tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62721203425050079872024-03-18T21:32:27.852-04:00The TempestDoug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.comBlogger2896125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-86737423017001299122024-03-18T21:26:00.001-04:002024-03-18T21:31:37.105-04:00 Its That Time of Year Again<font size="4">Today I was reminded by my intrepid assistant that this is the time of year where I lose my mind. She’s correct. This is the season of the perpetual annual review, client after client walks through the doors, each with their unique needs and interests. My job is to keep up with it all, complete the mountains of paperwork, record it all on the appropriate record keeping app, and try not to bump in to the furniture. Some days are better than others. </font><span style="font-size: large;">This year it seems worse since all of the above is happening while I am in the middle of having a novel published. To explain I should probably take a minute to describe what the inside of my head feels like.</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">This afternoon I came down with a severe skull exploding headache. Luckily for me, this has become a very rare occurrence. Migraines used to be a consistent problem for me back in the day, but no more. This was no migraine, just a regular headache that defied all of my Tylenol taking and cold/hot compresses. It only subsided around 7:00 after a dinner of homemade clam chowder courtesy of my wife. After dinner I set down to make my <i style="font-weight: bold;">to-do list </i>for today. There were eleven items on it, all which need to be done by no later than 1:30 tomorrow afternoon. After completing the list I had a light-bulb moment. No wonder my head felt like it was in a vice. There are just too many squirrels running around loose in my head. There are a million things happening all at the same time up there, none of it good.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Although I should point out the fact that I have <b><i>never</i></b> been diagnosed with any of the alphabet soup of attention deficit disorders that are out there in the world. When I was a kid they just called it having ants in your pants. My teachers went to great lengths to keep me at my desk all the time I was in school. I had the attention span of a gnat on amphetamines. All the adults in my life back then assured my parents that I would eventually grow out of this condition and they were right…sort of. I have created many coping mechanisms/life hacks for dealing with my still shortish attention span and inability to stay seated for long periods of time. Most of the time, I feel completely normal. But I have days where I get <i style="font-weight: bold;">the look </i>from my friends at the office, especially the aforementioned assistant, who will usually say something snarky like, “Gee, if you were actually taking medicine for this condition, this is what you would be like if you skipped a few days!” Or even better, she’ll look at me in the middle of one of my semi-confused moments and say, “Squirrell!!!!!”</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div><img id="id_7372_8c86_dfc1_23b0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1ntoF9_r-9jOiLytVkn2sPHHq8aaWD1-j" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 545px; height: auto;"><br><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">But, things will slow down soon. It’s only like this through the middle to late part of May. I’ll be fine. Just a few more weeks and the gray matter will snap back to its old self, where I only forget small, inconsequential things like…like…</span></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-7050076219868050732024-03-17T09:46:00.001-04:002024-03-17T09:52:42.258-04:00 Every Day a Challenge<font size="4">When it comes to having a book published, each day brings a new challenge. Take this past Friday for example…</font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">It was my day to open the Cafe and I was excited to get the chance to talk with Jennifer about maybe booking the Cafe for my Launch Party on or around the 7th of May. Its the perfect venue. Its the perfect size, has a wonderful ambiance, and I am comfortable there. As soon as Jennifer arrived she beat me to the punch, having read my post from last week. She said, “<i>You ARE going to have the launch party here, right?!” </i>Then we started checking the schedule for possible dates. There were a few conflicts with the 7th so Jennifer said she would talk with the facilities manager at Hope to work out the details. After thirty minutes Jennifer came back to inform me that she had forgotten about the rule our church has that would make it impossible to have the event at the Cafe. Hope doesn’t allow anyone to sell things in the church building. It’s essentially the <i>no money changers in the temple </i>rule. Jennifer had simply forgotten about the rule in her excitement and apologized for the oversight.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><img id="id_e128_f417_b1b1_d041" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1dsVC0qcM2plYsE0ISy8UsfBzic6PtyI1" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 504px; height: auto;"><br><br><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">At this point I should point out the obvious fact that I was really disappointed. But at the same time I totally get it. Actually, it speaks well of our church that the leadership team is sensitive about the reputation of our church to the point where they try to eliminate even the </span><i>appearance </i><span style="font-size: large;">of evil. Imagine what the church would look like if every time you showed up for a service there were vendors hawking stuff in the halls. Since one of the points of a launch party is to offer signed copies of your book for sale, the Cafe can’t be the venue. Bummer.</span></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">So now we are back to the drawing board for another venue. It won’t be easy. My neighborhood doesn’t have a clubhouse. My house isn’t nearly large enough. Libraries won’t work either—they have the same no selling rule. For the first and only time in my life I regret not being a member of a Country Club. My opinion of Country Clubs has always been the same as Groucho Marx—“<i>I refuse to be a member of any club that would have me as a member!”</i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font size="4">As soon as we find a place and work out the details we will activate the RSVP tab on my Author Page. Would love to see you there!</font></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-91911359570097373792024-03-14T06:34:00.001-04:002024-03-14T06:35:02.126-04:00 My Author Website<font size="4">My Author Website is officially LIVE!!! </font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">When I was told that I needed an Author Website and then told how much it would cost to produce one I was floored. That’s when Pam said something along the lines of, “<i>That’s ridiculous! I can make you a website.” </i>Her confidence sprang from the fact that she is an absolute marvel at the graphic arts side of computing and had done many similar creative projects before. She had no idea how difficult this endeavor would be. She practically had to teach herself the entire process, since the available software was bulky and the very opposite of intuitive. She has spent many late nights fighting through this thing, and along the way was given some major help from my son Patrick. But last night she finished and this morning it went live.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><img id="id_dbaa_ba4f_2af1_5a65" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1eFDQg5SzZ1MZurf1-_k-jqeZU81f28rX" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 522px; height: auto;"><br><br><a href="https://dougdunnevant.com/">https://dougdunnevant.com/</a></div><div><br></div><div><font size="4">Give the site a visit and let me know what you think!</font></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-89654927952831917442024-03-12T07:04:00.001-04:002024-03-12T07:06:10.903-04:00 Praying For a Friend<font size="4">I have a friend who will be having a rough morning. Her son is having his jaw surgically broken and moved forward to better accommodate breathing and growth etc.. It’s not life threatening, but as a parent you have to sit there in the waiting room while a bunch of doctors hurt your child, and this is the worst feeling in the world. If there was any way possible for you to hop up on that table and take his place you would do it in a New York minute. But you can’t. He has to walk this path himself while you agonize in the waiting room.</font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">Pam and I have been lucky. Neither one of our kids ever had to endure something like this. They never had surgery of any kind. They had their share of stitches, broken bones and colds, along with one car accident, but nothing like this. Then there are the parents we know who have lost children, parents who have lived through the crucible of burying a child, the very darkest night of the soul. My heart breaks for them, no matter how much time may have passed, I’m sure they feel the loss still.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">So, this morning I pray for my friend.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">Meanwhile, Lucy seems frustrated with me…</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><img id="id_386c_5239_e8fa_94c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1KY_FXmx0HrhjlmjuKJ209WPDc1FGkPwv" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 529px; height: auto;"></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><i>“Must you make so much noise typing over there? Can’t you see that I am trying to snoozle?”</i></font><br></span><br><font size="4"><br></font></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-19222503807477330922024-03-11T07:40:00.001-04:002024-03-11T07:40:47.191-04:00 You Can’t Get Any Luckier Than This<font size="4">So, yesterday after church Pam and I were driving to a restaurant to meet our Sunday Lunch Bunch when my Apple Watch vibrated rudely. I glanced at it and found this message:</font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">“<b><i>Hi there. You mentioned wanting to rent in the fall. Is that still true and if so what dates”</i></b></font></div><div><font size="4"><b><i><br></i></b></font></div><div><font size="4"><b><i>Carolyn May</i></b></font></div><div><font size="4"><b><i><br></i></b></font></div><div><font size="4">Immediately, my heart rate soared. Carolyn is the owner of Loon Landing and along with her husband Keith are just about as nice a couple as you will ever meet. (When Pam broke her wrist last fall in Maine, they brought us dinner the night after her surgery!). Several months ago we got a call from her telling us that she would <i style="font-weight: bold;">not </i>be renting out LL this summer. They had decided to stay there themselves all summer—something they have never done in the 17 years they have owned the place. Although we were disappointed, we completely understood. That’s when I had told her that we would be interested in a fall rental if it was possible, although we knew that they have family who rent during the fall. Anyway, I had forgotten all of this until the moment I received this text from her. To make a long story short, in no time we had agreed to four weeks in the fall from Sept. 13 thru October 11. It was the happiest I’ve been in months. </font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">So in 2024 Pam and I have the privilege of spending 10 full weeks on our favorite lake in Maine, the last four in our favorite lake house of all time:</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><img id="id_2f23_ec54_7cce_f43c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1wIxXbsnv82SzrdtWYQOD6NzQ5ybefRVi" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 578px; height: auto;"><br><br>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-47744819434119101112024-03-08T09:07:00.001-05:002024-03-09T11:20:28.203-05:00 The Cafe at West Creek<font size="4">I show up at 7 am every Friday morning. A few months ago it was pitch black when I punched in the security code to get in. Now the sun is up and its considerably warmer. Still, it feels weird being the only one in the building. A church is not supposed to be empty. Last year my church, at considerable expense and after lots of thought, opened up a Cafe which they decided to call—<i>The Cafe at West Creek. </i>It was to be a donation-only coffee shop with free WiFi opened to the public from 8-4 five days a week. To make it work, they would need volunteers and lots of them. I decided to give it a try for two reasons. First of all it sounded like it might be fun. After setting the place up I would be tasked with welcoming people, showing newcomers the ropes and generally being an encourager. The second reason was on account of the fact that I knew the manager/boss of the enterprise—Jennifer Glotz—who, I have been told on more than one occasion, is the female version of me. When she asked, it was hard to refuse. So, here I am, every Friday morning.