When the president of the United States is younger than you, you know the second half of life’s ballgame is well underway. When people in their 30’s reach out to steady you when you walk up the stairs, you know you have stumbled into, as Sinatra sang, the September of your years. I want to deny it but, as I reflect on the time passed, I will have to say that Ol’ Blue Eyes is right: it’s autumn, the air is crisp, shadows are long and leaves are changing colors…so to speak.

My response is to adapt to my ever-changing life. Gray hair has taken over; the back is a bit tight; my arm isn’t long enough to adequately read the writing on a cereal box without wearing granny glasses; it seems that the sleepies come a little earlier than before–no more all-night pillow fights for this cowboy.

I have made great attempts to slow the aging process by eating better, exercising more, trimming my ear and nose hairs more often (twice a week now) and getting the proper amount of rest. The first thing aging folks do is try to hold on to the clothes styles that were cool at the peak of their sexiness…in my case that would be baby clothes, but I digress. Mullets, high-top white tennis shoes, too-tight t-shirts: they all look so pitiful on a 52 year-old. Same for the ladies–please, for the sake of the kids and the public in general, stay out of those halter tops and short-shorts! We need to dress age-appropriate, thank you. I don’t mean wear your pants up to your neck with suspenders or orthopedic shoes. I just mean don’t try to cover up the fact that you are a beautiful, mature, and graceful 50 something.

I have found that no mater how I dress, I am still 50 under the disguise. My best shot at coolness is in the shoe department. I love shoes that jump out and smack the onlooker. So, if you are thinking I’m gonna roll over and call it quits because I’m blind, tired, sore or a little shaky, you’ve got another thing coming. I’m still pretty quick in my green Tiger tennis shoes. You wanna race me?

They used to have these clever marketing tie-ins signaling the beginning of summer like the familiar June sale called, Dad & Grad. See–the authorities originally designed summer to begin in June! These days here in Tennessee, many schools get out in May and reconvene in late-July, early-August. I am offended. No, the child in me is offended! The “suits” that make the plans in our middle Tennessee area have created a year-round school calendar that many schools follow these days. They say the year-round configuration delivers the same number of total days of classroom education and vacation as traditional calendars, distributed differently throughout the year. Proponents say that students fare some 19% better academically with the year-round configuration. I still say it ain’t right!

I get it. The origin of summer vacation started as a ploy to pry the kids free to pitch in with the spring planting and fall harvest seasons. Isn’t that why our ancestors had kids–to work their crops? Still, the annual rite of childhood freedom was established, even though kids today lay around playing Guitar Hero and are prone to develop health problems like smart-mouth disease and obesity. Since my day in the sun, moms have taken to the work force and having a kid hanging around the house all day unsupervised is dangerous for the child and irresponsible for the parent. So, we all comply and change the beloved traditional summer vacation schedule to suit an “evolving” society.

Go ahead, set up your back to school sales. Even though “the man” makes a scheduling change on paper, in my heart, summer vacation is still from mid-June through mid-September.

Last year my bother Jon and I made a pilgrimage back to southern California. We rented a car and drove through Hollywood, then to Warner Brothers Studio, where we decided to take a lunch break in Burbank at possibly the only one of the early Big Boy restaurants still standing today. Built in 1949, this particular Bob’s, as well as the long-gone 1936 original in Glendale, was a popular place to grab a burger, fries and a shake by young and old alike. My dad visited the shop in Glendale as a teen when it was a little place. The company expanded over the years and Bob made his way to Orange County where we would visit as a family.

The burger had a sweet relish that distinguished it amongst the growing burger market of the 50s and 60s. They supplied a shaker of special seasoning on each table that the waitresses encouraged patrons to sprinkle on the fries. There was always a salad on their hamburger combo, covered with Thousand Island dressing. The cherry coke was heavenly, especially when you got that last concentrated grenadine slurp at the bottom of the empty glass. When we left the restaurant there was a Big Boy comic book waiting for the kids, next to the check out. It was only once a month or so that my folks would spring for this treat and Bob’s was a favorite with all of us.

