Father Christmas

My dad died at the sweet old age of 94 earlier this year.  Not due to Covid.  He was worn out.  

This marks the first Christmas in my life where he hasn't been part of Christmas.  He was Santa Claus. He put the trains together.  He put the bikes together.  He was the young dad with the blinding camera lights as my brother and sister and I came into the living room to see what Santa had brought. 

In the last twenty years or so, I tried hard to make his Christmas bright for him.  I'd get to Atlanta as often as I could.  I'd send him presents and he was always so thankful.  Haggar pants.  LL Bean slippers.  Comfy sweatshirts and lounge pants.  

It now occurs to me that I'm the head of a family and the oldest person my grandkids will know.  Unless, I live as I hope to live till 125.  I want to see my great-grandkids.  

Pops, I miss you so.  

We figured it out with Mom not being here for the past twenty something years.  

But now that you're gone, holy crap.  I'm it. 

And I don't love it.  And, I love it.  

Age makes us all different.  Just like you and I talked, we both still feel like we're 18.  

To my kids, I hope you feel as loved by me as I felt loved by my dad.  Your PaPa.  

I plan on being Santa Claus until 2050 at least. 

To my grandkids, know that I love you and and and I'm so proud of everything you do.  

To my great grandkids, I hope you can read this back to me.  

To all of you, remember this.  Christmas is awesome.  The lights, the food, the times of gathering.  The presents.  

But, sweet kids.  Christmas signifies something much bigger and more important.  

Our God came to earth in the form of a baby.  He lived a normal life in Israel.  He did it somehow sinless.  

At age 30, he began his ministry.  No man has made an such an impact on the world as did Yeshua in those three years.  

As much as I love you all, I can't love you like Him.

Father Christmas is God and Christmas celebrates His coming to us as a human.  He lived a perfect life and paid for our sins on the Cross. 

In the meantime, I'll be Santa.  And, It's the greatest job on earth.  

Thanks, Pops for teaching me how.  

Merry Christmas.

Pops

 

Dinner at eight

What was dinner like for you when you were eight years old?

I believe the answer to that question can help to get to know someone better than any other question.

What was your typical 8 year old dinner like?

Who was at the dinner table?  Just immediate family, or were there cousins, aunts, uncles and others?

Was there a dinner?

Who cooked it?

Was it a time of peace or a time of distress?

Were your parents there?  Or, were only one of your parents there?  Or were neither of your parents there?

Was it harried or calm?  What did you talk about?  Or, were you allowed to talk?  

That dinner scenario likely impacts your personality, beliefs, behavior and world view more than anything I can think of.  Happy or sad.  Positive or negative.  Trusting or cynical.  Love of family or disdain for people.  Teamwork or loner.  Think about it.  Faith or atheist?  

Does it hold true for you?

How about Winston Churchill?  How about Hank Aaron?  How about Anne Frank?  How about Muhamad Ali?  How about Bill Clinton?  How about Hillary Clinton?  How about Barack Obama? How about Adolf Hitler?  How about Gandhi?  How about Tiger Woods?  How about Bill Gates?  

How about your spouse?  How about your next door neighbor?  How about your boss?  How about the people that you manage?  How about your kids?

I can think of many examples to make this point.  I've asked people in interviews.  I've discussed it with fellow workers.  

Here are two examples.

Years ago, I was teaching a class called "Before you say I do", a 10 week lesson plan for couples planning to marry.  (I know it's ironic for me, but it's true.  If only I had studied this when I was in high school.)  

We had individual "counseling" sessions with the couples.  One couple haunts my memories.  Both were attorneys.  Incredibly bright.  Incredibly successful.  Incredibly career focused.  

Thru the session, we learned something unusual.  They both owned homes.  And after they got married, they were going to keep both homes and live separately.  When I asked why, here was her answer.  "He has a huge collection of poisonous snakes.  I hate them.  And, he won't get rid of them for me.  So, I'm not living in his house."

When I asked him about this unusual plan, he responded with a snarl.  It was his life and he was going to do what he darn well wanted to.  He was smart enough to make this weird marriage work.  No one was going to tell him what to do.

