Don't Wait

Don't Wait

I don’t know about you but this 60^th birthday we all share rattled my cage just a bit. None of the others has. I never even slowed passing 30; 40 got barely a sideways glance; and I was just too busy to pay much attention to 50. I was 55 before I realized I forgot to have my well-deserved midlife crisis. But 60. Gosh, it just sounds old.

When I look back, and I do that often lately, I wonder where the decades have gone. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not whining. Eagles don’t whine. And truthfully, I have very few regrets. I have had a wonderful and blessed life, and I’m optimistic that some of my best years lie ahead. But 60. Come on, man, that age is reserved for old geezers. And I just don’t feel old.

Inside, I am still that 18-year-old who just can’t wait for the burning of the Indian, the Sweetheart Dance, and Twerp Week. Well maybe I could have done without that nerve-racking Twerp Week, scared to death that I would be the only guy in the Class of ‘70 sitting home. Alas, pity was taken on me, and I got twerped. 

I am fortunate by so many methods of measurement. I have a wonderful wife, Joan, of almost 31 years who lets me act as if I make the decisions, two sons, and three of the most wonderful grandmonsters (a term lent to me by my good friend Doc McKinney). I’ve never spent a day in the hospital, never broken a bone, and except the spare tire that seems to have permanently lodged around my middle, I’m in good health.

Then, there are you, my friends. I have no idea what possessed me to just after our 40^th reunion and begin to build this website. But it has done more for me than I could ever put in words. I have been told by so many how much they appreciate the website; but if the truth is told, I should be thanking you. Through that marvelous piece of cyber wizardry known as the Internet, the invisible pipe delivering preaching and porn, allowing you to bid on eBay and buy a book, so many of us have reconnected, and for that, I am so grateful. After 40 years being just fine without contact with most of you, I find it hard for a month to go by without a call to a couple of dozen of you, just to say hi and see what is shaking in your life. And I truly miss so many of our classmates who are gone. I wish they could share in this resurgence of Eagle Pride.

This year, we at the Parker house began a new chapter in our lives when my mother and father, Doris and Richard Sr., moved in with Joan and me. It was just that time. It has been wonderful to have them, and I am so thankful they have shared 63 years as husband and wife. They are so cute together, still taking care of each other after six decades. It gives me something for which to shoot.

But through this transition, I’ve seen how difficult even the little things have become for them, which has crystallized my commitment to live my life and not to put things off.

Today, I’m reading and writing more and cleaning the garage less. I'm happy to sit in the swing in my backyard throwing the ball to one very happy beagle, without worrying a bit about the weeds creeping through the dark Florida sand. I'm finding it more difficult to put in 12- and 16-hour days and easier spending time with my family and friends.

I believe that we should learn to breathe more deeply and savor our lives instead of enduring it. I am working hard to recognize the nuggets of life that come my way and cherish them to the max. And if the mood hits me, I have no problem breaking into my own special version of Iron Butterfly’s “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” straight from the 60s and complete with a few dance steps that would make a young rapper green with envy.

I want to use the good china even it is for lunch on a Wednesday, even if we’re having a grilled cheese sandwich. I question why we have saved that china for 30 years stacked neatly in the cabinet under halogen lights. After all, I know in my heart of hearts that the kids will have those shiny plates piled on a table at the big garage sale barely three days after my funeral, so who cares if a plate or two has a chip.

I'm not "saving" anything that can make me feel even a bit better and enjoy my life a tiny bit more. I’m burning the good candles, wearing my nice sport jacket to the grocery store, and smiling while I do it. Maybe if I look successful, it will make paying $100 that Publix demands for a bag of food a bit easier to swallow.

I’m permanently removing from my well-honed Southern vocabulary “when I get some time” and “someday I gonna.” If it is something I want to do, then by golly, now seems like a darn good time to do it; I’ve waited long enough. 

Since building our website, I’ve thought often about our classmates in the “In Memory” section. If they could come back just for a day, I wonder how they would spend that single last day. Well, my friend, I want to live that day—every day.

Country recording artist Tim McGraw sang a song called “Live Like You Were Dying,” and it really packs a powerful message.

He said: "I was in my early forties,
"With a lot of life before me,
"An' a moment came that stopped me on a dime.
"I spent most of the next days,
"Looking at the x-rays,
"An' talking 'bout the options an' talkin’ ‘bout sweet time."
I asked him when it sank in,
That this might really be the real end?
How’s it hit you when you get that kind of news?
Man whatcha do?

An' he said: "I went sky diving, I went rocky mountain climbing,
"I went two point seven seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu.
"And I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter,
"And I gave forgiveness I'd been denying."
An' he said: "Some day, I hope you get the chance,
"To live like you were dyin'."
Maybe that is the prize in the box of Cracker Jacks for all of us pudgy, graying 60-year-olds—a prize we should grab and hold on to for dear life. No, I’m not talking about jumping out of a perfectly good airplane on purpose, and it is a safe bet that you will not see me climbing on the back of a 2,000-lb. bull even if he does have a cute name like Fu Man Chu. But, I like the sound of loving deeper and speaking a bit sweeter and giving, and, I hope, receiving a bit of forgiveness up to now denied.