</font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">The first couple of months it was like a ghost town in here. For one thing the staff has Fridays off, and for another we were brand new and not many people knew we even existed. As each month passed traffic has picked up to the point where now Friday mornings are busy and a lot more fun. January and February have seen my shift overrun with new faces, groups of two or three meeting for coffee, moms and dads who work from home using the space, and more recently larger groups showing up for meetings of one kind or another. Add to this the influx of parents and grandparents bringing their little ones to Friday morning story time. The place is suddenly hopping. It does my heart good to see a space that before sat empty all week long now being used in this way.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">The best part of this deal are the serendipitous encounters you have with total strangers. I have spoken with a young mother who was eight months pregnant with a two year old at home who had asked a friend to look after him long enough for her to have a bagel and some peace and quiet. I met a man who had stopped going to church during COVID and never gone back. We were the first church building he had been inside in two years. Now he comes on Sunday mornings. I see him across the way and wave. He waves back and smiles. I met a lady from Brazil with two toddlers at story time. Someone had told her about this coffee shop where the coffee was good and super cheap ($1 suggested donation cheap). It was her first time in the building. Her kids were beautiful. She looked exhausted but glanced around like she couldn’t believe her good fortune for having found such a place. I met a retiree, probably 7 or 8 years older than me who seemed happy to have a place to come to be around people. One day I saw an older lady taking pictures of the artwork on the walls. Apparently she is a regular but this was her first time coming on Friday morning. She went on and on about how she <i style="font-weight: bold;">loved </i>the Cafe, like she was trying to convince me to give it a try. When I told her I was a volunteer we both had a good laugh. Sometimes I will see a group of college kids splayed out in one of the booths drinking cold brew, two booths over from an older woman in an intense conversation with a younger woman. I found out later that the older lady was the younger’s mentor and had been for several years.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">My church took a chance on The Cafe. Its not cheap. Just how much we dropped to get this place up and running I don’t know and frankly I don’t care. The church’s finances are not my job. Others with that responsibility will have to answer for the proper stewardship of the church’s budget and spending priorities. My job as a member is to find a place to serve that is suited to my skill set and gifts. When I find it I need to volunteer and see how it goes. If it ends up being a disaster, I’ll know soon enough. (I’m reminded of that time when someone thought I would make a great finance committee chairman back in the day. Worse. Idea. Ever.) But if I find something that is fulfilling and fun, then its a win. The Cafe is fun. You should give it a try.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><img id="id_3719_564f_be37_b446" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/15fHq8tsHf_KmvARsl-8Baztq3SNxSan1" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 546px; height: auto;"></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><img id="id_47f2_21a8_daf_c462" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1WoKMHPZvvzgGAYleUaR9HpMEHzC8qlqa" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 548px; height: auto;"></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><img id="id_b6b4_5a21_b5d0_2578" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1fgFWcQ5758RFB-Ek7-0oswi8s0KA7WZr" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 549px; height: auto;"></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><img id="id_7a6d_9ef1_502f_3075" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/16waDUbp6IgrYg19hBtGi4kBGlRrdM1k1" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 552px; height: auto;"><br><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span><br><font size="4"><br></font></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-52041546936598365962024-03-06T20:31:00.001-05:002024-03-06T20:32:17.818-05:00Our Fun Weekend<font size="4">Its been over a week since last I posted in this space. Pam and I spent some time in Nashville with Patrick, Sarah, and Frisco. It was a fun few days away. We got to see our talented kids sing some Bach solos. We ate some amazing Cajun food, a delicious homemade pad Thai dinner, a scrumptious breakfast of pastries and scrambled eggs. To top all of that off, we got to watch Frisco play his famous <i style="font-weight: bold;">find the ball </i>game—which was easily the most impressive event of the weekend.</font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">In the midst of all the fun was one book business call where we set the price of my book in its various forms <i style="font-weight: bold;">and </i>nailed down a release date: May, 7, 2024!!</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">It will be officially on sale that day in three forms, paperback, e-book, and hardcover. I learned a lot of new stuff during the call, and Pam and Patrick made lots of progress getting my Author website ready. I still feel like a rank amateur when it comes to everything that has happened <i style="font-weight: bold;">after </i>writing this book over ten years ago. There are so many decisions that have to be made in rapid fire succession at the various stages of publication. Sometimes it all seems like a blur to me. But, it certainly is exciting, if a bit nerve wracking at the same time. </font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">We drove back from Nashville on Tuesday and made it home just in time to vote before the polls closed. As it turned out, we needn’t have bothered. As is usually the case, our preferred candidate got clobbered. But you have to vote, right? Even if you know it doesn’t matter, you still have to vote. Why? I’m not totally sure at this point, I just know that you do. So we did. I blame Coach Flanagan, my civics teacher back in high school, who essentially said that if you don’t vote you’re a loser. The actually phrase I remember was “<i>pathetic loser”. </i>Its the sort of thing an impressionable 18 year old doesn’t easily forget.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">One more thing…my sister Paula and her husband Ron kept Lucy for us while we were in Nashville. They kept us fully up to speed on Lucy’s activities throughout her stay which usually consisted of pictures of Lucy in varying poses of laziness…<br></font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><img id="id_901f_4a1_f461_1089" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1BGTDbHj_FA3AQJUWvqpKf6lGPGy0p5JK" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 531px; height: auto;"></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><img id="id_df91_1b4c_3e6_931c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1DGBUny-ySY8KfEHM7aH0dodMpaFVL6B2" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 533px; height: auto;"></div><div><br></div><div><font size="4">There were a couple of photographs that offered proof that they didn’t just lay around the house the entire time…</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><img id="id_cc4f_2322_80b1_5e13" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1NTEWWxQzORwA9ZAT3R4V1xSne55b2COr" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 535px; height: auto;"></div><div><br></div><div><img id="id_62b2_775_94f1_9d9f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1BPuYVF-ADOWTO7jDpVhRKSL6aBPz0m95" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 535px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">In case you’re wondering, neither Lucy or Paula and Ron were injured during the weekend.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span><br><font size="4"><br></font></div></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-11381289574759492282024-02-28T06:32:00.001-05:002024-02-28T06:32:37.473-05:00 Peace-lite<font size="4">I attended a Bible study last night at my church. This isn’t something our church does in mass very often. We are a small group oriented congregation. But last night’s study was entitled, <i>The Gospel and…Peace. </i>I was interested in the subject so I went.</font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">It was led by David Dwight, our senior pastor, a super smart dude who has a gift for making even the most complex theological subjects accessible and clear. He talked and I listened.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">We sat at large tables. The auditorium was packed, probably 250 people or more. I met a couple who were brand new to our church and brand new to Richmond. Nice people. There were cookies and coffee, a Q&A after the study and a time for table discussion. I left as flummoxed by the concept of <i>peace </i>as I have ever been.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">David was eloquent. He explained all about the nature of peace and how it is defined in scripture etc etc. When it came time for discussion with my table mates I asked this question: <i>Has anyone at this table ever been totally at peace? </i>A couple of them answered in the positive, using examples from their lives that were quite comforting. My answer was and remains…<i>No. Never.</i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font size="4">The closest I come to peace is my time in Maine each year. Being on that lake, emerged in nature’s beauty, fishing in the quiet of the morning from my kayak is as peaceful as I have been. But it’s never complete peace. No matter how perfect the day, how idyllic the conditions, there is always a part of my brain that is alive with turbulence. It has always been so, and here’s the thing—I’m not sure I <i style="font-weight: bold;">want </i>complete and perfect peace. I don’t know what I would do with it. Let me explain.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">I can only speak from my own experience on this subject and when I do I understand full well that I am an outlier. My mind is never at rest. Even my body is seldom at rest. The most difficult part of last night was sitting still for the entire hour and a half, (I couldn’t, incidentally, spending twenty minutes or so standing up in the back of the room). I am always thinking about what’s next, trying to anticipate what’s coming, consequently, there is never anything approaching mental stillness. If you’re thinking that this sounds exhausting and strange, you might be right. But in my 42 year business career it has served me well. It’s that very restlessness that motivates me to action and accomplishment. In addition, as a writer my mind is always searching and probing stuff trying to discover inspiration. For me I have always thought that peace isn’t attainable for people like me this side of eternity, and I suppose I’m ok with that.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">I wish is wasn’t so. Being able to turn off the constant churning of thoughts and ideas bouncing around inside me would be nice. For now, I’ll settle for <i>peace-lite.</i></font></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-22366232752545355032024-02-26T20:58:00.001-05:002024-02-27T21:22:46.570-05:00 Special Delivery!!