Happy Freaky New Year!

 

My singular New Year’s resolution going into 2020 was to enjoy as many live music concerts as possible. Long before I accepted a one-year contract to be the Music teacher at SoBoCo Primary School in 2019, music had been a big part of my life. When I was young, a million years ago, I played trombone and baritone horn well enough to earn college scholarship offers. After my playing days were over, I hosted a blues show on 88.1 KCOU, Mizzou’s student-run radio station. Over the years, I continued to listen to and appreciate all kinds of music, always striving to broaden my musical horizons.

 

Teaching music to young people helped me remember just how important music is to me. As 2020 approached, music was once again a huge part of my life. I directed a Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood-themed concert featuring my second graders in November. The following month I directed my kindergarteners in a delightful holiday concert and lead the whole school in a light-hearted holiday sing-a-long. I even managed to attend a few live shows here and there, including an unforgettable concert by Here Come The Mummies, a funk band that you have to see in person to truly appreciate. No matter how much music there was in my life, I couldn’t get enough of it.

In January of 2020, I started scanning the interwebs for upcoming concerts and filled my calendar with dozens of exciting prospects. I made plans to attend performances with my wife and my music-loving friends in Columbia, St. Louis, Kansas City, Denver, Boulder, and Fort Collins. I continued teaching my students about various genres of music ranging from classical to disco, and I introduced my first graders to the songs they would be performing for their Spring musical “How to be a Pirate”.

 

Musically speaking, 2020 was going to be the best year ever.

In February, Bethany and I went to “Cash Bash”, a musical tribute to Johnny Cash on the late musician’s birthday, at Rose Hall in Columbia. It was fantastic. Little did we know that it would be the only concert we would attend in 2020. Well, that’s not exactly true. Despite rumors of an impending shut down, “How to be a Pirate” went on as planned a few weeks later, just days before the Southern Boone school district switched to virtual instruction for the remainder of the school year. I could have never predicted that the last concert I would attend in 2020 would be one that I directed in early March.

With Covid-19 spreading unchecked as 2021 approaches, it would be foolish to plan on attending any live musical performances for the foreseeable future. Therefore, I must abandon my plan to recycle my New Year’s resolution from a year ago. Instead, my resolution for the New Year is this: In 2021, I promise to let my freak flag fly.

You may be wondering what exactly it means to let one’s freak flag fly. If the pandemic has taught me anything, it is that life is too short to waste time pretending to be anything other than my true, authentic self. I also know from experience that I am not everyone’s cup of tea. Most of the time, I am not ashamed to let my freak flag fly. But all too often, I hide who I really am for the sake of not offending other people’s sensitivities. I think a lot of us are probably guilty of that.

In 2021, I’m going take the advice Here Come The Mummies give in their song Freak Flag:

“I know you’re pretending to be shy,

but I see something naughty in your eyes.

There’s no shame in just being who you are,

On the dance floor is a perfect place to start.

It must be unfurled if you want to show the world--

Let your freak, let your freak, let your freak flag fly…”

 

For having the last name Naughton, and for having a bit of an ornery streak, it was only natural that some of my childhood friends referred to me by the nickname “Naughty”. I was a good kid, but I didn’t always walk the straight and narrow path. I didn’t get into a lot of trouble when I was young, but I did fly my freak flag high—not caring at all who approved or disapproved.

But as I grew older and more responsible, I felt forced to conform in order to fit in and not rock the boat. I started to lose my individuality, my freakiness. Although I do still fly my freak flag once in a while, most of the time I keep it neatly folded up and hidden away. But why?

The Mummies go on to say, “I see no reason why you can’t let your freak flag fly high. Run it straight up the pole, gotta show your colors before you get too old.” That’s fantastic advice coming from a group of seriously-talented funk musicians who wear mummy costumes on stage. I’ll turn 50 years old in 2021, and as the ball drops in Times Square on New Year’s Eve, I plan on running my freak flag up the pole in its place.

 

Happy, Freaky New Year!

Naughton’s New Four-Four-Two

After I sold my beautiful 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air nearly two years ago, in order to buy a 2015 Chevrolet Silverado 2500 HD equipped with a powerful Duramax diesel engine perfect for towing our family’s camping trailer, I began searching for another classic almost immediately. I am beyond thrilled to tell you that last weekend, my quest was fulfilled at long last.