If I had a crystal ball and knew my life was down to hours, I’d be a bit pissed off. No, not about the end of this long and winding road, because I am prepared for that and know my next stop is assured. But my pissed-offness would come from the things I’ve left undone, unsaid, and untried. What would bother me the most are the calls I did not take the time to make, the thanks I neglected to utter, and the helping hand I did not offer.

Hey, but here is some good news. I doubt that bucket will be kicked this month, and I hope no time soon. So, we still have time. We might be 60, but baby, we ain’t dead yet. And I intend not to put off those things I want to do any longer. I want to laugh, and cry and listen and talk and, yes, I want to dance. And I want to do them all with my wife, my family, my friends, and yes, that means you—the oldest friends I have. Because like it or not, we are all family, a family that for some of us goes back 50 or more years.

So, I dare you to put nothing off. Pick up your phone and call someone you meant to call and say what you meant to say. Write your unwritten letters. Get up from this computer now, and if you are fortunate enough to be with the love of your life, tell him or her what he or she means to you. Hold nothing back; save nothing—use the good china and enjoy every minute of it. Because these minutes are truly a gift from God and such an important gift should not be squandered, my friends.
I once read that a true friend will hold your hand in times of need. I see that a bit differently. I don’t think a true friend needs to hold your hand; they just need to let you know that helping hand is always there for you.

I’m not going to worry about what others think or say. If I can’t change it, I will let it go.

I know I forget things—many things. But you know something? Life throws many things at us worth forgetting. And I know if it is important enough, sooner or later, I’ll remember it. Now, where did I put my car keys?

I’m OK with my salt-and-pepper hair and beard becoming much more salt than pepper. I just happy to have hair. (I love you, Mitch.)
I am at peace with what gravity has done to my body. Although it has pulled and stretched some body parts a bit more south than I ever thought they could be stretched, I am still high-steppin’ six feet above casket level, so it is all good.

When I look into the mirror, it is difficult not to notice the youth of the ‘60s has been replaced with a more distinguished Southern gentleman that some might just call old. But with this age has also come a side order of wisdom, much gained from trial and error accompanied by periodic flashes of intense pain. Ouch, I won’t do that again.

Through that pain-laced wisdom, I’ve learned some cornerstone truths, such as all puppies grow up, but not all kids; the cheapest and most expensive are usually both bad deals; announcing a fire is the only time that yelling doesn’t make things worse; no one has it all figured out; knowledge is belief and nothing more; nothing is free if it takes time. Last, I’ve learned that there is a God… and I’m not Him.

So, when I stop and think about it, turning 60 beats the heck out of the alternative. And my life could surely be much worse. So, though life is not always a party… we might as well dance.
Keepin’ the Spirit Alive,
Richard Parker