Back in the early 80s, a friend of mine stole Bob from outside a Big Boy restaurant. I know it was wrong, but it cracks me up! He had him, along with a huge Ronald McDonald, in his living room until they were reluctantly returned.

These days Bob has gone through many owners and even went through bankruptcy in 2000. Thanks to a new owner, calling the franchise Big Boy Restaurants International, the name of it’s star is still out front and center, and the image of the chubby young man with the burger still greets customers all over the world. Since I will never have that life-sized Bob, still the little statue on my desk winks at me every day and reminds me that everything is gonna be OK.

Going to the landfill with my dad as a kid was fun and interesting to the mind of a child. It greeted our noses as we drew near with the pungent stench resembling orange peels, coffee grounds, dirt and soiled diapers. The seagulls did circles above the trash mounds, scavenging pieces of spoiled food before the tractors rolled them into their dark, musty grave. We climbed the dusty road leading to the final destination of our trash, backed the trailer and started the brisk unloading process.

We were men, and the dump wasn’t a place for girls. Back in the 60s there was never a person looking over our shoulders, quizzing us as to what we were doing or what was the content of our refuse. We could have been dumping bodies for all they knew. Now-a-days the process of unloading undesirables is comparable to the yearly tax preparation process: everything must be separated, grouped and re-examined before presenting. Since the dumping ground in our neck of the woods is really only a dropping point on the way to it’s final destination far, far away, the county sets up guards at local convenience centers to make sure the residents aren’t disposing toxic waste.

Arriving at the guard hut, the dump Nazi approaches us like John Wayne, leaning to one side, moving toward us in a cocky gait with a hand over his hip as if concealing a pistol. He notices the license tag on the truck is from another county (I borrowed it from Josh’s new bride, registered in Cleveland, TN) and looks at me with a sqinty-eyed suspicion, like I am an illegal alien trying to escape across the border. He then asks for proof of residence in Williamson County. I comply with a quick-draw of confirmation from my wallet. Apparently that was not good enough. He then asks for the coordinates of my neighborhood as Spring Hill is divided between two counties. My defense seemed to be weakening by the second. Finally I came up with the correct answer and was then flagged through the entrance to unload the burgeoning trash bags into the the giant trash compactor. The Nazi and his deputy kept a cautious eye on us until we kicked up a dust cloud on our way out of the compound. I survived and lived to tell about it here. I would almost rather the junk pile up at home than run the gauntlet again with the dump Nazi.

I believe in maintaining a clean, orderly society. I also believe that we must do all we can to recycle the undesirable leftovers of our lives. But please, assign the dump Nazi to patrol our nation’s borders where his efforts are in much greater need.

Corn on the cob, sweet iced tea with lemon–again, food is central to my memory. Many times mom and dad would go to KFC and grab a few buckets of chicken and then meet our extended family at Pearson Park in Anaheim. I remember, as a child, seeing a barbershop quartet at the amphitheater there. The park also had this great-big ball field grandstand that we would run through and hide amongst the wooden seats. I distinctly recall feeling a connection with the stadium’s age (built in 1927), almost visualizing ghostly patrons of a different era gazing at a ball game long forgotten (pretty heavy for an elementary-aged kid…). We also played tag around the water gardens (created by the founder of the ‘boysenberry,’ Mr. Rudy Boyson in 1921). The park also had a “plunge” that was filled daily with fresh water. We would all pay an entrance fee of a quarter (or something close to that) and spend the rest of the afternoon playing in the water and sun until our skin was burned or our parents ran out of conversation–whichever came first– then piled in the car and headed home.

These times with family all created a sense of belonging in my soul. I looked forward to Christmas, the 4th of July, my birthday, and days at Disneyland for the same reason. I always felt cared-for, looked after and safe. In the years to come, when I would leave home and travel to distant places, far from family and friends, I would ponder these special days with family and remember that I belonged somewhere. I know when we have picnics with friends and family today, we are creating a warm memory for all of us, especially the children who will build their secure foundation on our love.