I had decided that my next classic would be something from the 1960s, a decade that saw tremendous innovation in terms of comfort, reliability, safety, and of course horsepower. I had a hard time choosing between buying a pony car, such as a classic Camaro or Mustang, or a muscle car like a Chevelle or GTO. I also considered full-sized classics such as Impalas or even Cadillacs. In the end, I found the perfect blend of features found in all of those examples: a 1965 Oldsmobile 442 (Four-Four-Two).

When Oldsmobile first decided to compete against the GTO from General Motors’ Pontiac division in 1964, the company came up with a performance and appearance package for their mid-sized Cutlass. That year, the digits in the moniker 442 stood for 4-speed manual transmission, 4-barrel carburetor, and dual (2) exhaust pipes. The 330 cubic inch V8 motor was rated at a healthy 310 horsepower and 355 lb-ft of torque. The next year, however, Oldsmobile declared all-out war against their in-house rivals at Pontiac.

In 1965, the first 4 in the name 442 no longer stood for 4-speed manual, although it remained as an available option. Instead, the first number 4 denoted a brand new 400 cubic inch big-block motor. This new engine created 345 horsepower and an astonishing 440 lb-ft of torque. (For comparison, the now legendary GTO offered a 389 cubic inch V8 rated at 335 horsepower and a torque rating of 431 lb-ft that year.) The 442 also featured heavy duty shocks and springs and front and rear stabilizer bars which made it one of the most powerful and best handling cars of its era. The 1965 Oldsmobile 442 was the first real muscle car.

As the muscle car wars raged during the second half of the decade, Pontiac’s GTO, Chevy’s Chevelle, and entries from Buick, Dodge, Plymouth, and Ford competed against the 442 for the title of King of the Muscle Cars. Today, many classic car enthusiasts revere the GTO as such, but 442 owners know better.

My 442 is an incredible example of a “survivor” car. With the exception of the radiator, water pump, fuel pump, wheels, and tires, my 55-year-old 442 is in unrestored, original condition.After over half a century, the car still has its original engine, automatic transmission, interior, and paint. It runs and drives amazingly well, although the original four-barrel carb could use some tweaking.

 

It’s also a fairly rare car. In 1965, only 2,500 442 Sport Coupes were made with a two-speed Jetaway automatic transmission. Even fewer were equipped with power steering, power brakes, bucket seats, center console, and factory air conditioning—all of which are still intact and functioning in my car.

Because most gearheads hold the GTO in higher regard, I was able to buy my 442 for a fraction of the price its Pontiac cousin would command in similar condition. It seems that my patience over these many months has finally paid off, and I have been rewarded with a fantastic piece of automotive history. As I assured the car’s elderly seller, (who had just purchased his dream car, a fully-restored 1969 Plymouth Roadrunner), this particular 442 will continue to be loved and cared for by someone who appreciates it as much as he did. I could sense that he was genuinely relieved to know that his baby was going to a good home.

As a Winter project, the 442 will need some love. The headliner is torn and discolored. The paint is in need of a great deal of elbow grease to get it to shine again. (I don’t want to repaint it because a car is only original once, and I like the patina look anyway.) I would like to upgrade the braking system, sacrificing some originality for safety. And the namesake carburetor and exhaust both need attention. 

Of course, I intend to support the local economy by sending some business to my friends Allen and Matt, two talented mechanics who will be thrilled to work on a true time capsule.

If you see me and the 442 cruising through town sometime, give me a wave or a honk. I’ll be sure to honk back, because in addition to most of the lights, gauges, and wipers, the original horn also still works. (Although you may not be able to hear it after Matt works his magic on that dual exhaust.) 

 

A Note From Mr. Naughton

 

For the last two months, I have had the pleasure of teaching a remarkable group of kindergarteners while their amazing teacher, Jasmine Rustemeyer, was out on maternity leave following the birth of her beautiful, twin girls. Unfortunately, with the sudden and necessary closure of the Southern Boone Primary School building due to staffing issues caused by the ever-worsening Covid pandemic, my time as a kindergarten teacher has come to an unceremonious and disappointing end.