Time

My fingers hurt! Then, what do you expect after hanging on to this big blue marble for dear life as it hurdled at 67,000 miles per hour for now sixty trips around the sun?
I can remember how slowly time moved as I headed toward my 16th birthday, my excitement level in the stratosphere. I just couldn’t wait to get behind the wheel of my own car. That first rolling jewel was a 1962 Rambler Classic. My dad paid $300 for the automotive marvel, and I guarantee that if he knew that the front seat reclined all the way, he would have never bought it. More than one of you ladies knows of what I speak, but never worry, a proper Southern gentleman never tells. There is, after all, no statute of limitations on honor.
By the time we graduated, the speed of time had increased. By the ‘80s, it seemed to take barely eight months to lap that star at the center of our solar system. Today, don’t blink or you’ll miss the next trip completely.
By the time I had dried from the swim to Coon Island on Senior Skip Day and the subsequent Pomp and Circumstance had ceased ringing in my ear, the Class of 1970, and for that matter, my classmates, occupied little of my mental bandwidth. I had places to go, worlds to conquer, things to try—oh so many things to try. And did I ever try them. Yes, sir, I gobbled life in huge bites, barely stopping to breathe. As for smelling the roses—as they like to say in New Jersey, forget about it.
I did come back for our 10th reunion and then for the 20th and 25th. But Ft. Pierce, Florida, and the Class of 1970 were distant specks in my rearview mirror. Then, there was the 40th reunion just two short years ago.
At first, it was difficult for me to get my arms around a 40th reunion. The way I remembered it, only geezers had 40th reunions. After all, I was not old; I was still that wide-eyed, anything-is-possible kid who just had to be the first to ring the bell in the elementary school bell tower (if you can call two stories a tower) only minutes after graduation.
Then, one morning, as I went to my bathroom mirror to shave, the shock of all shocks—there was an old dude complete with chubby cheeks and distinguished-looking gray hair. It frightened me so much I stopped shaving.
I was unsure I wanted to go to the 40th reunion. After all, someone might notice that long gone was my 30-inch waistline, replaced with two. I was sure I was the only one who had aged. In my memory, you were the same kids who had just made it through the love-the-one-you’re-with 1960s and headed off to join Disco Duck, the Bee Gees, and John Travolta in the 1970s. None of you got old, and all were still wearing your baggies, desert boots, and fading madras shirts complete with fairy loops.
Then, I saw the Class of 1969’s website. I was floored. Those dudes looked as if they were ready for the nursing home. I had to take another trip to the bathroom mirror. Wow! The bearded dude did not look that bad after all. Maybe I would go to the 40th—if for no other reason, for someone to notice that I have fared much better than those old guys from 1969 have.
Boy, I’m glad I made that decision. I enjoyed that reunion more than anything I’ve done in years. There was a spirit in the room that is difficult to put into words. There were no hype, no airs, and no pretenses, as if we had accepted what we were and what we would be. We had finally become us.
After the reunion, I promised myself that I would call a classmate each month and just say hello. Maybe we would have lunch. Another decision I am glad I made. That decision has brought me more joy, entertainment, and laughs than I can put in words. I have renewed old friendships and forged more than one new one.
Then, the website came. I’ll never know what possessed me to build our website. I am not a techie, but, from the first keystroke, it became a labor of love. I have had a blast. You might have noticed; I like to write. The site has given me an opportunity to share much of what I have in my heart that is sometimes hard for me to put in the spoken word.
To see the way so many have opened and shared has been so gratifying. When someone e-mails me or calls to say he or she enjoyed one of my Student Spotlights or Ramblings, it makes me feel great. In years past, I was fortunate to have two nonfamily members wish me a happy birthday. This year, I had more than thirty classmates share their hopes that I would have a happy 60th birthday. Cool, huh? With every additional birthday wish, it became a self-fulfilling prophecy; all those wishes cause me to have a happy birthday. With more than thirty people concerned about my birthday happiness, it gives me renewed optimism that I can still put together six pallbearers when needed.
From the beginning, I had only four self-imposed rules for the website: (1) make it fun; (2) give people a reason to come back regularly; (3) foster communication among classmates; and 4) stay clear of controversy, politics, and spin.  I think we have achieved all four.
Most people have told me they really enjoy the site, and judging from the more than 180 who have joined, it seems the fun part has been achieved. As the webmaster, I can see who comes to the site and when. When a classmate logs on, I can hear a soft dinging sound. I get such a kick out of posting a Spotlight or Rambling and then leaning back in my chair to watch the covey of Eagles land. Soon, there is a ding, then a ding ding, followed by a ding, ding, ding, ding. What a hoot! I think we have (2) slammed; the articles have given us a reason to return regularly.
If you were wondering about (3), communication among class members, I have two numbers for you: 13,338 and 4,264. The first is the number of visits to the site by a class member in the first fifteen months, and the second, 4,264, is the number of e-mails sent from one classmate to another through the website in the same period, which does not account for the e-mails we have all sent outside the website or by Facebook.
As for (4), Bill O’Reilly is not the only one who has created a “no spin zone.” When I saw the Class of ‘69 (you know, the big kids) throwing a 60th birthday party, I thought it was, well, groovy. (Now, that word dates me just a bit.) So, I thought, why not? Let’s have our own 60th birthday party. If I remember correctly, many of you were ready to party at the drop of a hat for most of your McCarty years, so what the heck.
Some initially asked whether we were throwing a 60^th birthday party or a reunion. You pick. By default, anytime we get together is a reunion. So, we could call our upcoming party our 60^th Birthday/42^nd Reunion/what-the-heck-let’s-boogie/get-together/shindig/hootenanny. Whatever floats your boat!
One thing is for sure; the website has helped bring us together. Democrats, Republicans and Independents; Christians and Jews; men and women; white- and blue-collar; blacks and whites—we are all loosely tied with a 40-year-old thread woven into the tapestry of each of our lives. It’s a thread that can be stretched and is sometimes frayed, but it will never be broken. Because, you see, my friend, you will always be a member of this class. You will always be an Eagle.
For all these reasons, I decided to write this book. After all, I am a writer; it is what I do. I began thinking how many times I have looked at my yearbook over the past forty-two years and thought this would be the perfect companion for your Santa Lucian.
 I have been writing the book whenever I interviewed a classmate for a monthly Spotlight or felt the rumblings of a Rambling coming on. So, why not bring all them together and give you one more decision to make when weeding out your treasures for your next garage sale.
So, here is my gift to you, the Dan McCarty High School Fighting Eagle Class of 1970. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Are You an Eagle? Yes, I’m an Eagle, and I’ll Be an Eagle Till’ the Day that I Die…

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive,

Richard (Dick) Parker

My Dog & the Class of 70 – Two Peas in a Pod

My Dog & the Class of 70 – Two Peas in a Pod

Not long ago, we became the proud parents of a three-month-old beagle puppy. A ten-lb. bundle of energy with very sharp teeth, Boomer was our little replacement model designed to divert a bit of the pain from losing my fifteen-year-old beagle sidekick, Sarg.

As I watched Boomer put his paw prints on our house, motor coach, and hearts, I thought of the parallel between our graduating class and this little puppy. Both Boomer and the graduating Class of ’70 initially stood inquisitive, ready to begin a new chapter in our lives, full of energy, with a can-do-anything attitude. Bouncing with excitement, we both fear(ed) nothing, sometimes to our peril.  We both learned through trial and error, and only discipline and training prepared us for life as a “big dog.” Life could have taken either of us in many different directions. In our case, the direction taken was uniquely our own path; Boomer’s remains to be seen. Of course, fate also played a role; we grew up in America’s golden years, the Fifties and Sixties, in a loving family with a world of opportunity. Boomer did not get Michael Vick for a daddy.  We both lucked out.
I’ve often wondered why most everyone remembers his or her high school years in such depth. Some have wonderful memories, some not so. But good or bad, we remember. It is the subject of endless songs, stories, books, plays, and movies. It seems no one forgets high school.