I asked him why he carried so much anger.  He immediately responded, "When I was eight years old, my father told me in front of my family that I was stupid."  He then broke down and cried and you could feel the torment in him.  His fiancé had no idea.  I don't know what happened to them, but I pray he's at peace.  

On a totally different note, we had neighbors that moved in two doors down from us when I was a kid.  The Samchok family.  Allan Samchok was my age. 

I'll never forget going to his house to see if he could come out and play.  When I got to their kitchen door, I heard something I'd never heard and haven't since.  Sitting around their dinner table, the parents and the two boys sang opera.  Each would take turns.  It was the weirdest thing in the world to me.  Opera?  But thinking back, how marvelous.  Doing something together.  Music.  Happiness.  Learning history through opera.  Learning Italian and German.  What a gift those parents gave that family.  

Whatever you recall about dinner at 8, if it brings you peace, wallow in that.  Share it with your family.

If what you recall brings sadness or angst or self-doubt, talk to someone and release yourself from the pain.  It's time to get free and get happy.  

 

Words of December

Figgie pudding.  Hosanna.  Yule.  Tinsel.  Ambrosia.  St. Nicholas.  Silent Night.  Hark.  Fall on your knees.  Joyeux Noel.  Elves.  Divinity candy.  Manger.  Candy canes.  Ornaments.  Hanukkah.  North Pole.  Red-nosed.  Wenceslas.  Dreidel.  Nog.  Emmanuel.  Bethlehem.  Three kings.  Carols.  Scotch pine.  Chestnuts.  Shitter’s full.  Over the river and thru the woods.  Sugar plums.  Advent. Excelsis.  Sleigh.  Mulled wine.  Fraser fir.  White fudge Oreos.  Jingle bells.  Let it snow.  Fruit cake.  Out of D batteries.  Reindeer.  Swaddling.  Happy Christmas.  Peace on Earth.  Good will towards men. 

The Kudzu Cocoon

I love Texas.  

But if I drive 2 and half hours east, I'm home.  In the kudzu cocoon.  

I grew up in it, and whenever I get back, I get that peaceful easy feeling.  

If you don't know what kudzu is or have never seen it, it's a glorious thing.  It was brought to the U.S. as a plant to help with erosion on farms in the South.  It was thought it could also be a food crop for livestock.

What folks didn't know was how invasive and fast growing this plant could be.  In the humid, hot summers kudzu can grow a foot a day.   It got a bit out of hand with the farmers, and now it covers the Southeast.  

Here's where kudzu grows.  Pretty much the same map as the SEC.  (Somewhat explains why the heck Mizzou is in THE conference.)

You can see kudzu on the interstate.  But to really appreciate kudzu and the sweet, sweet South, you need to get on a highway outside city limits.  SR 141, SH 157, Highway 441, Great River Road. 

Driving down these roads you'll not only see miles of vines, but you'll see, hear, smell and taste what makes the South so special.

You'll drive thru small towns and across rivers, many named by Native Americans.  Tishimongo, Solgohachia, Withlacoochee, Dahlonega, Opelousas, Natchez, Kiawah and Ooltewah.  

You'll see so many churches so close together that if you drive slowly with your windows down on a Wednesday evening during prayer meeting you could hear Amazing Grace sung non-stop for an hour.

You'll discover the largest industry in the South.  Used cars.  Hundreds and thousands of them parked in grass lots.  In every little town.  Out in the county outside town limits.   If you can't find a good used F-150 in a mile or so, you're too darn picky.  

If a meat and three kind of cafe makes sense to you, this is where the best are hiding.  H&H Soul Food, Ramsey's Diner, Bully's, Franke's Cafeteria, The Busy Bee Cafe (that was once destroyed by a tornado so powerful that someone found one of their menus 70 miles away), Arnold's Country Kitchen or Earley's Kitchen.

You'll find some delightful and unusual attractions to visit along the way.  The National Bird Dog Museum, the Double Decker Arts Festival, Christ of the Ozarks, Bourbon Manor, Front Street and the Gatlinburg Space Needle.  And if you find yourself wandering around Jackson, Mississippi during late March, don't miss Hal's St. Paddy's Parade starring the Sweet Potato Queens.  