The Pearson Park lagoon has long been a favorite spot in the city. The name of the park changed from City Park to Pearson Park in 1960 to honor Anaheim’s longtime mayor.
(Courtesy of Anaheim Public Information.)

My mother’s father was a painter and was working on a tract of homes in west Fullerton, just a hop from Anaheim where Disneyland was being constructed. Granddad told my parents of these affordable homes he was working on. My dad, fresh from his stint in the Korean War (also a WWII vet), had the GI Bill benefit waiting to be used in the purchase of a home. $13,000 was the price tag. The salesperson was impressed with my dad’s salary as a draftsman with the Los Angeles County Sanitation Districts. Dad would have to make a commute to work everyday. But many new home buyers were willing to make the drive into LA from Orange County and the San Fernando Valley just to have an affordable home of their own.

Why my folks picked Fullerton was probably an arbitrary decision. Little did they consider it’s past or the famous people who hailed from there. It has an historic connection to the railroad, Father Junipero Serra’s historic Mission Trail, and the citrus industry. But other than a few distinctions, Fullerton is very much like the other small towns built in the wake of the 1880s California land boom. For whatever reason they chose it, it must have been a perfect fit for the future they would build together.

Many famous people did hail from Fullerton like singers Jackson Browne and John Raitt (Bonnie’s dad). Fender guitars were born in Fullerton. In fact, a revolution in guitar and amp manufacturing (Buddy Holly, Eric Clapton, The Beatles, Jimi Hendrix) happened just off of Harbor Blvd. Richard Nixon went to school in Fullerton. The world-record setting construction of a 2 bedroom tract home was completed in 57 hours and 57 minutes in 1970…Fullerton.

Every time I travel to the west coast I take a special jaunt to my old place on Southgate Ave. It doesn’t look at all the same. The big tree out front is gone, along with the ivy that covered the area between the sidewalk and the curb. I’m sure when my parents sold it in the early 80s, and the new owners tore that out, they found a lot of missing treasure.

For many, Fullerton is just another green sign along the 91 or 5 Freeway, on the way to San Diego or LA. But for me, it is where I come from. I took my first steps there; I learned to speak there; I went to school there. My heart has a tender spot for my old home town. Even though I had to leave there in 1980 to play music, I am proud to say I hail from Fullerton, CA.

The quote that hit me right between the eyes was from Rick Warren, pastor of Saddleback Church in Orange County, California. It read, “Do what God CALLS you to do with your life and you’ll succeed. Do what you think will prove your worth & you’ll fail miserably.” How many hours, days, weeks and years have I spent trying to prove my worth? Embarrassingly way too many. I have tried to run out ahead of God when I should have just stayed back and waited for his promotion. I thank God for redemption because it doesn’t only include a life of sin, bought back, to then be used for God’s purposes. It also includes believers like me who have made bad choices and need to be reunited with God’s purposes for their lives. I have learned that I can’t trust my own radar when it comes to sticking to the road that God has me on. I have based my worth on happiness, or the lack of it in an endeavor. Sometimes I feel bored and want to jump on another road so I can get that exhilarating feeling of a new challenge.

I believe that I am on the right track these days but I have a question of doubt sometimes when I don’t see God working fast enough on my behalf (ask Brenda, my impatience is awful!). My best guide to knowing I’m living in the purpose God created for me is to see the work of my hands bring fruition in His Kingdom through the skills He gave me. I also sense a Godly wind at my back, pushing me on.

My friend, John Stanko, wrote a book about finding purpose called Life Is A Gold Mine: Can You Dig It? In it he includes several “nuggets” to determine if you are on the correct path. Some of the ones that hit me are in the form of Scripture:

Nugget Six: Do you see a man skilled in his work? He will serve before kings; he will not serve before obscure men (Proverbs 22:29). God does not promote potential, but skill and excellence.

Nugget Ten: He who gathers crops in summer is a wise son, but he who sleeps during harvest is a disgraceful son (Proverbs 10:5). You must know where to invest your time.