I believe a main reason this particular four-year period occupies such a place of prominence in our memory is because it was the last time we all lined up at the starting line together. We all entered the starting gate of life, for the most part, equal. A bunch of undereducated, know-it-all kids thinking the world was pretty much our oyster. Children of the Sixties with the world by the tail in a downhill pull. If you listened closely on graduation day, you could almost hear “let the games begin” floating in the wind of our beachfront community.

Almost from Day One, time began to speed up. Each year in high school, it seemed to take seven years to reach summer. By 1980, it only took seven months for a “trip around the sun.” Today, that oh so familiar revolution seems more like seven weeks. What out, here comes 2012 right now.  Wasn’t it just Y2K a couple of years ago?

One thing that has not changed is how random acts of kindness can make a lasting impression on those around us.  Stop and think. Can you remember something nice someone—a friend, classmate, or teacher—did for you during your school years? Do you still remember it? How about something mean? I’ll bet it is easier to remember the good than the bad.

Since our class website launched last summer, three different classmates have related how they remembered and appreciated some small seemly insignificant gesture or phrase done or said to them in high school. I was first surprised, and then humbled. It was hard to believe in the few moments it took for those simple actions that they could have left ripples in the pond of their lives for going on a half-century. I hated to say it, but in two out of three cases, I could not remember saying those “kind words.” It makes me wish I had focused more on making people happy over the past four decades than just getting the wheel in my personal hamster cage spinning faster. Well, I can’t go back, so why look in life’s rear-view mirror when the future is dead ahead?

Our class website has given us all some unique opportunities to put a smile on the face of another classmate.  As in life, we might choose to seize these opportunities or let them pass.  Here are some of the simple and easy things I have personally begun to do since last summer. Maybe you would like to consider one or more of them yourself.

• I have committed not to just renew old friendships from our class, but to cultivate new ones. I cannot tell you how rewarding that has been. My wife Joan and I have had lunch, dinner, or just stopped by to say hello to a double-handful of old and new friends. Everyone in fact does “have a story” if we will but stop and listen.

• I have promised to call a couple of classmates every week—for life. At first, I thought, what will we talk about? But thirty seconds after hello, that worry vanished. I’ve learned so much from these calls. Maybe I’ve called you. I could almost hear some thinking, what does he want? Watch out, you might be my next call. If so, just humor me; the call won’t take long.

• Happy birthday to you! I have tried to remember to say happy birthday to as many classmates as possible in his or her birth month. The site has made that easy. On the home page, to the right, you will find a box entitled Upcoming Birthdays. I click on the name and view the yearbook photo and usually say, “oh yeah, I remember him or her,” which is usually followed by a quick read of his profile to find out what they has been up to. Then, I shoot them a quick e-mail on the class e-mail system found at the bottom of his profile page.  I am sorry to say sometimes I miss sending these birthday greetings, so maybe each of you could begin helping me out and begin sending a quick birthday greeting to our finely aged classmates on or near their birthday.

• I send a thank-you greeting to the class veterans on Veteran’s Day. It is easy—just click on the Classmate Profiles and then click on the American flag. A list of each classmate who served our country will magically appear. Click on their names and pop them an e-mail.

• I try to comment on those who have updated their profile or added photos. This too is easy. Go to the home page and on the right you’ll find the Profile Updates, don’t forget the dropdown arrow at the bottom.

• If I think of something I would like to share with the entire class, I just go to the left side of the home page and click on the Message Forum. This is easy to delete at anytime by clicking the Delete button. The class reads his, if you want to see just how much, take a look at all the prayers and messages of condolences sent to Joanne Carlton over the past week.  Try it.  Just post a happy new year wish to the class.

• Want to share a comment with a classmate that is OK for the entire class to view, go to the bottom of their profile, and click the Post Response button. (I know the button should be renamed Post Comment, but I am tackling world peace first and will get to that later.)

So, you see my puppy Boomer and the Class of ‘70 do have much in common, and yes, the fact that we are both “Boomers” was not lost in this comparison.  One more thing—when Boomer snuggles up he makes me feel like there is nowhere he would rather be at that point in time than with me, it brings a smile to my face.

When I get to spend a few minutes with a classmate it makes me feel the same way, and my smile is sure to follow—but, with my classmates, snuggling is optional.
Happy 2012 my friends


Keepin’ the Spirit Alive.
Richard Parker

Grandpa, Tell Me ‘Bout the Good Old Days

(Christmas 2011)

No matter where you live, Christmas is now in the air. From the snow-covered North Carolina mountains to the warm sandy beaches of Florida, it is the time for caroling, exchanging gifts, and enjoying all that is Christmas. Christmas has become my favorite holiday for two reasons. Yes, the primary reason is that it is at the cornerstone of my faith, but it is also important to me because it is a time to share with family and friends. There is just something so warm about the entire season; I look forward to it all year long.

I have a simple wish list for Christmas 2011. In fact, I’m now down to a single wish on my got-to-have-this-or-I’ll-die list which by the way has shrunk noticeably over the past few decades. I wish us American all would just lighten up a bit and learn to respect others’ views, whether political or religious, whether we agree with them or think they could not be further off base. As 2012 draws to a close, we should all strive to cultivate a newfound civility when it comes to others. Who knows, if it begins with us, it might just be paid forward all the way to Washington DC. Now, wouldn’t that be a nice Christmas present?