Speaking of tasty things, the South invented barbecue.  Which means slow smoked meat as opposed to grilling over charcoal.  There's lots of hot debate about which is the best, so ideally you'd try them all.  Different techniques.  Different meats.  Different sauces.  All served with pride and love.  At places like Fresh Air, Scott's, Moonlite Inn, The Ridgewood, Jenkins, Archibald's or Shiver's.  

Best of all will be the people you'll meet along the way.  Some with sun-stained necks from working on their farm when they get off from their job at the factory.  State troopers, bank tellers, cashiers at the local convenience store who knows everyone in town and acts as the visitors bureau if their town of 136 could afford such a thing, high school kids in loud pickups, the waitress at the local cafe who won't let your iced tea glass get below half full.  Sweet people who are friendly and welcoming by nature and are happy to help anyone who needs it.  

The people have their own way of talking.  Listen carefully and you can hear the precious local accents that are as different from Southern Louisiana to South Georgia as they can be.  But, it's all the same language just expressed differently.  And, they might say things that strike you as odd if you didn't grow up there.  "How's your mama and them?"  "Bless your heart." "I'm full as a tick."  "Like a cow pissing on a flat rock."  "I'm worn slap out."  "Well, I'll swanee."   

Tony Bennett left his heart in San Francisco.   Stephen Vincent Benet wrote, "Bury my heart at Wounded Knee".  Joe Diffie sang "Prop Me Up Against the Jukebox When I Die".  

As for me, let me spend as many days as I can with my people.  My food.  My music.  My land.

In the kudzu cocoon.

All I ever wanted

I grew up in East Point, Georgia.  A suburb south of Atlanta.

It was a "Leave it to Beaver" kind of place.

Families living together.  Kids playing together.  Very little turnover in houses sold.

It was home.  And, it was safe and happy.


All I ever wanted to was to repeat that upbringing for the family I dreamed of.

Chasing lightning bugs.  A family dog.  Neighbors we loved and trusted.


All I wanted was to do what I grew up with a little better.

I had no grandiose dreams.


All I wanted was to be married to someone I loved.  Have kids that we cherished.  And, have a picket fence around the yard to keep the kids and the dog in.


I've finally got as close to that as possible.

I'm married to a beautiful woman inside and out.  She loves family as much as me.

We live in a fenced house, but in Dallas, picket fences aren't the norm.  We have two greyhounds.


The sweetest thing I ever heard was from one of my daughters.  "Your house feels like love to me."


That's not as much about the house as it is the fact everyone in the family is welcome to come here and just be.  No judgement.  No drama.  Lea and I are very much in love with each other and with all of our family.

We have lots of mixed race kids and grand kids.

It's a simple little house.  But, the best part is the fireplace.  It's in the sunken living room (circa 1970).

There have been more good family chats around that fireplace than I can count.

It's a tacky 1970's design.  But, it has produced.


It's not a picket fenced house on a mountain in the Smokies as I might have dreamed.

We have 8 kids between us, and I think 14 grand-kids if my current count is correct.


Life is a marathon.  Keep running.  Finish.  It's worth the pain. 

The Good Lord knows what you need more than what you want.

Love is all you need

Dear Antifa, BLM, KKK, Boogaloo Boys, and like-minded folks,

We hear you.

We might not understand, but we hear you.

You are asking for something.  You want the world to be as you see it.

Bad news is, this world wasn't designed for your particular view.


So here is the answer.


None of you get it.  Far left.  Far right.  Racist.  Anti-racist.


The answer to your problems is very simple.


Love.


You can't get what you want without love.


Love means caring about another person before they respond positively to you.


I know this will be antithetical, but it is immutable.


Love conquers all.


And, God is love.


Yep, there is a being that created us all.  As screwed up as we can be.


You folks in the street are't the first.  Or, the last.

People have railed against injustice throughout history.

You are our current decade's proof.


Get this in your hard heads.  God is love.

Love means caring for another person before they even acknowledge you.  Love means you matter.  Love means you are worth it.

I'm a Christian man.  That means, I love you.  I care for you.  I hope the best for you.  I hope you see Heaven.  I hope you will understand that Yeshua hated.  But, what he hated was those against love. 

Yeshua came to make all of us equal.  Poor, rich, black, white, brown, Jew, Gentile, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, and on and on.