Nugget Twelve: By wisdom the Lord laid the earth’s foundations, by understanding he set the heavens in place (Proverbs 3:19). God will help you get things done.

Nugget Seventeen: A faithful man will be richly blessed, but one eager to get rich will not go unpunished (Proverbs 28:20). There are no shortcuts to success.

I pray your purpose is fulfilled this week.

I usually wake up able and ready to eat breakfast. Some people, like my wife, can’t even think about eating till after mid-morning. My favorite choice has always been Cream of Wheat. I can make it sweet, buttery and creamy–so I get a meal and dessert in one fell swoop. It’s warm when it goes down and sticks to the ribs (the only way I was able to find them until a few months ago!).

My mother made Cream of Wheat or oatmeal often for her three boys back in the 60s. We would all line up across the open oven door, dipping out of our bowls, while we warmed our PJ-clad rears (I don’t think it got down below 40 degrees in Fullerton, CA very often but it seemed like 30 below zero some mornings). Missing breakfast was a missed opportunity for joy, warmth and togetherness.

I guess food still strikes me in that same way today. I got out of the healthy-habit of eating breakfast for a few decades but now make it a part of my middle-age fitness routine. I never leave the house without Cream of Wheat or oatmeal in my gut. Summer, fall, winter or spring, hot cereal always trumps the cold stuff for me. I replace the sugar with Splenda and the butter with a substitute containing less fat and I’m good to go. There’s nothing like starting the day with a warm bowl of Cream of Wheat and good memories of days gone by–filling my stomach, heart and soul.

When it comes to people, I have had this same strange feeling encountering certain individuals–the kind of warning that shoots through your brain and screams, “Something’s wrong here!” The Bible clearly speaks of fruit when it talks about evidence of Christ’s presence in people. The Apostle Paul writes in Galatians 5:22-23, “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law.”(NIV)

In 2 Timothy 3, Paul warns his young protege about impostors of the faith: “6They are the kind who worm their way into homes and gain control over weak-willed women, who are loaded down with sins and are swayed by all kinds of evil desires, 7always learning but never able to acknowledge the truth. … 9But they will not get very far because, as in the case of those men, their folly will be clear to everyone.”(NIV)

It is hard to explain, but God gives us a degree of discernment through His Spirit. His desire is to make folly clear to everyone who desires Truth. This discernment is based on His Word and in this particular scripture, the basic list of spiritual fruit listed above. God also helps us discern in deeper ways when He puts a check in our hearts as to a person’s motives or intentions. In this life, we must be as Jesus said in Matthew 10:16, “I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. Therefore be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves.”(NIV) We must always act in love but never let our guard down.

Today I received some startling news that a former band-mate of 30 years ago was arrested for fraud in an ever-expanding FBI investigation. Brenda and I knew there was something not quite on the up-and-up when we visited he and his wife in Orlando 12 years ago. Now we know. Beware the Greek who offers a large, wooden horse as a gift!

It is common that our musical heroes are young. The fortunate artists hit big with their first record because they have been writing and playing it all their lives up until then. But with most artists, when the second record is in the queue, they have a year instead of a lifetime to prepare. This is where the screeching-halt of a career can be heard. If you have seen the movie about a one-hit-wonder band from the 60s, That Thing You Do, you know just what I’m talking about.

I have been waiting months looking for the new Crowded House record, Intriguer, to release. It came out Tuesday and, again, they have proven that 50-year-olds can still write, sing, play and rock! Just a month or so ago Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers came out with a stunning set of blues-oriented songs on their new Mojo CD. They give the young guns a run for their money. I say youth is way overrated.

By the time musicians, songwriters and performers arrive at middle-age, we are just getting started. Our chops are better (if we stay active on our instrument), our musical tool box is burgeoning, the songs we write come from a more mature place, and our skill and ability to entertain a crowd only ripens with age.

I love a greatest hits record just like anybody else…especially ones that are remastered versions of the old songs. But I’ll still be looking forward to my favorite artist’s release of new material. As for me, I will be playing, singing and writing for as long as I am alive.