But being civil to others does not mean I must give up my belief to prevent them from being exposed to those beliefs, and vice versa. I believe that Americans have morphed into copping the feeling that all we have to say is I’m offended, and a horde of lawyers will swing into action to prevent our feelings from being hurt. I think we should all learn to stop taking ourselves so darn seriously. My feelings were hurt when I asked one or more of you young ladies out in high school and got a “thanks, but no thanks” or when my Little League coach decided to have me make sure the bench in our dugout did not run away while our team took the field. But, guess what? I survived both and a thousand more twists and turns that life and others have thrown my way, and let me check… yes… it’s true… no lasting scars to body or mind.

One of my favorite TV shows is CBS’ Sunday Morning, and one of my favorite commentators is Ben Stein. The following is a small excerpt from a commentary he gave a few years ago, and I think he can teach us a lot about tolerance and not taking our views or ourselves too darn seriously.

My confession: I am a Jew, and every single one of my ancestors was Jewish. And it does not bother me even a little bit when people call those beautiful lit up, bejeweled trees, Christmas trees. I don't feel threatened. I don't feel discriminated against. That's what they are—Christmas trees.
It doesn't bother me a bit when people say, “Merry Christmas” to me. I don't think they are slighting me or getting ready to put me in a ghetto. In fact, I kind of like it. It shows that we are all brothers and sisters celebrating this happy time of year. It doesn't bother me at all that there is a manger scene on display at a key intersection near my beach house in Malibu. If people want a crèche, it's just as fine with me as is the Menorah a few hundred yards away.
I don't like getting pushed around for being a Jew, and I don't think Christians like getting pushed around for being Christians. I think people who believe in God are sick and tired of getting pushed around, period. I have no idea where the concept came from that America is an explicitly atheist country. I can't find it in the Constitution and I don't like it being shoved down my throat. Or maybe I can put it another way: where did the idea come from that we should worship celebrities, and we aren't allowed to worship God as we understand him? I guess that's a sign that I'm getting old too. But there are a lot of us who are wondering where these celebrities came from and where the America we knew went to.

I raise a Christmas toast, or should I say a Hanukkah toast, to Ben. I don’t believe this wonderful season is about a Winter Festival or the ever politically correct Happy Holidays; it is about Christmas, complete with Nativity scenes, Christmas trees, colored lights, children’s smiles, and Christmas Eve church services. And I do believe that I can celebrate Christmas without doing harm to a Buddhist, Muslim, or for that matter, an atheist.

Our generation has seen so much fade away—door-to-door trick-or treating, drive-in movies, saying Merry Christmas, simple forgiveness, and some might say civility. All have gone or are going the way of Little Joe and the Cartwright boys. But we are still here; my fingers can still type; and my shaky memory still allows me to remember most of what I wanted to say when I began writing this rambling, so there is still hope. But, yes, things have changed—a lot.

I love the lyrics of the country song “Grandpa (Tell Me ‘Bout the Good Old Days)”by the Judds.

Grandpa, tell me 'bout the good old days
Sometimes it feels like this world’s gone crazy
Grandpa, take me back to yesterday
When the line between right and wrong
Didn't seem so hazy

(Chorus)

Did lovers really fall in love to stay
And stand beside each other, come what may
Was a promise really something people kept
Not just something they would say
Did families really bow their heads to pray
Did daddies really never go away
Whoa oh, Grandpa, tell me 'bout the good old days

Grandpa, everything is changing fast
We call it progress, but I just don't know
And, Grandpa, let's wander back into the past
And paint me the picture of long ago

We are all old enough to remember when lawyers worked their entire career, writing wills and closing real estate transactions, and like politicians of that era, both were respected. When almost nothing we bought came with a warning label. When your main concern after tripping in a store was looking to see if someone saw what a klutz you were, instead of quickly finding a way to blame someone else in an effort to unjustly become the new owner of the place.

Yes, in a couple of generations, life has changed from the Andy of Mayberry world where we learned to ride our spider bikes into the fast-paced, text versus talk, reality TV, random violence world our grandkids now inhabit. Lest you think I am some backward-thinking old fuddy-duddy, viewing life only in the rear-view mirror, I’ll admit that much of the change we have seen has been positive—technology (don’t touch my iPhone), increased life expectancy (getting more important by the day), equal pay for women and racial equality (both too slow in coming), and … and… and…give me a minute; I’m thinking. There has to be more. Well, that can be ammo for a future rambling.

Anyway, we, the class of 1970, are tied together with the threads of a long since passed life of drive-in burger joints (can you say Bill’s Burger), school spirit (say Go Eagles), TV rabbit ears (with or without the aluminum foil wadded on the ends), and where Peyton Place was as close to pornography as you were likely to see. A time when kids played outside until dark with no one worrying about them and went home on their own at dusk for a dinner that everyone sat down for at the same time. When your next-door neighbor had standing permission from your parents to swat your butt if you misbehaved (without threat of lawsuits or Protective Child Services being called) and when you began every reply to an elder with yes, sir or no, ma’am. When the song “Dixie,” the Bible, nor Christmas offended anyone, and no one was surprised to hear a prayer over the PA system during homeroom and before the football game.