<font size="4">I was told by my publisher that I would be getting the final proof copy of <i>A Life of Dreams </i>from the printer soon. They said it would probably take a couple of weeks, but it would be delivered through the US Postal Service. Well, guess what I found in the mailbox twenty minutes ago??</font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><img id="id_f012_c6c2_a748_a10e" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1XyVrvpQip2rzfc4_dnd7pTB5NSJDlCRP" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 543px; height: auto;"></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><img id="id_2a6a_ce9d_d757_567c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1cHb8TQc_W2aL314n5KJu_J6-aJL62nbD" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 545px; height: auto;"></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4">I must admit that my heart beat a bit faster when I saw the package. When I got it inside and held it in my hands, well…it was a pretty cool feeling. What’s so hard to believe is that this one was written over ten years ago. The idea came to me while I was at Best Buy watching a poker tournament on a huge wall of television screens. It must have been on fifty screens at the same time and as I watched the idea popped into my head—<i>Wonder what it would be like to have a super intuitive gift to always win at games of chance? How might having such a gift change a person? Would it ultimately be seen as a gift or an curse? </i>Now, ten years later, I’m sitting here holding a book in my hands that sprang from that ever so brief experience.</font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><br></font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4">So cool. And so terrifying. Suppose people hate it? Suppose it flops? </font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><br></font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4">Regardless, it’s done. I did it.<br></font></span><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span><br><font size="4"><br></font></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-4248359320371989892024-02-24T08:04:00.001-05:002024-02-24T08:34:42.383-05:00 A Friend’s Question<font size="4">A friend recently asked me, “How come you don’t write about politics much anymore?” It was a fair question. I just checked and he was right. So far this year exactly one of my 26 posts have been about politics. One reason I don’t write about politics anymore is—nobody reads when I do. That one post entitled “Are You Ready For Election 2024?”, garnered a whopping 38 views, which for <i>The Tempest </i>is pathetically low. I would imagine that a fair number of my regular readers know of my disdain for the Republican front runner and don’t care to be reminded. But its not just that, most people are either sick of politics are profoundly embarrassed by their candidate, and would just rather not think too long on the subject.</font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">Its a shame. I’ve probably had more fun making fun of politics and politicians than any other topic in the 13 year history of this blog. For one thing, its always been such a target-rich environment. Per capita, people in politics do more cringeworthy things than any other demographic in the country, even celebrities. The profession has inspired more jokes and joke-making than anything I can think of in my lifetime. But now, none of them are funny anymore. Absolutely nothing about American politics is even remotely funny. So, I have chosen to move on to other topics. That’s the answer to my friend’s question.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-8380220485971461392024-02-23T06:29:00.001-05:002024-02-23T08:57:01.514-05:00 My Wife’s Tenacity<font size="4">The people who are publishing my book tell me that I simply <i>have to have </i>a website. The fact that I already have a blog is nice, but not sufficient, I’m told with regularity. No, I need a stand alone <b><i>Author website</i></b>. Once my book goes live it will be the perfect place for people to go to buy the thing, they say. Plus, I am constantly reminded that whenever someone buys my book on my author website I make much more money per book than I will if they buy it on Amazon or Kindle. Of course, creating and maintaining a proper website isn’t cheap. In addition I know less than nothing about how to create a website on account of the fact that I’m an idiot. When my wife found out how much it was going to cost me to have someone make a website for me she said something like, “Are you kidding? I could figure it out. Let me do it.”</font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">This was three or four weeks ago. Ever since, Pam has been laboring late into the night essentially teaching herself how to create a website, something I could have done if I wasn’t lazy and impatient. Instead, although she has other much more fun things she could be doing, she has been trial and erroring her way through learning a new skill for three weeks. Last night she finally showed me what she has come up with. </font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">So here’s the thing with Pam. She is a natural with the computer, but this process was completely different than anything she had ever attempted to do before and it was quite frustrating for her. It was the exact opposite of <i>intuitive. </i>I suspect that these website construction services are deliberately obtuse and clunky so novices will throw their hands up in frustration and say, “To hell with this, I’ll just pay them a gazillion dollars to do it for me!” But these people never met my wife. When it comes to difficult tasks, Pam is <i style="font-weight: bold;">tenacious. </i>The more difficult it gets the more determined she becomes to figure it out. Instead of losing her patience like her husband would do, she doubles down on stubbornness.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">The site went live last night but I will not give out the address just yet because she says there are still things she needs to do. But I can tell you this…its so much better than what I was picturing it would be in my head. I love it, actually. She made it easy to navigate and super easy to buy the book. Once again, I am in her debt. I’ll just add it to everything else I owe her.</font></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-40464239599037888052024-02-19T15:42:00.001-05:002024-02-19T16:01:43.222-05:00 The Next Great Children’s Book<font size="4">Many years ago, in my earlier days of fatherhood, I developed the particular skill of telling my children bedtime stories with, um..how shall I put this?…<i>colorful </i>plot lines. These stories were rich with life lessons, as well as a fair amount of casual violence. Nevertheless, they were quite popular with the kids, if not their mother. Well, last night I was given the opportunity to reprise my role as the Stephen King of the bedtime story, when Kaitlin and Jon’s dear friends, Bailey and Matthew Wolfer shockingly asked me if I would do the honors for their two adorable boys, Milo and Theo. What follows is a rough summation of the story that poured forth from the muddled grey mush of my brain in the pitch black darkness of the boy’s room. The seeds of this particular classic were provided by a picture that little Theo (age 4) had drawn during dinner of an alien with six hands…</font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4"><i>The setting was the frozen tundra of Alaska where two brothers lived in a cold and drafty igloo. Their largely absent parents had a rule that if they ever needed to go outside to pee they must do so quickly and return to the relative safety of the igloo asap. But on this particular morning, the boys were feeling adventurous. Before long they found themselves on the cusp of disaster when they notice that a (herd? Pack?) of polar bears had risen out of the icy waters and was about to charge the two helpless waifs with murderous intent.</i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i>Just when things looked hopeless they noticed a bright light above, red, blue and green rotating lights hovering in the sky directly above the scene of potential slaughter. Suddenly, three legs shot out from the bottom of the craft as it prepared to touch down on the snowy ground. Then a giant set of stairs extended down from the spacecraft and the Alien warrior of poor Theo’s earlier imaginings arrived on the scene. At first, the boys were convinced that they had been saved from becoming the polar bear’s dinner only to be abducted by this giant extraterrestrial warrior with six hands—each fitted with a different and unique weapon of mass destruction. But instead, the warrior alien turned towards the six flummoxed polar bears and began their wholesale and systematic elimination. The first polar bear fell victim to a shot between the eyes from the handgun of arm number one. The second polar bear’s fate was sealed when the Samurai sword attached to hand number two decapitated the helpless beast. At this point in the narrative I thought it necessary to point out that the deluge of blood spewing out from this unhappy result clashed terribly with the pristine clean and white surface of the heretofore innocent tundra landscape…(teaching the boys about imagery and the irony of perception in the process). When the third polar bear noticed that the only weapon attached to arm number three was a simple whip, he snorted contemptuously (yet more irony, illustrating the time honored truth that pride indeed cometh before the fall). Before bear number three could get the smirk of overconfidence off his furry face, he too found his severed head flying through the frigid air!</i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i>Now there were three polar bears left, and suddenly the boys were worried. The warrior alien’s fourth arm was equipped with a howitzer weapon which had only one shell in it and his remaining arms were normal hands with no weapons at all. But then they noticed the warrior alien alter his strategy towards the polar bears. Suddenly the warrior alien turned from menacing to charming, asking the polar bears if they fancied playing a card game. Clearly, the warrior alien had done his homework, knowing that since ancient days, the polar bears were famous throughout the universe for their skills at poker and gin rummy. In fact the very reason that polar bears lived in the arctic was because thousand of years earlier they had fled the jungles of Africa for Alaska because of how difficult it had become to find an honest game in the jungle what with all the cheetahs. In a shocking surprise, the three surviving polar bears agreed to sit down for a quick game with this creature who had just dispatched three of their brethren so spectacularly. As soon as they sat down of course, in a development that surprised literally no one, The warrior alien let loose with the howitzer, killing all three in a spectacular explosion.</i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i>Once the dust settled, the two boys found themselves face to face with the warrior alien. Tension filled the air as they all wondered what would be their fate. Suddenly the warrior alien bent down on four arms to get to their eye-level. Then he spoke in a thunderous voice…</i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i>“Now, what will I do with these two disobedient boys? Did not your parents specifically tell you to go outside and pee but then return to the igloo at once? And yet, here you both are where you shouldn’t be, witnessing things that very well may scar you for life.”</i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i>At this point the older brother spoke up and pointed out the obvious—“Well, I notice that your two remaining arms are only fitted with hands like ours. You have no more weapons. What can you possibly do to us?”</i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i>Even though the warrior alien’s face was hidden in a dome of metal, it did seem to crack a shiny smile right before he said the fateful words…</i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i>“Apparently you two earthlings have never heard of the Great Tickle Monster!!!</i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i>At this point, the warrior alien grabbed the two boys began tickling them unmercifully with his human like hands, so much so that the boys were eventually reduced to giggling, hysterical piles of arms and legs. The warrior alien then said, “Have you learned your lesson, human boys?? Always obey your parents!!”