Yeshua came for all of us.

For all you want to do, you are powerless.  For all you want to hate, you will lose.  For all you want to control, you have no chance.


God is love.  And His Son, Yeshua is the answer.


You can take it or leave it.


But, you've been offered the opportunity of a lifetime to surrender your hatred for love.

Please, take his offer and your world will be a better place.

Amen

I Can't Breathe

June 4, 2009.

I was asleep.

It was about 8 pm.

I was living in Manhattan Beach, California. In the same apartment as my sweet daughter and my soon to be ex.

In the midst of a divorce.

To gain leverage, my ex called the cops.

She lied to them.  Said I was a drunkard, an abuser and violent.  None of that was true.


I heard an unusual knock on the door.

I woke up and walked into the hallway.  It was a trap.

There were at least 10 policeman in this tiny apartment.  My ex had claimed I was an abuser and a violent man.

I walked in to the hallway.

They asked me to sit down.  I explained that our 7 year old daughter was asleep in the bedroom where I had read her stories.

They then asked me to put my hands behind my back.  I did.


They then started to handcuff me.


I am claustrophobic and have anxiety attacks when I'm trapped in an enclosed space.


I tried to explain to the officers.


They took my resistance as aggresion.


Immediately, they took me to the ground. Or, the carpet of the apartment.

Six cops on top of me.  One had his knee on my neck.   Two had my legs.  One punched me repeatedly on my right jaw.  Broke my glasses, gave me a gash on the cheek and dislocated my jaw.

I was Tased three times.

When you have anxiety attacks and you can't breathe, you will do whatever you can to get air.

"I can't breathe".  I'm not trying to fight you.  I can't breathe".

I fought for my life.

I often wonder how close it was to them shooting me.


For some reason, they hogtied me and let me up.


The Sargent in charge explained to me that my soon to be ex had called them to the apartment because of my "violent behavior."   He then said to me that he understood what was going on.  He said this was a common tactic in Los Angeles divorce cases.


I ended up in jail.  Had to bail out.

The jail Sargent said to me, "Mr. Burks, I am so sorry you are in here.  You are not a violent man.  You are in here because of a nasty divorce lawyer and your soon to be ex wife.  You are a good man caught in a bad situation."

I can't know for sure what happened in George Floyd's situation.  If George had anxiety issues, it might explain some of his actions.

I can know that anxiety can cause a resistance against force with not pleasant responses.


To those that police us, I understand your concerns for safety.  Including your own.


I was choked down in the whitest of white suburbs of Los Angeles.


To the Floyd family, I think from what I see on video that George was wronged.  I think I was within seconds of that happening to me.

To those in blue, there has to be a better way.  White, black, brown, yellow or any combination.


Let's all get better.

Grace and Peace.

ab

Betty Jane

Oh, Mama.  How I miss you.

You were my spirit.  My encourager.  My viaduct to all things McLarin. 


A depression kid that figured out with Patsmama and Papa John how to have fun with nothing material.  We had it in our heads.  Words.  Poetry.  Songs.  Stories. 

There was a pop song, by Bobby Vinton that was popular at the time I was born.  "You Are My Special Angel".

You sang it to me and I believed it. 

Now, I know that you were my special angel. 

You taught me to love language.  You taught me to question.  You taught me to love Jesus but ask questions to understand it all. 

Mama, I'm still studying.  I'll never have all the answers, but I'll keep that balance of faith and questioning. 

What I'm sure of is that you live in me.  And, you live in my kids.  And, you live in my grandkids. 

Your blue eyes.  Your premature beautiful white hair. 

Mom, I dream in words.  It's like a typewriter in my brain and sentences come out in banner headlines.  And often, I write those things into stories. 

Pops just passed and I hope the two of you are reunited.  You made him whole, and he kept you sane. 

You are irreplaceable.  No one has had the impact or impression on my life more than you. 

Thank you for being a wordsmith, a dreamer, a rebel, a friend of all, an encourager and a mom. 

There are so many great memories.  Perhaps the capper was when you were in your last days in the hospital dealing with cancer.

You had never said the word cancer.  You didn't want to be subject to it. 