We built the foundation of our lives on those times. For better or worse, they helped make us become what we are, now some half century later. So, this Christmas, why not go out of your way to spread just a dash of civility and practice a bit of tolerance. If you want to have a positive impact on the future, maybe you should do something a bit different this year. Maybe Christmas afternoon, after the gifts are opened and as your midday nap looms, you should pick up your grandbabies and tell them:

How lovers really fall in love to stay
And stood beside each other, come what may
How a promise was really something people kept
Not just something they would say
How families really bowed their heads to pray
And daddies really never went away
Go on, Grandpa, tell ‘em ‘bout our good old Ft. Pierce days

Love is more of a decision than an emotion; decide to love.

Merry Christmas to The Class of 1970,
Richard

 

We Can All Make a Difference

I love to write. It is odd because, until my first book written in my early forties, I had never considered writing even a short story. I did not know whether I could write; for sure, I knew I could not spell, and who ever heard of a writer that could not spell? I just assumed that writers were all brilliant brainy-acks who read six newspapers each morning and never had a comma out of place. Let me assure you; I’m not one. The fact that I caused not a sliver of worry for the spelling bee kids was only one of my many literary shortcomings. For years, I’ve kept my editor Susan Andres quite busy. In fact, she just finished editing my tenth book, Don’t Trust Anyone over 60—The Life and Times of the Last Eagles, a tribute to my high school classmates, the final graduating class of Dan McCarty High. Thanks, Susan; you do make me look good.
I assure you that, with my abundant weaknesses, not the least of which are those of a literary nature, plus sixty years to become acquainted with each of you on a first-name basis, it is easy for me to remain humble. If that were not enough, I am married.

But I do look forward to writing this Rambling for you each month. Whatever enjoyment I have been told you have received pales in comparison to the joy this gives me. But I also seem to have unexpectedly become the class depository for every Internet story and neat piece of trivia that a couple hundred of graying baby boomers can lay their hands on. Rest assured, I read every one and enjoy most.
So, you can be sure that when I surrender the space allotted for my Rambling to one of those shared pieces, I think it is pretty cool. That’s the case for the below. This story touched me on several levels, being a patriotic vet who loves dogs. For me, few things are sadder than a faithful pup who cannot understand where his dead master has gone, longing only to run with him and fetch a thrown ball. I hope you enjoy it.

Subject: Best Dog Story Ever

They told me the big black Lab's name was Reggie, as I looked at him lying in his pen. The shelter was clean, no-kill, and the people really friendly. I'd only been in the area for six months, but everywhere I went in the small college town, people were welcoming and open. Everyone waves when you pass them on the street.

But something was still missing as I attempted to settle in to my new life here, and I thought a dog couldn't hurt. Give me someone to talk to. And I had just seen Reggie's advertisement on the local news.
The shelter said they had received numerous calls right after, but they said the people who had come down to see him just didn't look like "Lab people," whatever that meant. They must've thought I did.

But at first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me in giving me Reggie and his things, which consisted of a dog pad, bag of toys almost all of which were brand new tennis balls, his dishes, and a sealed letter from his previous owner.

See, Reggie and I didn't really hit it off when we got home. We struggled for two weeks (which is how long the shelter told me to give him to adjust to his new home). Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust too. Maybe we were too much alike.

I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that. "Okay, Reggie," I said out loud, "let's see if your previous owner has any advice”

To Whomever Gets My Dog:
Well, I can't say that I'm happy you're reading this, a letter I told the shelter could only be opened by Reggie's new owner. I'm not even happy writing it. He knew something was different. So let me tell you about my Lab in the hopes that it will help you bond with him and he with you.

First, he loves tennis balls. The more the merrier. Sometimes I think he's part squirrel, the way he hoards them. He usually always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there. Hasn't done it yet. Doesn't matter where you throw them, he'll bound after them, so be careful. Don't do it by any roads.
Next, commands. Reggie knows the obvious ones—"sit," "stay," "come," "heel." He knows hand signals too: He knows "ball" and "food" and "bone" and "treat" like nobody's business.

Feeding schedule: twice a day, regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand.
He's up on his shots. Be forewarned: Reggie hates the vet. Good luck getting him in the car. I don't know how he knows when it's time to go to the vet, but he knows.
Finally, give him some time. It's only been Reggie and me for his whole life. He's gone everywhere with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if you can. He sits well in the backseat, and he doesn't bark or complain. He just loves to be around people and me most especially.

And that's why I need to share one more bit of info with you... His name's not Reggie. He's a smart dog; he'll get used to it and will respond to it, of that I have no doubt. But I just couldn't bear to give them his real name. But if someone is reading this... well, it means that his new owner should know his real name. His real name is "Tank.” Because that is what I drive.

I told the shelter that they couldn't make "Reggie" available for adoption until they received word from my company commander. You see, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I could've left Tank with... and it was my only real request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq, that they make one phone call to the shelter... in the "event" ... to tell them that Tank could be put up for adoption. Luckily, my CO is a dog-guy, too, and he knew where my platoon was headed. He said he'd do it personally. And if you're reading this, then he made good on his word.

Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as long as the Army has been my family. And now, I hope and pray that you make him part of your family, too, and that he will adjust and come to love you the same way he loved me. If I have to give up Tank to keep those terrible people from coming to the US, I am glad to have done so. He is my example of service and of love. I hope I honored him by my service to my country and comrades.

All right, that's enough. I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at the shelter. Maybe I'll peek in on him and see if he finally got that third tennis ball in his mouth.