</i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i>The warrior alien walked back up the stairs of his ship, the three legs withdrew from sight and the rotating red, blue and green lights disappeared into the starry expanse.</i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i>The End.</i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font size="4">Since the boy’s father is a graphic artist by trade, I see a best seller coming in the children’s fiction genre once his illustrations bring this story to life.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">Move over, “Goodnight Moon”</font></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-71727047509558591852024-02-16T08:34:00.001-05:002024-02-16T08:34:48.253-05:00 My Ridiculous Wife<font size="4">Ok, so on Valentine’s Day I decided to get Pam one of her favorite Frappuccinos from Starbucks. To make it just a bit better I bought her a special Valentine’s Day coozie with red and pink hearts all over it. I took it over to her school and asked the front desk people to deliver it to her since I can no longer take it to her myself on account of the fact that we live in a country where maniacs with guns sometimes decide to shoot up random elementary schools. (Grrrr). Anyhow, maybe ten minutes later she sent me this picture…</font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><img id="id_d33a_3200_866c_1d15" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1hv44aA9rt269typk3ihAq7dw-yM2_XSL" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 524px; height: auto;"></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4">I have had the pleasure of her company for over 40 years and sometimes I still can’t believe it. She is beautiful inside and out, the loveliest woman I know. I mean…just look at her. While she took this picture she was surrounded by 5 unruly kindergarteners and still managed to look this good. Ridiculous.</font><br></span><br><font size="4"><br></font></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-59332596805257910492024-02-15T07:31:00.001-05:002024-02-15T07:34:22.019-05:00 Just Personally Interacting Over Here<font size="4">Over the past couple of months I have read more than a few articles about what is described as an epidemic of loneliness in America. The basic idea is that with the revolutionary arrival of the internet and the various social media platforms that have come to dominate our culture, we have slowly replaced personal interaction time with screen time—something that you are doing this very minute by reading this blog! While it might be easy to go overboard with this sort of analysis, it has caused me to question my own record when it comes to personal interaction with others. How much of it do I do in a given day, week or month?</font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">So I’ve conducted a little experiment this past week. I’ve actually attempted to count the number of people per day that I have had at least a casual encounter with during each day. For purposes of this experiment, I have chosen not to count people like the woman at the checkout counter at Publix or my waiter at lunch at El Paso the other day. I’m talking about real encounters with people I know and see on at least a semi-regular basis. Here’s what I found.</font></div><div><br></div><div><font size="4"><b><i><br></i></b></font></div><div><font size="4">Twelve people at my office. These are people who I know quite well and interact with almost every day—Doug, Rob, Scott, Lynwood, Kristin, Herb, Blaire, Allison, Penny, Lindsey, Brenda and Austin.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">My neighbor and her three kids who I see frequently because they live next door—Jamie, Cash, Kennedy, and Sully.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">A friend I have lunch with usually once a week—Tom.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">Various clients I meet with face to face in my office—4-5 each week.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">During my shift at my church’s Cafe, I hang with my boss and several regulars—Jennifer</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">At church each Sunday I touch base with friends and fellow volunteers at Hope Thrift—Chip, Lynn, Tera, Isaac, Bernadette, Leslie, Robyn, Doug</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">Most Sunday’s I go to lunch after church with the same group—Paula, Ron, Gordon, Leigh Ann</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">Ok, so it looks like in a normal week I have encounters with roughly 35 other human beings. I have no idea whether of not this number is high or low compared to others, but it seems like a reasonable number of people. Now, how about the number of people I encounter every week via <i>social media in some form</i>? How many friends do I make contact with by either text or messaging services in an average week?</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">A quick glance through my phone tells me that I have ongoing back and forth chats with a lot of the <i style="font-weight: bold;">same people </i>I mingle with, with the exception of five or six people I know quite well who live out of state or somewhere besides Short Pump—Kaitlin, Patrick, Tif, Pam, Rusty</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">So, apparently I am the exception to the rule in this fragmented world of ours. I actually meet and mingle with far more people face to face than I do online. What about you?</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><img id="id_ce59_942c_aee6_1dd4" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1mKr9Fc1aIQ3ZxV-R1DjSoljfMF6aGrD5" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 541px; height: auto;"><br><br><font size="4"><br></font></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-3196583774591055162024-02-13T07:29:00.001-05:002024-02-13T07:30:01.011-05:00 It’s Getting Real<font size="4">Yesterday I received the finished manuscript of my book from the Publisher. At this point in the process no more changes can be made. It has been edited and proofed to within an inch of its life. For better or for worse it is done. If there is a misspelled word or misplaced punctuation mark it has managed to avoid detection by what seems like a million eyes. So be it. The cover art has been chosen. The back cover teaser has been written. We have a finished product. What comes next are consultations with marketing and promotion people who will school me on the best ways to get the thing in front of the book buying public. They will instruct me in the ways of social media and digital presence. I will be given promotion flyers for local bookstores along with suggestions of how to schedule readings etc.. It is all a bit terrifying.</font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">The story I am currently writing which had laid dormant for months has suddenly sprung back to life in my head. I have been writing every night for over a week in that little universe. Meanwhile I am in the midst of my busiest season at work, meetings on top of meetings with client after client, an avalanche of numbers with dollar signs. My brain is tired. What I need is a proper distraction. I need a road trip to see my kids. So Pam, Lucy and I will be heading down to Columbia for a visit with my first born this weekend. We had hoped to arrange a triangle tour and hit up Nashville to visit with Patrick after leaving Kaitlin’s but weren’t able to get that arranged because of schedules. But we will head down there later in March. By the time April gets here <i>A Life of Dreams </i>will have dropped and will hopefully be flying off the shelves. Maybe that’s a bit optimistic, more like <i>selling briskly. </i>Who am I kidding? I am a rookie novelist. Sales will be <i>spotty. </i>However the thing sells, I will have accomplished a life long goal of becoming a <i style="font-weight: bold;">semi-professional </i>writer—at age 65. </font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">Better late than never.</font></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-21306422690932739972024-02-11T16:54:00.001-05:002024-02-11T17:36:09.554-05:00 Of Course I’m watching the Super Bowl!<font size="4">Pam and I will be watching the Super Bowl this evening. Football is not my sport, especially the professional version. I will forever be a baseball guy. But I wouldn’t miss the Super Bowl. Its not just the game, its the extravaganza. First there’s the anxiety that builds leading up to the singing of the national anthem. Will they butcher the thing or create something beautiful? Then there’s the commercials, many of which are quite clever, a few of which are hilarious, and many where you shake your head and ask aloud, *<i style="font-weight: bold;">WTHWT??? </i>Of course there’s the halftime show. Often the performer is designed to appeal to Boomers, some guy who’s best years were several decades ago. Other times its some dazzling new star who most Boomers have never heard of. This year I believe its Usher, which seems a nice tweener choice.</font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">Of course this year the ratings are predicted to be through the roof, some saying that it will be the most watched TV show in the history of television. Why? The answer is…Taylor Swift. The wildly popular pop star is dating the second best player on the Chiefs, Travis Kelce. For reasons that escape my powers of comprehension, there are millions of people who despise this woman, even more millions who actually believe she is part of a vast conspiracy to help Joe Biden win the 2024 election…or something. There are many fans of football who have loudly complained about the fact that during the 3 plus hours it takes to broadcast an NFL game, the cameras point to Taylor Swift whenever her boyfriend makes an outstanding play on the field, for approximately 45 seconds of those 3 hours. These irate fans say that this 45 second inclusion of a pop star hopping up and down with glee in a luxury box aside Mr. Kelce’s family and friends are somehow cheapening the game…a sentence that literally made me laugh just typing it. Since I am largely agnostic on the subject of the sanctity of professional football, I have no opinion on this issue. I do wonder why Miss Swift is hated so vociferously by so many people. I wouldn’t consider myself a fan. I can only name two or three of her songs. But what little I know of her are mostly admirable things. First of all she writes her own music, no small feat. Second, she is a savvy businesswoman who has been quiet adept at sticking it to one of the most self-dealing industries in America—the music business. Third, you are free to like or dislike her music, but she is an honest to God musician, not the product of computer generated algorithms masquerading as music. She plays the guitar and piano and writes songs. What a concept.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><img id="id_9036_a866_858a_a34c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1R6jWpFUjWYtbpH5C_7QozDWtX5OrNb_k" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 546px; height: auto;"><br><br><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">As far as the actual game goes, this one might be good. One team is led by the best player in the game, quarterback Patrick Mahomes. The other team’s quarterback still lives at home with his parents and his entire salary amounts to pocket change on Mahomes’ balance sheet…yet his team comes into the game as a slight favorite. Although this David v Goliath thing makes for a nice story I don’t buy it for a minute. I expect Patrick Mahomes and his team to dominate.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">The real reason Pam and I will be watching tonight is because it gives us an excuse to eat delicious and unhealthy food. Pam will make some amazing snacks which I will post pictures of later. She will also provide Super Bowl Bingo cards for us to fill in—many with Taylor Swift themed items—which should be great fun.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">While we’re watching we will both be keeping a sharp eye out for any possible examples of Taylor Swift Psy-ops.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">* <b><i>what the hell was that???