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I’ve been thinking about socks lately, about how they’re something we don’t think about very often if at all. Socks are one of those inventions like those little cards that hang on doorknobs on hotel room doors that say “DO NOT DISTURB,” simple but effective.

We don’t know who first thought of these tubes of fabric closed at one end, but I’d like to thank whoever it was. The first socks date from between 300 and 500 AD and they have two big toes for sandals, and they look like a couple of big bird feet. I bet they had fun pretending to be very early Big Birds.

Socks come in a variety of colors and styles and serve many purposes. I like off-beat socks—
my favorite socks have a diagram of the Paris Métro on them. I also have socks with cheeseburgers all over them. You can pick up a pair at Target if they’re still available.

Now, everyone knows that socks keep our feet warm and can be great conversation pieces,
But that’s just the beginning—an impromptu sock puppet can entertain a sick child (If the child is not too upset by a puppet without eyes (most of them don’t care).

They also make great emergency mittens. Who needs thumbs anyhow? Socks may be used to stuff into places (I have been invited to “put a sock in it” several times), to ball up and play catch
or to polish silver and furniture. Some people store money in them, and others use them as weapons, but I don’t recommend that.

Socks have very kindly lent their name to a number of things and expressions such as sock monkey, “sock it to me,” “socked in,” sock hop, socking away money, knocking someone’s socks off (hard to do—I tried once), bless her cotton socks,” (which I guess someone would use if someone else were heartless), pull up your socks, drop your socks, work your socks off, and someone may be a wet sock, a sweat sock, a rubber sock or a Flubber sock (not really; I just wanted to rhyme something), and someone may wear close combat socks (with their close combat boots, I’m sure), and all of us have a thoroughly good time thanks to our friends the socks.

We saw the Prince William Little Theater’s production of Jesus Christ, Super Star March 7th, and I want to recommend it to everyone. There’s not a weak link in the production, from the staging to the acting, singing, dancing and accompaniment from an incredibly tight band directed by local church musician Milton Rodgers.

The ensemble was strong throughout, with outstanding performances from Masters degree candidate Emma Gwin in her role as a carefully nuanced Mary Magdalene whose warm and winsome performance balanced John Downes’ quiet intensity as Jesus. Magdalene sang the signature piece of the musical “I Don’t Know How to Love Him” to Chrissy Mastrangelo as Mary, the Mother of Jesus, tempering some of the tension of that song. By turns animated and introspective, Terry Downes as Judas brought to life that conflicted and paradoxical personality. James Maxted played a puzzled and reluctant Herod paired with the gently insistent Christine Laird as his wife. (Full disclosure: Christine’s husband Jon serves as the phenomenal accompanist for the Manassas Chorale. They are both incredibly talented and personable young people. Christine put her degree in Theater Arts and considerable acting and singing experience to good use–and she not only performed on stage but also played violin several times.)

This is what I look like wearing suspenders. More or less.