Good luck with Tank. Give him a good home, and give him an extra kiss goodnight—every night—from me.

Thank you,
Paul Mallory

I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. Sure, I had heard of Paul Mallory; everyone in town knew him, even new people like me. Local kid, killed in Iraq a few months ago and posthumously earning the Silver Star when he gave his life to save three buddies. Flags had been at half-mast all summer.

I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the dog. "Hey, Tank," I said quietly. The dog's head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright. "C'mere, boy." He was instantly on his feet, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor. He sat in front of me, his head tilted, searching for the name he hadn't heard in months. "Tank," I whispered. His tail swished. I kept whispering his name, over and over, and each time, his ears lowered, his eyes softened, and his posture relaxed as a wave of contentment just seemed to flood him. I stroked his ears, rubbed his shoulders, buried my face into his scruff, and hugged him.

"It's me now, Tank, just you and me. Your old pal gave you to me." Tank reached up and licked my cheek. "So whatdaya say we play some ball?" His ears perked again. "Yeah? Ball? You like that? Ball?"

Tank tore from my hands and disappeared into the next room. And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.

If you can read this without getting a lump in your throat or a tear in your eye, you just ain't right. In our cynical world ruled by the 24/7 news cycles, we seem intent on shining the spotlight on everything and everybody, trying to discover the blemishes and warts that we all possess. Maybe we should all just give it a rest. While the above might be fictional, similar situations happen daily. Yes, we have all had some low points in our lives and things we wish we could have changed. But placing our lives on a balance scale—the good and the bad—we would all be hard pressed not to agree that our lives have been blessed.

I view a veteran as someone who, at one point, wrote a blank check made payable to “We the People” for an amount of “up to and including my life.” In my forty years since graduating from high school, the attitude in America toward vets has seen a roller coaster ride. From a low in the way many returning Vietnam vets were treated to the height of patriotisms displayed just after 9/11. The best I’ve ever heard it put is "The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him."

Whether Paul and Tank actually lived is not the point. I believe it is that we all can make a difference in the lives of those we share our brief stay on Earth with, be they human or of the four-legged persuasion. Try this month to look for someone whose life you can touch in a positive way, and if you do your month will soar.  And after all, that is what Eagles do; they soar.

Keeping the Spirit Alive,
Richard Parker

Milestones

Last week, I passed another of those milestones in life as I dropped my granddaughter off at FSU to begin her freshman year. The three days prior, I drove alone, nearly two thousand miles on a business trip, armed with only my memories and Cousin Brucie of the Sirius satellite radio sixties channel. This combination is guaranteed to conjure an eclectic range of emotions from a warm smile that can instantly turn to a belly laugh and then trigger a single tear disappearing into an increasingly graying beard, all in the span of a single Beach Boys love song chorus. Yes, the boomer generation has morphed from the “don’t trust anyone over thirty” generation to a bunch of crybabies craning their necks for one more glimpse of the golden days of their youth.

This month’s Rambling is the by-product of the convergence of a quartet of thought-provoking ingredients that came together on that “perfect storm” of a drive: a hefty chunk of alone time, the fond memories of days gone by, the best music ever created, and another milestone of life fading in the rearview mirror. Yes, indeed, time marches on as we each pass the milestones of our life.

In the early years, our milestones passed with the blazing velocity of a Florida Softshell Turtle, waddling under the blaze of the subtropic sun, and with a lack of fanfare that could easily induce a much-needed afternoon nap for an aging boomer. These milestones did not seem like much of a happening as they passed; they just happened, as we continued to plod though our life. That first day in the first grade, Jr. and Sr. High, and graduation all come to mind interlaced with other memorable milestones.

The milestone of that first all-by-yourself bike ride around your home block was eventually replaced with the grand theft of that first awkward, yet long-awaited, kiss. Today, it is impossible for me to hear Tommy James sing “I Think We're Alone Now,” without sparking an inner glow as I remember that wooded area behind the 25^th Street Little League ballpark located just a handful of blocks brom my boyhood home. The small patch of trees was strategically located just outside the floodlight-bathed area that was our pre-Internet social gathering place. This place whose lack of direct lighting, proximity to a required periodic accountability check for the ever vigilant eyes of parents, was shrouded in low-hanging scrub oak branches and a comfy foliage-covered ground, combining to make the perfect place to recline into the newfound bliss of adolescent experimentation.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wIeRqPFJvXM&feature=related

 

Children behave
that's what they say when we're together
and watch how you play
they don't understand
and so we're running just as fast we can
holding onto one another's hand
trying to get away into the night
and then you put your arms around me
as we tumble to the ground
and then we say

Chorus:
I think we're alone now
There doesn’t seem to be anyone around
I think we're alone now
The beating of our hearts is the only sound

Look at the way
We gotta hide what we're doing
Cause what would they say
If they ever knew
and so we're running just as fast as we can
holding onto one another's hand
trying to get away into the night
and then you put your arms around me
as we tumble to the ground
and then we say

Chorus

Children behave
that's what they say when we're together
and watch how you play
they don't understand
and so we're running just as fast we can
holding onto one another's hand
trying to get away into the night
and then you put your arms around me
as we tumble to the ground
and then we say

I think we're alone now
There doesn’t seem to be anyone around
I think we're alone now
The beating of our hearts is the only sound

Next, it was the milestones of college for some, the military for others, with both the prelude to a lifetime of hard work for all. Some of us zigged while others zagged, thinking little of milestones, as we entered and exited matrimonial amalgamations, some at a frightening pace. The ebb and flow of these unions littered the landscape of our lives with offspring and step-kids that would cause us to bite our nails, hold our breath, and on occasion, beam with pride as we pinned a bit of our dreams to their lapels. As the younger generation began to pass their milestones, we were slowly, yet steadily, relegated to the unholy trinity of spectator, cheerleader, and, sometimes, safety net for their journeys, which ambles on with an eerie resemblance of our own less than perfect passage. Yes, indeed, time marches on.