But that day I walked into your room, you asked me to sit on the side of your bed. 


"Alan, I've got cancer.  And I know I'm going to die.  I'm fine with it.  I know I'm going to Heaven because of my identity in Christ Jesus.  Don't worry about me.  I'm fine.  Go live your life and just know that I'll always love you."


I love you, Mom.  You have always been and will always be my special angel.

You are my special angel
Sent from up above
The Lord smiled down on me
And sent an angel to love

You are my special angel
Right from paradise
I know you're an angel
Heaven is in your eyes

The smile from your lips brings the summer sunshine
Tears from your eyes bring the rain
I feel your touch, your warm embrace
And I'm in heaven again

You are my special angel
Through eternity
I'll have my special angel
Here to watch over me

A smile from your lips brings the summer sunshine
The tears from your eyes bring the rain
I feel your touch, your warm embrace
And I'm in heaven again

You are my special angel
Through eternity
I'll have my special angel
Here to watch over me

Here to watch over me

Dolce & Gabbana Sport

Sheltering in place has produced a whole new social experience. 

Especially the social norm in your own home.  

My sweet, beautiful wife is a bit OCD during normal times.  Now, she vacuums the house twice a day.  There's only the two of us.  And, the dogs.  

Oh, we have our own dog.  Bullitt.  A greyhound rescue.  65 pounds of muscle and bladder.  Don't know how he does it.  But, when I take him on his twice a day walks, he'll whiz enough that would make Secretariat proud. 

And then, there's the second dog.  Roscoe.  Perfectly named for a Chihuahua and Lord knows whatever mix.  Rescued from the pound for Lea's dad.  

If Covid-19 wasn't enough fun, both Lea and I have fathers still alive at ages 93 and 94.  And, their daily adventures are especially fun in a time of social distancing.

Since the quarantine in Texas, we've had Joe (Lea's dad) at our house for dinner every night.  

On a normal week, he goes to a casual seafood restaurant about a mile from his house six nights a week.  It's an order at the counter and wait for your name to be called kind of joint.  Except for Joe.  He's met at the door with a frozen margarita, escorted to a table and then brought his Joe's Special:  two fried shrimp, three pieces of sausage and two skin-on new potatoes.  It can take him an hour to get thru this.  The peeling of the potatoes is especially deliberate so that he can pour enough salt on those little white mealy balls of starch.  We think the pound of salt he consumes daily is what's preserved him and keeps him so healthy.  

Last Friday, Joe arrived at our house and I had his margarita ready for him.  Within minutes he was cold and shivering.  Then uncontrollably shivering.  Then disoriented.  Couldn't stand up.  But, no fever.  We called 911 and the heroes were here in seconds.  We were all scared to death it was the Covid.  Ambulance ride to the hospital.  Of course, he's as confused as all get out and we can't be with him.  Luckily, it wasn't the Covid.  It was a UTI, otherwise known as a urinary tract infection.    He's been in the hospital since and we think getting sent home today.  

Which brings me back to Roscoe.  As Joe has been in the hospital, we've had Roscoe.  He's cute and sweet and fun until he pees or poops in the house or escapes and goes on a neighborhood jaunt.  Which happens almost daily.  We're gonna get animal control called on us soon.  Did I mention he likes to sleep in the bed with us?  And snuggle your head?  And then get completely under the covers?  

Which shifts my thoughts to my dad.  If you ever met him, you know he's not hot-headed at all.  Mr. Calm.  Until last Saturday.  He'd been confined to his room in his assisted living facility.  Family not allowed to visit.  So, on Saturday he plans the great escape.  And he sort of did it.  Except that when he went out the side door he tripped and fell and that's where the staff found him.  Thankfully, after another ambulance trip to the ER, it was determined that no bones were broken.  Sore, but no serious injuries.  Then, great minds went to work.  It seemed like such an odd thing for dad to do.  So, we all began to wonder, could he have a UTI as well? 

Well bust my buttons and call me Biscuits.  He did have a UTI.  The UTI story has us all amazed and more than a bit confused.  How on earth does that happen?  But then, how on earth is the whole world shut down by a microscopic thing that has killed less people than the flu?

