHEN’S HABIT 1: Be Proactive.
Take responsibility for your reaction to your experiences, take the initiative to respond positively, and improve the situation.

POPS’ HABIT 1: Be active.
Move around, go somewhere, do something. Remember, while we are human-beings, we can also be humans-doing.

STEPHEN’S HABIT 2: Begin with the end in mind.
Envision what you want in the future so you can work and plan towards it.

POPS’ HABIT 2: Begin with NOW.
Oh sure, I get what he’s saying, but do you get what I’m saying: the future is right now. “So don’t be anxious about tomorrow. God will take care of your tomorrow too. Live one day at a time.” Matthew 6:34 The Living Bible.

Or as the bumper sticker I had on my VW Bus said: “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

STEPHEN’S HABIT 3: First things first.
This is where he encourages you to organize everthing into a quadrant according to urgency and importance.

POPS’ HABIT 3: Fiber, hydration and exercise then all the rest.
Don’t waste time on quadrants and anaylsis. By this time in life you know what you would like to do. Make sure you feel your best for the journey.

STEPHEN’S HABIT 4: Think Win-Win
Value and respect people by understanding a "win" for all is ultimately a better long-term resolution.

POPS’ HABIT 4: You win some, you lose some, move on.
I don’t disagree with Stephen, but if politics, religion, masks and vaccines have taught us anything… “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” Romans 12:18 NIV.

STEPHEN’S HABIT 5: Seek first to understand, then to be understood.
This creates an atmosphere of positive problem-solving.

POPS’ HABIT 5: Seek to understand.
At this stage of life, for me, I’m going to shoot for that. I think if I can just seek to understand, I’ve done what I can do. They don’t need or want me explaining anything to them.

“You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view … until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.” —Atticus Finch to Scout. “To Kill A Mockingbird”.

STEPHEN’S HABIT 6: Synergize.
Combine the strengths of people through positive teamwork, so as to achieve goals that no one could have done alone.

POPS’ HABIT 6: Be catalytic.
Here’s my idea of a catalyst: someone who brings others together around a common passion or pursuit, making good things happen.

STEPHEN’S HABIT 7: Sharpen the saw.
Balance and renew your resources, energy, and health to create a sustainable, long-term, effective lifestyle.

POPS’ HABIT 7: Be a saw sharpener.
Read to your grandkids, create opportunities for seeing, learning, exploring. Give generously to open doors for others to know, see and experience more.

Covey’s metaphor here is that a sharp saw will cut more, more efficiently and cleanly. Let me throw another tool metaphor into the box. Abraham Maslow said, “If the only tool you have is a hammer you tend to see every problem as a nail.” He’s right. For us men-of-a-certain-age, we should have several tools to offer and a bit of wisdom in how to use them.

That’s it. Hopefully I haven’t committed heresy for those who believe Covey’s words are sacrosanct. Do I believe my version of the 7 Habits are the end all, be all of life as grandfathers know it? Heck NO. Remember I’m the guy who doesn’t trust magic formulas. So, why? It’s raining outside, so I decided to write something.

TIME IS ON MY SIDE…

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YES IT IS. Remember that song by the Rolling Stones from 1964?

“Time is on my side; yes it is”

I was 13 then, and time was on my side. Experience wasn’t, but time was.

Of course, the song wasn’t about the timeline of life and a person’s spot on that line at any given moment. It is apparently a guy warning his freedom-seeking girlfriend that he can out-wait her prodigal ways.

Now you always say
That you want to be free
But you'll come running back
You'll come running back
You'll come running back to me
Yeah, time is on my side, yes it is
Time is on my side, yes it is

I wonder if she ever came back, or if he’s still singing his cocksure prophecy to the wind?

Funny how we view life differently along our timeline. But as I compare say 70 (my current numeric point on the line) with 13 (the age I was when Mick Jagger was warning his girlfriend), one thing time-related is pretty much the same: WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE?

My Amazing-Missus has a grandfathers clock; not one of those tall wooden boxes with a big swinging pendulum and deep chimes and a clock face at the top. Hers is literally her grandfather’s clock. It doesn’t work anymore. Who knows how long it’s been stuck at its current time? As they say, even a broken clock is right two times a day.

clock.jpg

It is on display in our house not as a way to tell the time but as a way to remember a time.

For many years we lived in a small town in western-ish Oklahoma. We loved it very much. There were a couple of barber shops in town. I went to Roy’s. Roy Chenoweth was one of the classiest men I’ve ever known. Here’s how I’m defining that: kind, happy, gentle, immaculately groomed, loved his wife dearly and always had a smile. Oh, and by the way, was grandfather to Kristin, the Tony-winning Broadway star of stage and screen.

On the door of Roy’s shop hung a cardboard sign, yellowed with age except for the area behind the little metal clock hands which were always at 2:00. Above the clock hands: “We’ll Be back at…” On the flip side: “We’re open. Come on in.”

Everyday Roy at noon, Roy would flip his sign on the door, go home for lunch and a nap and return at 2:00 sharp—except for the day he retired at 90.

I like 2:00p. It’s almost like a shift of gears. Morning is for exercise and chores and work. By 2:00, if you’re like Roy you’ve had lunch and a nap. Things slow down a little. There’s still plenty of daylight left if you want to do something fun or productive, but we’re coasting to suppertime.

Bedtime is another matter. I don’t like it. I never have. Apparently my imagination is as active at night as it is during the day. My Amazing-Missus says I’m never still at night. Always moving, twitching, kicking, flailing. It’s always been that way. I explain to her that I’m usually saving us from some nightmarish attacker. That doesn’t help her sleep any better. For me though, I awake rested and triumphant.

More and more I don’t care that the hands on her grandfather’s clock don’t move. I don’t care that I can’t remember what day of the month it is. The measure of time is more and more irrelevant to me. The measure of the quality of time is more and more precious. Don’t get me wrong: I am grateful for another 24-hour gift each day. I take it less for granted. I wish I still had the spunk, energy, carefree spirit of my 13-year old self. Maybe I do—relatively speaking. Maybe today I will shake things up and do something radical like NOT watch Wheel of Fortune at 6:30.

Helen Seinfeld: Morty, what do you have to open this box for? There's already a box of cookies open.

Morty Seinfeld: I wanted a Chip Ahoy.

Helen Seinfeld: I don't like all these open boxes.

Morty Seinfeld: Look, I got a few good years left. If I want a Chip Ahoy, I'm having it.