With a mishmash of battle-hardened experience, a splash of pride for remaining upright and out of jail, mixed with maybe just a dash of regret, we march toward more of life’s milestones, some of which we willingly seek, and some we would have given anything to avoid. The passing of a parent is by far one of the worst. The event is accompanied with a rush of memories, of words left unsaid or deeds undone, and an undeniable emptiness of being alone for the first time in our life. So many times since my wonderful mother left for her heavenly home, leaving my brother and me only one fragile life away from becoming an orphan, I have thought of something I wanted to share with her or a question I wish I had asked. But, indeed, that milestone, now passed, makes both impossible, adding just another small regret of life.

But through this all, we all still have many exciting and bright moments to look forward to. In my case, nothing shines more brightly than the love I have for and the excitement I feel, as I watch the lives of my grandkids blossom.

Because of falling in love, now more than three decades ago, with a woman a few years older than I, whose family seems blessed with the “I can’t wait for kids” gene, I find myself, at age 60, blessed with three wonderful grandkids: Brittney, 18, the catalyst for this Rambling and the state’s newest FSU Seminole; 15-year-old McKenna, who would bleed Gator Blue and Orange if cut; and my namesake, 12-year-old Beau (how is that for a Southern name) Parker Cole, whom we might need to send to UCF or Miami just to make sure the state is covered and that there is never peace in the family during Thanksgiving dinner.

 

Let me warn you, the word step has never been nor will it ever be a prefix to any of this group. As Sister Sledge put it, “We Are Family.” That sense of family has this lifelong Gator fan willingly trading in his decades-long and perfected Gator chomp for a Seminole chop.

This past week at 8:30, “the family” converged on the south parking lot of Kellum Hall at Florida State University. We looked to be a cross between a supply-laden wagon train beginning its journey west and a band of gypsies heading to the carnival. Our unstated, yet universally, understood twofold missions: 1) to move Brittney into her dorm and 2) to, one last time, embarrass the hell out of her. I believe that most viewing our well-orchestrated operation from the sidelines would agree that we kicked the ball through the uprights on both counts.

We all brought our level of skill, expertise, and resources to the party. While Britt and her mother followed the rules, patiently waiting in the long line of students signing in and retrieving their dorm room key, I greased the palm of a maintenance man at the back door of the dorm to gain early access through the bowels of the almost fifty-year-old building. It was worth the well-placed cash to see Brittney’s face when she arrived at her doom door to find the 700 cubic feet of “absolute necessities” lining the hall on both sides of her door ready for the Keystone cop-type act that would follow, as she, her mom, and her Wow (Parker-speak for grandmother) attempted to stack, store, and eventually cram it all into 50 percent of the 150-square-foot dorm room.

Well, after the microsized microwave, coffeepot, and octopus bedspread had been properly installed, and all closets, drawers, and desk had been stuffed to just past capacity, I began the less than exciting task of taking the 500 cubic feet of “not-so-absolute necessities” back to the half dozen vehicles that had arrived at the 161-year-old campus a mere three hours earlier.
                                                              
Too soon, it was time for us to leave and allow Brittney to begin her new life, one in which she will set her hours, choose what and when she eats, and succeed or fail on her merit. As I pressed the accelerator and gained speed heading east on I-10, I thought back on the past eighteen years, years in which my primary concern was to keep her safe and protected, the many business trips that it took to earn the money to make this day possible. Now, I was just driving off and leaving her to fend for herself. I could not help thinking that the on-ramp in my rearview mirror was another milestone passed.

Good luck with your milestones, Brittney. Pa loves you… more than you will ever know.
                                                                                                                    
Keeping the Spirit Alive,
Richard Parker

This Pray is For All Of Us

 
Heavenly Father, Help us remember that the jerk who cut us off in traffic last night is a single mother who worked nine hours that day and is rushing home to cook dinner, help with homework, do the laundry and spend a few precious moments with her children.
 
Help us to remember that the pierced, tattooed, disinterested young man who can't make change correctly is a worried 19-year-old college student, balancing his apprehension over final exams with his fear of not getting his student loans for next semester.
 
Remind us, Lord, that the scary looking bum, begging for money in the same spot every day is a slave to addictions that we can only imagine in our worst nightmares

Help us to remember that the old couple walking annoyingly slow through the store aisles and blocking our shopping progress are savoring this moment, knowing that, based on the biopsy report she got back last week, this will be the last year that they go shopping together

 
Heavenly Father, remind us each day that, of all the gifts you give us, the greatest gift is love. It is not enough to share that love with those we hold dear. Open our hearts not to just those who are close to us, but to all humanity. Let us be slow to judge and quick to forgive, show patience, empathy and love.