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before—because you have. You may recall that I taught Music at the Primary School last year, on a one-year contract, when an emergency need arose and a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity presented itself to me. I was busy having the time of my life teaching Music last Spring when Covid forced a premature stoppage of in-person learning and an anticlimactic end to the most rewarding job I had ever held.

The worst part of last Spring’s closure was not being able to say a proper goodbye to the second graders I had grown to love over their three years in the Primary building. I am not ashamed to admit that I shed quite a few tears during the weeks that followed the end of in-person classes and the end of my dream job. Last Saturday, when I read the email informing teachers that we would be switching to virtual learning for the remaining school days until Winter Break, I had tears in my eyes once again.

I could have attempted to teach my students remotely, but I realized that the switch to virtual learning presented an opportunity for Ms. Rustemeyer, my dear friend, to save seven days of Family and Medical Leave by returning to work a little earlier than expected. Her experience of teaching remotely last Spring, and her years of experience as one of the best kindergarten teachers you’ll ever meet, (and my lack of experience on both counts), made it an easy decision for me to make.

Jasmine has graciously invited me to record a video to send out to the kids as a way to tell them how much I love them and how much I will miss them. And when school resumes in January, I plan on popping-in to say hello to my young friends whenever I get the chance. I should have plenty of chances. In late January, I will begin covering a second grade classroom for another teacher/friend who will be taking maternity leave. Hopefully, Covid won’t deprive me of a proper conclusion to a third long-term assignment.

 

If you are the parent or grandparent of one of Ms. Rustemeyer’s kindergarteners, would you mind reading the following message to them please?

“Dear friend, I have had so much fun getting to know you over the last two months. Ms. Rustemeyer didn’t realize what a wonderful gift she was giving me when she asked last summer if I would like to be her substitute when the time came for her to be home with her babies. I hope you enjoyed our time together as much as I did. I hope you learned a thing or two along the way. Most importantly, I hope you know how much I care about you. You, my friend, are loved.

Ms. Rustemeyer is so excited to see you again. She has missed you as much as I am going to miss you. Please show her all the love you showed me. She will need it. Being away from her babies will be hard for her, so you’ll need to do everything you can to make things easy for her.

 

Although I won’t be your teacher anymore, this is not goodbye. I will still see you around the Primary School from time to time. Keep an eye open whenever you are on the playground or in the lunchroom or hallway. You never know where I’ll turn up. (I never know where I’ll turn up either!)

 

Take care of yourself, your classmates, and Ms. Rustemeyer. And have yourself a merry little Christmas! 

Love, 

Mr. Naughton”

This Christmas, Love Your Neighbor as Yourself

 

Tis the season to be bombarded with a relentless barrage of advertisements reminding us that the best way to show someone you care is to spend copious amounts of money buying themthings they don’t need. The rampant consumerism associated with Christmas usually turns me into a bit of a Grinch, but this year a few of the commercials I’ve seen have managed to leave a favorable impression on me. Why? Diversity, representation, and inclusion.

You may think that because I am a heterosexual, able-bodied, middle-aged, white man I don’t care about diversity, representation, or inclusion in holiday commercials. Perhaps I wouldn’t care as much if I were simply a heterosexual, able-bodied, middle-aged, white man living in an all-heterosexual, able-bodied, white family. Thankfully, that is not the case.

My family is the living embodiment of the term Diversity and includes some of the most amazing people I know. Among my siblings, children, cousins, nieces, and nephews are people who are LGBTQ, Asian, Black, and differently-abled. I am happy to see advertisers finally recognizing the fact that America truly is a melting pot made up of various races, sexual orientations, and physical conditions. I am happy to see my family represented on TV.

I have been pleased to see ads recently that lovingly depict mixed-race families, people who are lesbian, gay, or transgender, and children with limb differences. (My family in a nutshell.) These depictions may not mean much to you, but for the families represented in these commercials, it means everything. For far too long in this country, being a “typical” American meant being a straight, white American. Advertisers have propagated this myth in print for centuries and on television for decades. Finally, there seems to be a realization among companies who advertise that there is no such thing as a “typical” American family.