So during this Groundhog Day existence, one runs out of things to do.  Unless you're my wife.  Spring Cleaning Olympics has been going on here.  The office.  Files.  Bathroom.  And, oh yes, the carpets.  

Did I mention that we were just starting a bathroom remodel when the bug hit?  Three weeks of living in the guest bedroom and bath.  And, every friggin thing that has been stuffed in bathroom drawers and chest and cabinets for the last umpteen years sitting in boxes and bags on the grandkids playroom floor.  

One of my tasks was to sort thru and discard what wasn't wanted or needed in the crap that came out of my side of the bath.  I sort of thought we'd just stuff that crap back in where it was and no one would be hurt or any the wiser.  But, no.  

Some of the stuff I found was useful.  Some pretty cool.  Some I had no idea where it came from.  

Like a bottle of Dolce & Gabbana Sport spray cologne.  I haven't worn cologne for years.  And I know I never used this stuff.  

But, curiosity got the best of me, and I spritzed some on my neck.  Oh.  My.  Goodness.  

It was like I was caught in an invisible bubble of funky smelling, strong like bull vapor.  Coughing, sneezing.  And, it lasted.  And lasted.  And . . .

I was thinking about throwing the bottle away.  But then it hit me.  This could be our new home defense program.  If the zombies or the G men try to enter the house during this long running Home Alone sequel, they'll be repelled by Dolce and pummelled by Gabbana.  

What I've learned about feet, so far

These things are as handy as, like, hands.

If they don't work, you're in a mess.

If they hurt, you're in a mess.

We assume we can walk.  We assume you have balance.  We assume you have a certain shoe size.


Well, squash all of our assumptions.


My first clue was when Pete was playing baseball at age 13.  We had bought the latest Nike whatever's prior to the season.  He was a size 11.

About 4 weeks into the season, Pete did something unusual.  He complained about his shoes.  He was not the guy wanting new shoes just to show off.  He said, "Dad, my feet are hurting.  I think there's something wrong with my shoes."

I said something like, "Pshaw".

He kept complaining.  So, we went to the store.

His frigging feet had grown from size 11 to size 13 in six weeks.  No wonder the child's feet hurt.


I think I sorta obtained puberty about age 23.  I wore size 10.5.  I bought Cole Hahn shoes in loafers, dress shoes, etc. out the ass.

I went on to buy other stupid expensive shoes size 10.5 for years.

It's inexplicable to me, but I am now a size 13.  All of those friggin shoes I bought are now either in the hands of my son or son-in-law who were 10.5.  They are worthless to me.  I hope they love those Armani white suedes like I did.

It took me years to understand that I was a pronater.  And, that I had plantar fasciitis.

My fucking feet hurt for years playing golf, softball, basketball, racquetball, tennis and whatever else I attempted.

It's only in the last three years that I've discovered that I'm not alone.  This is not a commercial message, but Vionic shoes have given me peace.  My feet don't hurt anymore.


I grew up in and still live in the South.  It doesn't get really cold here.

For years, I wore flip-flops.  The cheap $2 version.

Until I went to see the foot guy at the Carrell Clinic.  They are the bone guys that treat the Dallas Cowboys, Phil Mickelson and hundreds of other professional athletes.

"Satan's shoes."  That was what the good doctor said to me when I showed up with a complaint about plantar fasciitis.  "They keep me in business.  No support.  Easy to slide on.  Glad you're here."

I do have to insert that I met a great man, Stephen Holley.  He was a Navy SEAL.  He wore flip-flops or sandals everyday.  He explained to me that guys in combat wore sandals everyday they weren't in combat so that their feet would heal.  Stephen wears Hari Mari's most days.  He is and will always be an inspiration to me.  Including my footwear.

So, then the business side of me got intrigued at the Carrell Clinic.  "Doc, what kind of shoes bring you the most business?"

"High heels.  They position a woman's foot in an angle they were never meant to be."

In a town that has a Jimmy Choo store and a high index of Christian Laboutin wearers, he's golden.


I've observed my sweet wife suffer from years of high heels.  I've seen my kids with issues from inappropriate sized or styled shoes.

Our feet are our touch point of the world.  We need to understand our friggin feet and get the right shoes.

Peace and love and happy feet to you all.