Let’s face it: I am an old guy.
There, I said it.
And I have proof.
Proof #1: (and don’t worry, we’re not going anywhere near 50 proof here): I swore I would never wear a bolo tie. I associated those bits of string and rock with old guys from the Southwest who were trying real hard to look like Indians and not succeeding. As far as I was concerned, bolos belonged in the same pot as big Buicks, early bird specials and Haband slacks.
Maybe it started when I bought my father-in-law’s Buick after he passed away. The thing was a boat, but he always had good luck with cars and this one was no exception to a long line of sensible choices. I used it to carry lumber and boxes and music stands and anything else a music director’s husband (me) is called on to schelp around. Once I was at Home Depot loading lumber into the back area of the car. Notice I didn’t write “back seat,” because I removed it to be able to carry more stuff. A contractor came out, laughed, and said, “I like your truck!”
I grinning and answered, “So do I.”
We eventually sold the car to a friend’s son. He totaled it the next week. Sic transit gloria mundi.
Anyhow, back to the bolos. Out interim preacher Jim Ailor (not pastor—he shows up on Sundays to deliver amazing sermons and leaves the work of weekday ministry to the rest of us—it’s a great arrangement) preached a sermon series called “Manassas Baptist Church Goes Country.” I am not making that up. We sang songs like “You Are My Sunshine” and “Happy Trails to You” (as a benediction), and the sermons were based on country songs such as “I Hope You Dance” (Lee Ann Womack), “My List” (Toby Keith) and “My Wish” (Rascal Flatts). To emphasize the theme, we were encouraged to wear western clothing, which I had not done since I was six and a big fan of Roy Rogers, Hopalong Cassidy, Gene Autry and the like. So, Becky and I combed our closets for western wear, which was in short supply. I ended up going to a western store and buying a hat and—you guessed it—a bolo tie. And all the pigs in town flew off.
Actually, I found that bolos are a sight more comfortable than neckties, and mine, with its turquoise whatever it’s called, drew a lot of attention. Several people said I looked smart in my jeans and denim shirt with my hat and bolo on. (Appearances can be deceiving.) I played my Martin in the services and the illusion of a country singer was more or less complete, with the exception of my somewhat trained voice. (If you’re a country music fan, and I am to some extent, don’t hate me. It’s simply a fact that most country singers don’t take voice lessons. The smart ones do, because their singing not only sounds better: they also have a longer career taking care of their voice. Judy Collins still takes voice lessons. Q.E.D. )
Proof #2: I drive like an old guy now. No, I don’t have a Buick, and I sold our big Impala my dad gave me because I can’t drive two cars at once. I have a 2004 Mazda 6 station wagon for hauling stuff, mostly church musician (of which I am one) equipment. It’s a great little car I bought from my daughter Alyssa when she moved up to a Lexus (she is a vice president and H R Lady for TML copiers and writes an hysterically funny blog called “The Shame Squad” which is about diet, fashion and Kate Middleton (not in that order—Kate is, seriously, Number One with her). You can read all about it at http://theshamesquad.blogspot.com/2015/01/january-9th-10th.html?spref=fb . Check it out. I think you’ll like it.
Anyhow, the Mazda has a powerful engine and a sports suspension. I can get into trouble with it very fast (and fast is the operant word there—I got a speeding ticket about a year ago for doing 40 in a school zone—but the lights weren’t flashing. Honest. The judge didn’t believe that either.) I also rear ended a young woman on the Prince William Parkway after she stopped dead in the road. It wasn’t my fault. The judge must have talked to the first one, because when she heard my explanation, she smiled and hit me with court costs and a small fine. It could have been worse, I suppose.
So, those couple of incidents got my attention and I started driving like an old person—you know, hitting the accelerator instead of the brake, leaving the turn signal on for miles, peering through the steering wheel and all the rest. I might look funny, and it takes me longer to get where I’m going, but I get there. In the same condition I left it. More or less.
Proof #3: This is probably the pièce de résistance of proofs that I am now an old guy. (Did you like those accents on “pièce de résistance”? I thought you would. I’ll tell you how to do it for a dollar. Cash only, bud. I wasn’t born yesterday…) And the proof is…I wear suspenders.
Yep, that’s right, suspenders like your granddad wore. Hey, I’m about his age, so I have a right to wear them. I also have a reason, and it’s related to my health, and no, it’s not what you think. I was trying to be healthy this past year, so I joined a gym (full of old people and older equipment) and by virtue of diet, exercise, a positive mental attitude and certain pharmaceutical products (JK, as the kids say. If you don’t know what that means, ask a fifteen year old. Don’t ask me. I’m too old.), I lost 25 pounds. My fat pants don’t fit me any more and I can’t get into the thin man models. So, if I wear a belt, the weight of the junk I carry pulls my pants down around my ankles. And I’m not about to start a career as a rapper now.
So, I wear suspenders. They’re fun, different and allow me to do a sharp Clarence Darrow imitation. All I need is a fan and it’s monkey trial time all over again!
Growing old can be a pain in the AARP card, but it does have some advantages. I’ve written about a few, but I bet you could add to my list. When you’re old enough, that is.

Now, there’s a title I thought I’d never write. It sounds like a song. In fact, you could (if you ran out of anything else to sing on karaoke night). I envision it going somthing like this, so channel up your inner Brenda Lee and belt it out with me:

1. Smashin’ pumpkins at the compost pile

With a couple of other kids.

Our mom told us to stay out of trouble

And so of course we did (right)!

Smashin’ pumpkins by the barn

As we do every year.

Bridge: We always get a sentimental feeling when we think

Of the sounds that they make and the special way they stink!

2. Oh–smashin’ pumpkins at the compost pile

Have a happy holiday

Everyone smashin’ their little hearts out

There ain’t no other way!

This little ditty was occasioned by my literally smashing pumpkins in the back year. There’s no time to write more now, but I’ll relate that adventure in a future Biscuit City entry. And remember to pick up some Biscuit City biscuits in the biscuit-shaped box. And they taste just like real biscuits because they are! Later, taters!

I love my dad.

Now, that’s not an unusual sentiment to have for the man who brought me into the world (with some considerable help, even labor, from my mom), but I’ve walked a long path to get to this point. And I’m aware that not everyone can say this or should even think it. There are entirely too many absent fathers and abusive fathers and all the other possible ways human beings abuse this gift of an incredibly important relationship.

As I write this, my dad lies in a hospital bed about fifteen miles from here (I was planning to write when I visited him this morning, but I left my laptop. I leave different objects where ever I go. He regularly calls to tell me I have left my hat, coat, phone, lap top, groceries, belt, shoes, and so forth often enough that it has become an in joke between us. Today as I was walking out of the room, he said, “You got your head?” He knows I would have left it had it not been connected to my body.