</i></b></font></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-69722505430396672602024-02-07T20:05:00.001-05:002024-02-07T20:09:14.786-05:00Pain of the Month Club<font size="4">When I was a much younger man old people really got on my nerves. For purposes of this discussion I will define “old” as people at least 60 years old. My sister Paula and I used to roll our eyes at each other every time Mom and Dad invited some of their friends over for dinner. We knew what was coming. For old people dinner time conversation invariably degraded into an episode of <i>General Hospital. </i>It would go something like this:</font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">Mom: I talked with Erma yesterday and the poor woman is struggling with the colitis again.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">Geezer #1: That poor thing. And its not like George can take care of her what with his sugar diabetes.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">Geezer #2: You know I told George to go see a specialist back when he got that hernia in his groin but he tried to tough it out and now look at him.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">Dad: Well at least neither of us picked up that Whooping cough when it was going around back in the Spring.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">Mom: Maybe not, but I declare honestly, I would rather have the whooping cough than have to put up with sugar diabetes.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">Needless to say, this sort of dinner time conversation didn’t exactly aid in digestion. But it seemed that every single time my parents got together with their friends all they talked about was their interminable list of ailments. Fast forward roughly 50 years to the sorry state that I now find myself in.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">It is a humbling experience when you recognize your parent’s behavior in yourself, especially when you become guilty of the very same things they did that bugged the daylights out of you. Unfortunately, I have discovered the reason behind their often tortured dinner time accounts. Here’s the deal…since I have been in my 60’s literally every month of my life brings some new physical irritant onto the scene. I will wake up one morning and out of the blue one of my feet feels like I spent the entire night walking across a football field full of Legos. Then, as mysteriously as it appeared it will vanish just about the time I’ve decided it might be time to go see a doctor. Then, the next month it will be an unexplained throbbing pain in my left thumb…<i>I’m not making this up. </i>For weeks I will go back and forth on whether or not I should go get it looked at and then BAMM…its gone, replaced by a burning sensation in my left hip which turns up out of thin air. It occurs to me that if I went to the doctor each time my body sprouts a new pain I might as well see if they will set up a cot for me in the back room.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">So I was thinking that I need to do something proactively to spare my own children from having to endure the same kinds of dinner conversations I grew up with. Suppose I could start a chat room of some kind strictly for those of us over the age of 60 where we could all gather to discuss all of our most recent physical humiliations amongst ourselves—sort of like a safe space for seniors to discuss our health woes. I was thinking of calling it the Pain of the Month Club. As soon as you wake up with hair suddenly growing out of your—I don’t know—-eyeballs, you could just log in and get the conversation rolling with:</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">Me: Hey guys! Didn’t somebody here have hair that started growing out of their earlobes so bad they had to start braiding it? Well, top this—-this past week hair started growing out of my left eyeball!!</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">Then 30 minutes later when you discover that you aren’t alone, that in fact people have noticed hair growing out of every single orifice of the body since they started on Social Security, you’ve gotten it all out of your system and the horrifying subject need never be spoken of again around the children.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">I’m determined people. I am not going to be like my parents at the dinner table!!!</font></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-14953640806600182932024-02-06T06:50:00.001-05:002024-02-06T06:50:58.642-05:00 Bio Pic Search<font size="4">In preparation for the publication of my novel, I am creating an author website on the advice of my publisher. This will be a site where people can come to learn about me, the book, my blog, and also an ideal place to purchase said book. Actually, <i style="font-weight: bold;">“I” </i>am doing no such thing. Pam will be the creator of this website because when it comes to this sort of thing she is amazingly talented, as everyone in our neighborhood knows every time they receive the <i>Wythe Trace Newsletter. </i></font><div><font size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font size="4">So yesterday she sends me a text telling me that she will be scouring through our 10,000 plus digital photograph library to find an appropriate one to serve as the Bio picture for this website. This would save us the hassle and expense of having to pay a professional for headshots. After a while she sends me this one with the simple caption: <i>Bio Picture??</i></font></div><div><font size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><img id="id_ab4d_604a_3833_8868" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1HSlRsn2yqd4g40hyzYRxPHEpvIvlb0V1" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 513px; height: auto;"></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4">Ahh yes…who could forget last summer’s <i>Nudity Day </i>on Quantabacook? </font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><br></font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4">But, two can play this game, I thought. So, I countered with this beauty from that time I had an allergic reaction to something which caused both of my eyes to swell…</font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><br></font></span></div><div><img id="id_7da4_30bd_6cec_4f21" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1PcOdmrtjFmOy5i7cS8JK9rKPicH5mIxo" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 508px; height: auto;"></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4">Not to be deterred she sent me this classic…</font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><br></font></span></div><div><img id="id_2672_5fd_865d_937e" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1ppssq9INKZ9orecE9mTZLCJcUIHQzzxN" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 506px; height: auto;"></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4">Ultimately she decided on a more conventional shot which she sent me along with this observation: “<i>That right there is a guy that makes my heart skip a beat.”</i></font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><i><br></i></font></span></div><div><img id="id_3142_80f2_615a_862b" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1k07yCPPZhID1irz8e6zIJUCWKspu7UZl" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 503px; height: auto;"></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4">…To which I replied, “<i>Great! All we need in this family is someone else with an irregular heartbeat!”</i></font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><i><br></i></font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4">To any kids out there who might stumble across this post, here’s my advice—marry someone who makes you laugh.<br></font></span><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><i><br></i></font></span><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><br></font></span><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><br></font></span><br><font size="4"><i><br></i></font></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-86217995359756761762024-02-03T16:37:00.001-05:002024-02-03T16:41:18.970-05:00 My First Story Time Gig<font size="4">As many of you know I became a volunteer at my church’s Cafe as soon as it opened eight months ago. I help open the place up on Friday mornings from 7:00 to 10:00. My boss is the indomitable Jennifer Glotz who comes equipped with a personality which is the equivalent of three cups of espresso. She is a dynamo of action and ideas and her leadership makes the volunteer experience an awful lot more fun that it probably should be! Recently, she came up with the idea of Friday morning <i style="font-weight: bold;">Story Time, </i>whereby we invite stay at home Mom’s or Dad’s along with babysitting grandparents to bring their kids to the Cafe at 10:00 while one of our volunteers reads to them. The idea was that during the <i>bleak mid-winter</i>, here was an opportunity to get out of the house and have some interaction with other humans and maybe a cup of coffee in the bargain. Yesterday was just the second such <i style="font-weight: bold;">Story Time</i>, and featured a new, throughly untested and risky reader.</font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">Me.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">I had stuck around the previous week to see how the first <i style="font-weight: bold;">Story Time </i>was going to go down. Last Friday there were two really young kids along with three older, elementary aged kids.The little ones sat in the reader’s lap while the big kids sat in their own chairs reading their own books trying to look disinterested. They were clearly too cool for this particular scene! I figured that this gig would be a breeze.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">But yesterday there was a totally different crowd and vibe. There must have been ten kids in all, along with a wide assortment of parents and grandparents. Most of the kids were toddlers with varying attention spans that ranged from two minutes to two seconds. Some of them sat with their parents and hung on every word that came out of my mouth—which was a bit intimidating. I kept thinking, “<i>No, no kids. I am an unreliable teacher! Don’t trust anything I say to you!!” </i>Others would listen for a minute then wander off, then suddenly reappear out of nowhere at your side just to check in on the story. But talk about some adorable pups, Holy Cow. As I read from Dr. Seuss about the trip to the Pet Store their little eyes were wide with fascination. When I started reading about the Mom with six arms they seemed hesitant, but by the time the Mom had 16 arms they were in on the joke and relieved that the strange and much too loud man wasn’t a lunatic after all.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><img id="id_175e_cebb_6171_7bda" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1JJhUUxkThVYsvBDJFOSlKnZN8Ui73DSL" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 545px; height: auto;"></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4">I think that the kids had a good time. The parents and grandparents seemed to enjoy themselves too.</font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><br></font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><i style="font-weight: bold;">I…</i>had a blast.<br></font></span><br><font size="4"><br></font></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-33153841514083379922024-02-01T06:54:00.001-05:002024-02-01T09:36:30.992-05:00Poor Elmo…<font size="4">Sometimes I see something in the news that stops me dead in my tracks. Such was the case last night when I saw a story that involved the Sesame Street puppet named <b><i>Elmo. </i></b></font><div><font size="4"><b><i><br></i></b></font></div><div><img id="id_5ad2_18ab_3783_ca8e" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1YtPbjPOJF58o3qQ1EO5cyiD_2H5qUkVl" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 527px; height: auto;"></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4">Yep. This guy. Apparently he has his own social media account and occasionally sends out thoughts to his hundreds of thousands of followers which was the case yesterday when he offered up this:</font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><br></font></span></div><div><img id="id_3663_bf18_747c_c75c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1Y55wPB5ancstHYLnZY3bhD1Bt1gE5eCf" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 525px; height: auto;"></div><div><br></div><div><font size="4">The response, at least from the sort of people who follow Sesame Street characters on Twitter, was overwhelming. This innocent enough post at last check has been viewed a staggering 140 <i style="font-weight: bold;">million </i>times. Elmo would be forgiven if his follow-up post was something like “<i>Sorry I asked!” </i>What followed Elmo’s question was a torrent of angst unleashed by the American public which I will summarize thusly…</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">“Since you asked Elmo, I am anxious, fearful, tired, depressed and broke. Also, I am dogged by an overwhelming sense of existential dread and despair.”