Since turning 50, I am more aware than ever of discount Tuesdays, free coffee day and the stack of AARP junk mail that clogs my mail box. I am not even 55 and they have me in their cross-hairs. Alex Trebek is even pitching insurance to me on mid-day TV. I have officially pole-vaulted into a new demographic and I am constantly reminded of it daily.

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?

I feel sorry for school-aged kids these days. Summer vacation used to be three solid months long. Now, you blink your eyes and it’s over. In the days of old, pop songs kept track of when summer break started and ended. Alice Cooper kicked off the freedom fest with School’s Out For Summer. The group The First Class sang, “Beach baby, Beach baby there on the sand from July ’till the end of September; surfin’ was fun, we’d be out in the sun every day.” The Happenings sang, “See you in September; see you when the summer’s through.” There you have it, right there in song lore; it’s etched in vinyl–it has to be true! In my case it was approximately June 15th till September 15th. That, my friends, was summer vacation.

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.

Sitting on my desk at church and in my studio is a statue of Bob. He is only about 6 inches in height, but in my memory he is still 10 feet tall. Standing guard outside of my family’s favorite restaurant, the big plastic Bob held a hamburger high above his head with his right arm, leaving his bulging tummy, wrapped in checkered overalls, proudly casting a shadow over his black boots. He always quietly greeted us as we walked into our local Bob’s Big Boy and I always hugged him on the way out.

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.

It’s the time of year when all of the extra clutter in the house and garage gets tossed into the trash heap. Two weddings in one year also gives impetus to cleaning out the kids rooms that are filled with stuff they decided wasn’t important enough to take with them. I forced the issue when both Betsy and Josh were over this weekend. Thus, the trip to the dump and the inevitable run-in with the dump Nazi.

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.

Last night Brenda and I went to a picnic. It was a fellowship for our worship ministry team which consists of about 100 people. Middle Tennessee in late July is hot. Nevertheless, we have annually planned this opportunity to show our appreciation to the many volunteers who comprise the engine that drives the worship at World Outreach Church in Murfreesboro. We had a giant water slide, a petting zoo, home-made ice cream and barbecue. It reminds me of the sweet summers of my childhood.

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.)