Our odyssey to this present state started in earnest when I became a father in 1977. Up until this, I was frequently at odds with the him, feeling every bit of a great generational gulf. As I got older and experienced the joy and terror of having children, we grew closer. When my mom died seven years ago, we slowly became best friends. We didn’t spend time golfing or fishing or watching stock races or other manly events pictured on Father’s Day cards, but instead enjoyed putting together a series of jigsaw puzzles, exulting (and despairing) or the Nationals [ditto for the Washington professional (?) football club] as we watched them on television and spending hours traveling to assorted doctors. We watched the Silver Line being built as we drove to and from Tysons Corner for eighteen months for his  implant procedures. I wrote the frist draft of two novels in doctors’ waiting rooms. And I heard joke after joke and story after story, learning things about him and my mom I never knew. The little government surplus house we lived in from 1948 until 1952 rented by the room—45 cents! He and my mother were married int he back seat of the minister’s car. Weddings were not permitted in Tennessee on Sundays, so they were driven across the Georgia line where the deed was done. The marriage lasted sixty years.

My dad is resting for bypass surgery next week to fix a nearly blocked artery in his left leg. He had a similar procedure five years ago on the right leg which became infected. It took three months to clear the infection, with the help of home health nurser, a wound vac and the expertise of the Fauquier Wound Center near Warrenton. His left leg had been hurting him for about six weeks, and he had been scheduled for the operation yesterday. Monday morning he called me wanting to go to the ER. There they decided to send him to Fair Oaks for the procedure as soon as he could tolerate it. His kidney function and swelling from limited circulation had to be treated before the surgeons could work on him. He is resting and gradually reaching a state where this work can be done.

So, that’s my short peek into my relationship with father, my teacher, my hero, my friend and my biggest cheerleader. I hope you have a father or a father figure like him in your life, or, if your father has gone on, I pray you have wonderful and clear memories of your time together. And I hope you love your dad as much as I love mine.

The “third step” of Mt. Everest

As I said in the last blog, “Nine Hundred Miles: The Second Step,” I didn’t react that much to my diagnosis. In fact, I was somewhat giddy and excited to learn that it was treatable and I should have many more years of life ahead. I told my family first, of course, and they were concerned and supportive and continued to be so the whole rest of the way.

Next I told friends individually and in person if possible. I wasn’t ready to put the news out there on Facebook or in the church newsletter. That would come later.

My news greatly upset the first friend I told. She burst into tears immediately. “I don’t see how you can be so calm about it,” she cried. “It’s cancer and you might die of it!”

“I could,” I said, “but I don’t think that will happen.”

“But it could!” I couldn’t change her reaction (a foolish idea to begin with) and as is so often the case, women are more more in touch with their feelings than men. As a card-carrying guy all my life, I am a poster boy for the slooooow emotional reactions. But one arrived soon enough like a diesel pulling into the station.

Another friend gave me the best advice I received the entire time. “Don’t let this cancer define you,” she told me. You’re not Dan Verner, cancer patient. You are first and foremost Dan Verner, husband, father, son, writer, singer and friend. Don’t let anyone try to convince you otherwise.” I remembered her words and they served me well.

The giddiness lasted about a day, and then I crashed. Thoughts arose unbidden to my mind: what if the diagnosis is wrong? What if the treatment doesn’t work? What if the cancer spreads? “What if’s” troubled me for a couple of days, and then I worked through them, remembering my first friend’s reaction grounded in an emotional maturity I have to work hard to find.  Any disease involves loss, and we as human beings grieve losses. But we can dwell on what we have lost, or we can move forward, focusing on what we have and all that we can gain. I struggled up through the dark clouds of my new reality for about a week, and then broke through into the sunlight. My friends helped me achieve that understanding, and so, in the words of my man Gordon Lightfoot, I chose to “press on.”

I remembered my second friend’s advice and focused on family, friends, writing, singing and appreciating the world around me. I took long walks and, as the treatments went on, frequent naps with my cat Nacho, a Certified Writer’s Cat.

And so I got by with a lot of help from my friends.

Next blog: Foursquare–Treatment Begins

In the brightly lit examination room, Dr. Christopher Heaton, my family physician handed me the results of my most recent blood test. Outside I could see flowering branches of trees moved by a gentle warm breeze. He had circled the results of the PSA (Prostate-Specific Antigen) test and drawn a little arrow moving upward from left to right. Beside the arrow he had written “accelerating.”

I knew instantly what that meant. Quite possibly I had prostate cancer, and I needed to take action, and quickly. At that point I didn’t know whether I actually did have cancer, or, if I did,  if it were aggressive. If it proved to be aggressive, I had months to live. If not, with treatment, my prognosis was excellent.

I’m glad Dr. H. insisted on the test. Men, it doesn’t hurt beyond the prick of the needle, but knowing your numbers can literally mean the difference between life and death. If you haven’t had one in the past year, call your doctor now. Don’t hesitate. Just do it.

I walked outside in bright sunshine, knowing I was about to set out on a journey. What would happen and where I would end up, I did not know. I had a sense that the experience would change me, and that’s what I want to write about in this every-other-day Biscuit City blog series. I’ll hope you’ll come with me!

Next blog: the Second Step.

Mata's Story.