</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">The negative responses that have poured in to Elmo were quickly noted by the Mental Health community as evidence that more spending is required on mental health services. Even President Biden felt compelled to put his two cents worth in. Soon every grievance group in the United States piped in to point out that mental health issues <i>“hit women and minorities hardest”, </i>just in case white men were thinking of stealing the spotlight. Finally, Elmo himself chimed in with this:</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><img id="id_7999_158a_e671_b0bc" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1Sp7REz7x41H9xXd9RZGLRgj3YTligOdD" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 553px; height: auto;"></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4">By the time Elmo came along, my kids had moved on from Sesame Street so he and I have no history to speak of. I do remember the <i>Tickle Me Elmo </i>craze, but other than that, I got nothing. But, as cartoonish characters go he seems nice enough. And, I suppose it was nice of him to ask how we are doing. But the onslaught of negative responses to his question are puzzling to me. What would motivate anyone to answer him with an airing of every negative thought that ever entered the human heart? Our ancestors and their ancestors before them lived lives of quiet desperation where the issues weren’t “<i>I’m anxious, depressed and broke” </i>so much as it was, “<i>I’m exhausted, hungry and cold.” </i>But even so, they weren’t the kind of people who would offer up their tales of woe to total strangers or even their closest friends if given the smallest opening. All Elmo had to do was post a five word question on the internet and suddenly 140 million people were on the couch!</font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><br></font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4">Yes, I understand that we are living in confusing times. Yes, I know that life is hard and there are times when its easy to feel overwhelmed. Yes, mental health is as important as physical health. But, while life in 2024 has its challenges, this isn’t the Black Plague, people. This isn’t the Blitz in London. We aren’t literally starving and freezing while standing in soup lines during the Great Depression. Most of the people who answered Elmo did so using devices containing the combined wisdom of the world delivered to the palms of their hands. On those devices are thousands of mental health apps offering help with every emotional crisis known to exist in the human experience. Never in the history of civilization have average people had such easy access to every slice of human knowledge. Never in the history of civilization has a smaller percentage of the human population lived in poverty, without food and shelter, running water and access to health care. But don’t tell that to Elmo. He would be forgiven for coming to the conclusion that his fellow Americans must be living through the darkest moment in the entire universe.</font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><br></font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4">Oh and…love you too, Elmo.<br></font></span><br><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><br></font></span><br><div><br></div></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-15125247959024490352024-01-29T21:11:00.001-05:002024-01-29T21:12:20.823-05:00 Room for Rent<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">It was a classic farmhouse, white with black shutters. A wide porch which ran across the front sheltered a double door and three windows on each side of the entrance. For years Eleanor would attach seasonal flags to the pole out front, ones she had made out of old scraps from worn out sails. Now there were no flags, just the rusted metal base that wept brown tears down the white column by the front steps. The shrubs around the porch had grown wild, long entangled branches reaching this way and that. The big house was over 150 years old and was finally showing its age, just three years of neglect having taken a toll on the place. But nobody in town blamed Elly. It wasn’t her fault that her husband had been taken from her so tragically. Nobody could have been expected to keep everything together after finding their husband dead on the kitchen floor from a massive heart attack the morning following his 60th birthday. Three years had passed since the morning that changed everything and now Elly had turned 60. Instead of a barbecue with fifty people, she had spent the night alone in the big house watching reruns of Foyle’s War, letting her cellphone go to voicemail.</font></p><p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4"><br></font></p><p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><img id="id_afb4_18a1_a7cc_faf" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1K9YbjCl1el2wY3-Qg-pGk0EzPOpd-JAY" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 529px; height: auto;"><br><br><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She had become the talk of the town. Her withdrawal from public life, while at first understandable, had now become cause for great concern in town. One by one her friends had been shut out from her life and now seemingly everyone had an opinion as to the mental state of their beloved former friend. Some claimed that her and Will had one of those rare, magical connections from which it was impossible to recover once it is lost so abruptly. Others, less romantically inclined, worried that by walling herself inside that old house for so long, she was simply losing her mind from lack of human interaction. Still others fretted over the condition of her soul, having been shocked by her disappearance from church at precisely the time when the place and its people could have done her immeasurable good. But mostly, the good and decent people of Claremont missed Elly. She had been the unofficial mayor of the town for as long as anyone could remember. To lose someone so dear, so essential to the harmony of their associations, had cast a cloud over all of them.</span></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">A handful of her closest friends still paid her visits. They would bring flowers for her kitchen table and donuts from Vale’s. Elly would greet them unenthusiastically and try not to be rude, listening to the latest news and gossip. But each time she heard car tires in the driveway an internal clock would begin ticking. Twenty minutes was about as long as she could manage. As she awkwardly began inviting everyone to follow her outside to the driveway, she would thank them all for coming, hug them in the most perfunctory way possible, then wave at them as they disappeared in the pines by the road. Almost every visit found Elly in her pajamas, hair up in a bun, looking skinnier than ever. The friends would talk about nothing else for days…<span style="font-style: italic;">Elly looks like a ghost.</span></font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">What Elly couldn't bear to say was that the mere sight of them made her sick to her stomach. Each of her friends brought to mind memories of Will, glimpses of his ghost smiling and laughing with them at some forgotten dinner. She simply couldn’t take on a single additional memory. Her heart was full enough. She felt as if she was drowning in faded visions of him, maybe just one more would finish her off. As each month passed she began to draw a strange and dangerous comfort from her loneliness. She knew it wasn’t good for her, she could feel herself slipping away from the world, but the thought of driving into town to have breakfast at Tilly’s felt like a fate far worse than loneliness. Walking through those doors would be to invite a thousand fresh visions of him to rain down on her, something close to suicide.</font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">So she convinced herself that the old house was the safest place to be, the lesser evil of a series of imperfect choices that fate had foisted upon her. She had Netflix. She read book after book on her Kindle. She still found a measure of comfort from tending the garden. But Elly wasn’t accomplished at self-deception. After three years of grief and spiraling despair, she became aware of the role that she herself had played in that despair. By locking herself away in the fortress that had once been the most bustling exuberant house in town, she had denied herself almost all human contact out of a misguided self-preservation instinct which now had taken a toll. An accommodation would need to be made to preserve what was left of her sanity, but she still couldn’t agree to re-enter her old life in town. But, maybe a stranger. At least a stranger to her. She could rent one of the bedrooms upstairs, take on a tenant. One of the guest bedrooms had a full bath attached. It would be perfect for someone, as long as it wasn’t anyone she knew. Maybe having someone else in the house might bring greater perspective. They could exchange pleasantries in the morning, maybe share a cup of coffee. Just a few minutes a day of harmless human interaction would break through the heavy sadness that had gathered around her like a brewing storm. She would post several notices advertising the room for rent in every popular gathering spot in the three towns closest to Claremont. It would have been the perfect use for Facebook if she hadn’t deleted her account. But the condolence messages and crying emojis which had overrun the thing in the weeks after Will’s death had been too much to bear. Now, she regretted her impulsiveness. She would have to depend on homemade fliers on community bulletin boards…</font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-style: italic;"><font size="4">“Looking for someone to rent out one of my guest bedrooms with a private en-suite bathroom in a large farmhouse sitting on twenty acres. Lots of peace and quiet, yet still close to the towns of Claremont, Richland, and Twin Forks. Rent negotiable. No cats. Call for directions. 804-616-6832.”</font></span></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-style: italic;"><font size="4">E. Taylor</font></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.2px;"><font size="4"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">She had labored over the paragraph for three days. This was the sort of thing that Will was good at. He would have known exactly what to say. But he wasn’t available anymore. She would have to post the thing and hope for the best. Two weeks went by without a single response. Unfortunately she had been forced to answer every call which came in to her cellphone, which meant she had endured close to a dozen painfully awkward conversations with all of the people she had been successfully ghosting for the past couple of years. Of course she could have avoided this too if she hadn’t cleared out all of the contacts on her phone on one of the darker days six months after Will’s death. Just about the time she decided that renting the room wasn’t going to work out, a knock came on the door on Thursday the 14th of May at 9:11 in the morning</font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">She opened the front door and squinted through the screen. There stood a man carrying a back pack dropping a duffle bag on the porch at his feet. He held a folded piece of paper in his hand. He wore a clean pair of jeans and a long sleeve white t-shirt with a worn and faded Red Sox cap on his head.</font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">She was careful to keep the screen door latched as she asked, “Yes? May I help you?”</font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">He turned the sheet of paper and held it up for her to see. “I’m here about the room.