As the depiction of American diversity becomes more commonplace in commercials, television shows, and movies, the hope is that all Americans will eventually feel represented. Only then will we all begin to feel included.

Everyone deserves to feel included, no matter who they are, no matter who they love, no matter the color of their skin, no matter where they were born, and whether or not they use a wheelchair or  were born with ten fingers and ten toes. We all just want a seat at the table. In the United States, we have a pretty big table with room enough for all Americans.

Yet there are those who disagree. The Westboro Baptist Church, the KKK, neo-Nazis, the Proudboys, and One Million Moms are groups of mostly white heterosexuals who hold rallies, boycott businesses and television networks, and lash out against LGBTQ people, people of color, and/or others who don’t represent their definition of “American Values”. These are the people who insist that there is a war on Christmas, yet their refusal to accept and love others as they are makes them the least Christ-like among us.

I am not a fan of the commercialization of Christmas, but I am becoming a fan of some of the commercials I’ve seen this Christmas season. Will that be enough to compel me to go out and buy the products those companies are selling? Probably not. If One Million Moms boycotts it, however, I might buy stock in the company.

Watch for those commercials that celebrate the diversity of our great nation. Buy their products if you feel like supporting them. More importantly, support the people around you who are being represented in those ads. I can assure you that someone you love is gay, someone you care about is living with a disability, someone you know is struggling to raise their non-white children in a country rife with white-supremacists. 

If you care about putting Christ back in Christmas, then do as He commanded: Love your neighbor as yourself.

I Might Be a Hobbit

The books “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings” by J.R.R. Tolkien are stories about epic journeys, and they rank among my very favorite books of all time. Lately, they remind me of what I’ve been missing during this ever-worsening pandemic; travel and adventure.

I might be a Baggins. Like most Hobbits, I am usually quite content to spend days on end in the comfort of my own home, yet I do occasionally get a powerful urge—like Bilbo Baggins did as his 111th birthday drew near—to hit the road in search of adventure. Years earlier, Bilbo was a reluctant adventurer when Gandalf and the Dwarves recruited him to join their quest to take back the Lonely Mountain from the vile dragon Smaug. But after his journey there and back again, he was a changed Hobbit. For the rest of his days, Bilbo felt drawn to the world beyond the borders of his home in the Shire.

 

I, too, feel that pull. 

Aside from a few socially-distanced camping trips last summer, our family has not strayed far from our mid-Missouri home since the coronavirus changed everything last March. My one and only New Year’s resolution for 2020 was to attend more live concerts, yet I managed to go to only one show in February before the rest were all cancelled. And although I have found countless classic cars for sale online, located from coast to coast, I have not gone to inspect a single one in person for fear of inadvertently bringing the virus home to my family.

The Hobbit in me is coping the only way Hobbits know how: by staying in my burrow and eating way too much. Despite reducing our Thanksgiving guest list by two-thirds, we still managed to make the same amount of food—most of which I seem to have eaten myself.

 

There is one other thing (besides my height) that I have in common with the Bagginses from Bag-End. Bilbo shared a birthday, September 22, with his favorite young person, his nephew Frodo. My birthday is close, September 25, and I will celebrate it with my favorite young person, my granddaughter Freya, who was born on—you guessed it—September 22. A party for Pop and Freya Baggins…I do like the sound of that!

Frodo set out on his own adventure on his 50th birthday, when Gandalf convinced him to return the One Ring to the fires of Mordor from whence it came. My 50th birthday will come next September. I hope to go on a few adventures before then, but you can bet I’ll have something special planned for that particular occasion. 

In the meantime, I need to get out of this house. The Winter Doldrums will settle upon me soon, as they always do, and without the prospect of a road trip or some kind of adventure to look forward to, I fear that they will be unbearable this year. Cold weather coupled with social distancing will force us Hobbits into an especially lonely seclusion for the next few months. We can only hope that with the prospect of a Covid vaccine and warmer weather to look forward to as Spring approaches, those of us who are struggling right now can hang on until better days arrive.

For now, I will keep myself busy by reading the Lord of the Rings trilogy and spending as much time as possible basking in the warm glow of the smile of Miss Freya Baggins.