70 Years Young

Today is my dad’s 70th Birthday.  We spoke last night and agreed that it’s better to be 70 years young than 40 years old.  I’m not sure how old I feel, but I’m glad he’s celebrating today in relatively good health.

Since dad is now a septuagenarian, I’m reminded of the deadpan monologue delivered by Billy Crystal in the 1991 movie City Slickers.  While lamenting the progressive stations of life, Crystal dryly observes, “In your 70’s, you and the wife retire to Fort Lauderdale. You start eating dinner at 2:00 in the afternoon, you have lunch around 10:00, breakfast the night before, spend most of your time wandering around malls looking for the ultimate soft yogurt and muttering, ‘How come the kids don’t call? How come the kids don’t call.'”  In case you’re wondering, I do call.  And dad eats dinner around 8:45 . . . PM.

As far as I know, dad is not planning to move to Ft. Lauderdale, though I think he might enjoy south Florida.  At 70, he still works four days a week.  He methodically and predictably reads the Metro section of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution every morning.  But there’s more to him than what you might think.  I’m one of those adults whose childhood yielded numerous fond memories.  I’d like to recount some of those that are still fresh to me as I’m sure they are for dad.

Every year, we packed the car and drove south to vacation at the beach.  We spent many summers lounging around the pool at the Anchorage Hotel in Daytona Beach Shores.  When we checked out at the end of the week, dad dutifully made reservations for the following summer.  It gave me something to look forward to all year. We also spent a week each summer at Indian Springs State Park.  That’s where I learned to canoe, swim, dive, build a campfire, tell ghost stories, and frog gig.  Yes, I stabbed frogs for fun.  We even skinny dipped a few times but I couldn’t find any pictures to post with this blog.

When I was ten, dad found me languishing around the house one overcast morning and announced with authority, “If it clears up today, we’re going canoeing. If it rains, we’re going to buy you a motorcycle.”  I’ve never prayed so hard for rain in my entire life.  Later that day, I came home with a brand new Honda XR75.  Even in a downpour, I was the king of the neighborhood.

In Junior High, dad picked me up every day after football practice.  That might not sound like a big deal. But upon dragging myself to the car, dad would always have a cooler full of ice-cold Gatorade waiting for me.  Through all this, mom and dad endured the ear-splitting sound of my electric guitar booming throughout the house and across the neighborhood.  I had the coolest guitar and loudest amplifier, thanks to them.  This probably explains why my dad can’t hear anymore.

Many of my memories center upon the long and unheralded days working with dad at the Farmer’s Market in Forest Park.  Dad sold potatoes and onions to local residents and businesses around south Atlanta.  If I ever wrote an autobiography, it would be entitled, “Mornings with Taters.”  That’s not a typo.  As I’ve told dad several times, making me get up early to go work with him was one of the best things he ever did for me.  Since most days it was just me and dad, I learned how to drive the company truck and delivered pallets of produce to local customers when I was just 14 years old.  Don’t tell my mom.  And if you’re an advocate of diversity training, I suggest spending a day on the platforms at Kelly’s Tater House.  I conversed with all manner of folks, even some that defy description and anthropological classification.

There’s much more I could share but I’m testing your limits by now.  Dad, happy birthday!  Like the rest of us, I’m very proud of you.  I’m particularly glad Scott Doby saved your life that day on board the USS Southerland.  A small, heroic act afforded me a place in this world and a strong name.  Thanks for being our hero in big and small ways.  Love you, Dad!

Chickens in the Culture War

Today is August 1st. For some, today is the appointed time to flood the parking lots at Chick-fil-a and order a combo meal in support of free speech and traditional marriage. Word on the street is that the serving lines are out the door. And I’m getting hungry.

Competing for a voice in this debate is rivaling the intensity of London’s Olympic games. Social media outlets have been blitzed with activity, opinions and gestures of outright hatred. Some believe this phenomenon represents a platform to affirm and advance our protection of free speech. Others offer a disparate viewpoint, claiming diversity and tolerance as the twin pillars of a progressive society.

Make no mistake, traditional values are no longer the moral centerpiece of our culture. What we embraced a generation ago has been pushed aside to make room for a whole new set of conflicting values. We are entering an era where anything can be redefined to suit our neurotic and pathological psyches. With self as the final arbiter of truth and values, anything is defensible and everything is permissible. Whether we like it or not, we are experiencing a flashpoint in today’s postmodern culture.

CS Lewis noted our tendency to discard certain truths because of what he called “chronological snobbery.” The condition is expressed when we assume that traditional, or ancient, truth is always superseded by progressive, or newer, truth. The fact of the matter is that newer is not necessarily better. All truth is not equal. In order to establish and ordain the legitimacy of our preferred values, we must argue for a foundational norm that informs and defines our current argument. Advocates of today’s progressive culture insist on tolerance and diversity as the supreme values upon which our society must rest. In other words, all truth is equal truth, they insist, unless it interferes with the deity of pluralism.

The real chickens in this debate are the ones who refuse to acknowledge any transcendent truth, especially any truth that demands behavior or perspective contrary to their current lifestyle or mindset. For these truth-o-phobes clinging to the idols of personal preference and cultural diversity, all uncomfortable truth must be jettisoned and ridiculed, and its proponents labeled as bigots.

There are broken people on both sides of this dispute. I’m one of them. In spite of my flawed, outrageous condition, I’m leaving now to go to Chick-fil-a and marvel at the impact of this week’s social media conflict. I’m not sure if I’ll order anything off the menu, but I plan on kissing my beautiful wife.