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">His voice was deep with no discernible accent. She looked at the paper and recognized her words, her inadequacies as a writer of public notice bulletins laid bare. She had not specified that she was looking for female tenants only. And now he had asked a question which she would have to answer with a lie. The room had <span style="font-style: italic;">not </span>been rented. He had been the first prospect. She opened her mouth to lie when he folded the paper and slid it his back pocket with the words, “I don’t have a cat.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“You didn’t call for directions and I didn’t include an address on the flier.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“Wasn’t hard to find. Lots of information in that flier.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“And you’re…a man.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“Yes. I am. Didn’t know if you were a man or a woman. It just said ‘E. Taylor’. Could have been Ed or Elizabeth. Is the fact that I’m a man a deal breaker?”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">She started to feel silly for keeping the screen door locked and just a bit rude. Before Will’s death she would have invited the man inside and served him breakfast by now. Her old instincts began doing battle with her new fears. She should have been afraid and cautious for a million reasons, but the man standing on the porch appeared to have the most benign presence, a face with soft features that betrayed not the slightest suggestion of menace. She suddenly found herself unlatching the screen door and walking outside, offering him a seat at the tea table at the the far end of the porch.</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“Would you like some coffee?”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“No.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">She found herself surprisingly at peace with a stranger sitting in a chair where her husband sat nearly every morning in the spring. Maybe it was his peaceful demeanor, or maybe the novelty of human interaction.</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“I see where it says that the rent is ‘negotiable’. That’s a bit odd, that you were more emphatic about the no cats thing than the rent.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“Not really,” she said. “Its just that I have never rented a room before so I don’t really know what the going rate is.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“Do you live here alone?” His question seemed perfunctory, as if he already knew that she was alone, not creepy or calculated.</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“Yes. For the past three years. Yes. Alone.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“Awfully big house to live in all by yourself. Have you ever thought about selling? Downsizing?”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“I suppose I should, and I probably will at some point, but this is my home and I still love it, although it is a lot to keep up with.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“So is this room you have for rent for a regular tenant or are you looking for a caretaker?”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“Oh no. Just a tenant. I can handle the chores myself.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">He stopped asking questions and began looking the porch over carefully, taking in every detail of the workmanship of its construction. He stood up to get a better look at some detail of the window casement. “Really nice work…” he said to nobody in particular.</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">She heard herself ask him if he wanted to see the room. He answered yes and followed her inside. She stopped at the bottom of a beautiful wooden staircase, pointed up and said, “Its the third door on the left.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">He smiled at her briefly then walked up the stairs and disappeared down the hallway. She went into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. She could hear him shuffling around. It was the way of old houses, each room spoke to every other room. He stayed up there by himself for what seemed a long time. She wondered what he was doing, whether inviting him inside was a mistake. The coffeemaker let out its synthetic beep just as he appeared at the entrance to the kitchen.</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">She poured herself a cup and sat down at the table grateful to have something to do with her hands, and not knowing what to say to this strangely observant man who was now staring at every angle of her huge chef’s kitchen. Before her husband had died, she had lived in the room. Nothing in all of her life gave her more joy than conceiving of, planning for and cooking a meal for her friends. For the last three years she quickly passed through the kitchen on her way to somewhere else, anyplace else. Why had she chosen to sit at the kitchen table with him here? </font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“You have a beautiful home. Old houses like this were built differently. I find them fascinating.” He slowly walked across from the entrance to the table where she sat then stopped abruptly and looked down at the floor. He extended his right hand slowly, with all of his fingers stretched out to their full length, pointed at the floor at his feet. “But, something very sad happened here…on this very spot, I think..something very, very sad.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">She looked at him, eyes closed, head tilted sideways slightly as if he was trying to hear the story. She should have been disturbed by the scene playing out before her, this complete stranger transfixed directly over the spot where she had found her dead husband, but a calm came over her as she asked, “Who <span style="font-style: italic;">are </span>you?”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">The stranger opened his eyes at the sound of her voice, and returned to the present.</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“I’m just a guy looking for a place to live.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“No, what’s your name?”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“Gabriel.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“You sure you don’t want some coffee, Gabriel?”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“Maybe I will. It smells good.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“Thank you.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">She walked over to the counter and poured him a cup, then handed it to him black. He pulled out a chair and sat down. She remained standing behind the chair at the opposite end of the table. </font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“You’re right about the kitchen,” she said. “Something very sad did happen here.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“Yes. I’m sure of it. But I’m sorry for bringing it up. I didn’t want to upset you.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“Its ok. I found my husband collapsed on that very spot three years ago, dead from a heart attack. What I can’t figure out is how you knew?”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“I didn’t know about your husband. I just know things sometimes, things I have no business knowing. See, houses tell stories, especially old houses, if you’re paying attention. But, I’m very sorry about your husband. That must have been horrible for you.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“Yes. It was. It still is.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“But there’s something else about this room. Despite the sadness there’s also a lot of happiness here. It feels like a place of great laughter and gaiety. Ha, I know that’s an old word, but <span style="font-style: italic;">gaiety </span>seems to fit.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">She pulled the chair out from the table and sat down. Then she took a long sip of her coffee.</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“Before Will’s death, this was very much a happy room. Some of the happiest moments of my life have been spent here.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“Nothing happy for three years? That’s a long time.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“Honestly, this is probably the longest amount of time I’ve spent in this kitchen since that morning. There’s just too much regret and sorrow here. I suppose you’re right that rooms tell stories.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">He finished his coffee and sat the cup down softly on the placemat, looked at her with soft eyes and said, “I can understand your sorrow. I know a thing or two about sorrow. But why regret? Certainly you don’t blame yourself for your husband’s death. You said it was a heart attack.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">She looked across the table at the stranger. She desperately wanted him to leave but couldn’t bring herself to ask him. Instead, she surprised herself by thinking clearly about the night before her husband’s death for the first time. She felt the tears forming, shocked by the vulnerability she felt with the man with the ageless face and the odd name…Gabriel. She began.</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“It was his 60th birthday, the night before he died. Will wasn’t crazy about parties, although he tolerated them for my benefit. He didn’t want a big deal made over his 60th so I had invited maybe ten of our best friends to the private room at Tilly’s for dinner. It wasn’t a surprise since he hated those, so he had agreed to the plan and to the guest list. It was a delightful evening really. Will seemed to enjoy himself, or at least I thought he did. But when we got home everything went all wrong. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">Gabriel reached into his back pocket, removed a clean white cotton handkerchief and slid it across the table to her. She picked it up and held it tightly in her hands.</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“Will and I didn’t argue a lot. I mean, we disagreed often enough but never really had big fusses. But as soon as we got inside the house he made an odd comment about one of the guests at dinner that night. We are both really friends with his wife more than him, but we’ve both known them since high school. Anyway he had been seated next to me all night and I had engaged him in conversation like I always do. I didn’t think it was more or less than usual, but Will said a few uncharitable things about how I had been flirting with the guy all night. I was shocked, I really was. It was so unlike Will. Then he went what I thought was entirely too far when he brought up the fact that this man and I had dated for a month or so back in high school. 45 years ago!! After that I don’t know what happened, I just lost it. I said some ugly things and he gave as good as he got and before I knew it I had stormed out of the bedroom and slammed the door behind me in that bedroom you just looked at earlier. We spent the night in separate rooms for the first time in ages and over something so ridiculous.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">Now the tears were flowing, the handkerchief pressed to her eyes, and her words became halting and barely audible.</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“I didn’t hear him when he fell. I was down the hall, further away from the kitchen. If I had been in bed with him where I belonged, I would have heard him get up, then I would have heard him fall and I could have saved him. I know CPR, I could have stabilized him and called 911. Instead, I didn’t wake up until four hours after he passed.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">Gabriel got up slowly and pulled his chair around the table to get closer. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Taylor. I can see why you might feel like taking the blame, but you’re being awfully hard on yourself. Even if you had heard him fall, there’s no guarantee you could have…”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“NO!! You don’t get it..I <span style="font-family: HelveticaNeue-BoldItalic; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">was flirting with him</span><span style="font-style: italic;">!! </span>That’s the thing I can’t forgive myself for! Will was right! I spent the night of his birthday flirting with an old flame while I should have been paying attention to my husband. That will forever be the last memory of me he had. </font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">Gabriel set back in his chair and let her collect herself. It was the most awkward of silences. He looked on as she regained her composure thinking of how best to proceed. Finally he thought to say, “And thats why you so seldom come in your kitchen, to avoid your last memory of him.”</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">She looked up at him for the first time since she began telling her story and felt a surprising comfort for having told it. She could never have admitted such a personal failure to anyone she knew, but out of nowhere Gabriel had showed up and given her the chance.</font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><font size="4"><br></font></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">Gabriel stood up slowly and said, “Now this is why I don’t drink a lot of coffee. It makes me so hungry!”</font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">She smiled for the first time in months and shocked herself by asking, “Could I fix you something?”</font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“I suppose its been a while since you made a meal in this kitchen, but if you’re offering, I’d love an omelette.”</font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">She smiled again and looked away, “That’s strange. I used to be kind of known for my omelettes. But its been a long time and I’m almost certain I don’t have any eggs or even cheese.”</font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">It was Gabriel’s turn to smile. “I think if you look you’ll discover that you do.”</font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">She opened the refrigerator and saw the dozen eggs, the cheese and butter she hadn’t remembered buying. She looked back at him, bewildered by the events of the morning.</font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“This is one of those things I was talking about earlier that I have no business knowing.”</font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">He stood by the counter and watched her artful touch with eggs and cheese. She melted a slab of butter in the skillet, cracked three eggs into a clear Pyrex bowl gracefully, adding salt and pepper before whisking with a fork. After pouring the eggs into the skillet she added the ground cheddar onto the light yellow surface, never touching the mixture with anything. Instead she twisted the handle of the skillet carefully with her wrist like she had done it her entire life. When the time was right she suddenly curved the eggs over onto themselves making a perfect crescent of omelette perfection then slid it onto a plate in one tidy motion. Gabriel cut it open with the side of his fork and watched the melted cheese flow slowly out of the middle onto the plate, then took a bite.</font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“I’m thinking that it would be a shame for a woman of your gifts to tiptoe around this kitchen like you don’t belong here. This is divine, Mrs. Taylor.”</font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“It’s Eleanor. My name is Eleanor. My friends call me Elly.”</font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“Then, I’ll call you Elly,” Gabriel answered after taking his last bite. “But I’m afraid I won’t be renting your room. It’s lovely and all but its not the right fit. But I appreciate you seeing me without an appointment and for this amazing breakfast.”</font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">“I must say I’m a little disappointed,” she replied. “I think it might be nice to have someone to cook for around here again.” Then she let out a quiet laugh. “I had forgotten how much I missed it.”</font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">Gabriel stood up from the table and walked towards the front door where he had left his back pack and duffle bag. “Elly, to tell the truth, I don’t think you lack people to cook for. I bet that this town is full of people who call you ‘Elly’.”</font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">Then he put on his backpack and threw the duffle over his shoulder and walked off the front porch, down the drive way and disappeared. It wasn’t until later that night when she found the note he had left on the bed in the guest room. He had scribbled on the back of the flier, <span style="font-style: italic;">Your omelettes are new every morning, just like his mercies.</span></font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><font size="4">The next morning, Elly skipped her coffee and stayed out of the kitchen. After sitting at the tea table on the porch for an hour, she got into her car and drove into town. She heard the tingling of the bell ring out as she opened the door at Tilly’s, and that most familiar of sounds gave her a delightful appetite.</font></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 13.1px;"><br></p> Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-24576629471800687532024-01-27T20:14:00.001-05:002024-01-27T20:22:41.531-05:00 A Baker’s Dozen<font size="4">Here’s a baker’s dozen Dad Jokes for your edification.</font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>My friend tried to annoy me with bird puns when I realized…toucan play that game.</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>What’s the world’s best invention? Window blinds—without them it would be curtains for everyone.</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>Teacher: How much room is needed for fifteen grams of fungi to grow?</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>Student: As mushroom as possible.</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>Teacher: What did the completion of the $3 billion Palace of Versailles make King Louis XIV?</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>Student: Baroque.</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>A woman got on a bus with her baby. The bus driver says, “Why, that’s the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen!” The stunned woman went to the back of the bus fuming. She turns to the man sitting next to her and says, “I can’t believe it! That bus driver just insulted me!” The man replied, “You go right back up there and tell him off—go ahead, I’ll hold your dog for you.”</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>A defense attorney was speaking to his client, who was accused of murder. The attorney says, “I have some good news and some bad news.” “What’s the bad news?” Asked the accused. “The bad news is, your fingerprints are all over the crime scene, and the DNA tests prove you did it.” “What’s the good news?” “Well, your cholesterol is 130.”</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>One morning at a bank, a robber pulled out a gun, pointed it at the teller and says, “Give me your money or you’re…geography!!” The confused teller asks, “Did you mean to say, ‘or you’re history’?” The robber replied, “Don’t change the subject!”</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>A women was sitting at the funeral of her recently deceased husband. A man leaned toward her and asked, “Do you mind if I say a word?”</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>The woman replied, “No, go right ahead.”</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>The man then stands up and clears his throat and says, “PLETHORA.” Then sits back down.</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>“Thanks,” the woman says. “that means a lot.”</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>Professor Kirke: What are you doing in that wardrobe?</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>Lucy: Narnia business.</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>Florence: I was so unpopular in school that they used to call me “Batteries”.</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>Larry: Why was that?</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>Florence: Because I was never included…</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>A thief comes upon a well dressed man, jabs a pistol in his ribs and says, “Give me your money!”</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>The gentlemen says, “You can’t do this,. I’m a United States Congressman!”</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>The thief says, “Well, in that case, give me <b>my </b>money.”</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>Teacher: Did you copy this essay about the Black Death off of the internet?</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>Student: Yes. I’m sorry. I am a bubonic plague-a-rist….</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>My ex-wife still misses me…</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i>But her aim is getting better.</i></font></div><div><font data-keep-original-tag="true" size="4"><i><br></i></font></div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-77410970625051092992024-01-27T08:32:00.001-05:002024-01-27T19:40:52.808-05:00 I Love My Church<img id="id_916c_5b78_c83f_6f04" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1rph4MIVxA4GpxZgpHqE87pdDzzAnNQ4M" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 530px; height: auto;"><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4">My church has been reading through the book of Proverbs all month and hearing sermons about wisdom. Our pastors have asked members over the age of 70 to share some of the wisdom they have acquired over the years. When I was working in the Cafe yesterday I noticed that they had started to display some of the submissions. Many of them were anonymous, but others had first names only at the bottom. Two of them caught my eye…</font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><br></font></span></div><div><img id="id_4906_22a_3568_6bdd" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1C0-QwpalcUz69sVCvgg1oKUXM_ubaYYp" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 535px; height: auto;"><br><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4">Retiring <i style="font-weight: bold;">to </i>something instead of <i style="font-weight: bold;">from </i>something is some of the best advice I’ve ever heard. I have witnessed the retirement of over 100 of my clients over the years and have found this idea to be definitively true. Those who have a planned Second Act thrive. Thanks, Keith.</font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><br></font></span></div><div><img id="id_3bda_817b_d2e7_9b7f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1i4sbR6sUKMuPuGyFE8LgOMB4tbOazu-h" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 527px; height: auto;"></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4">Becoming a better listener has been a goal of mine for most of my life. It doesn’t come natural to me. It has taken some work and lots of practice. But I have gotten better at it over time to my great benefit. Thanks, Susan.</font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><br></font></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4">I love my church.<br></font></span><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><font size="4"><br></font></span><br> </div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-28781406314648979622024-01-26T06:02:00.001-05:002024-01-26T06:03:34.269-05:00 Story Time, Mediterranean Food and Earlobe Hair<font size="4">Random observations on this Friday morning:</font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">- My mother-in-law has been battling back from quadruple bypass surgery this week. She’s 80 and tough as nails. My father-in-law has been by her side throughout the fight while becoming the favorite person of all the nurses on the cardiac floor at St. Mary’s hospital. Neither of these things surprises me in the least.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">- One of the sweetest guys I know at Hope Church died this week. Roger had been battling cancer for some time. The last time I saw him at Hope Thrift he looked frail and weak, but he greeted me with a broad and genuine smile like he always did. He was a bright light even while deathly ill.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">- This morning at Hope Cafe there will be the first ever <i>Story Time </i>at 10:00. I will be a casual observer today, but next Friday I will be the designated reader. Mom’s will be bringing their pre-school aged kids to the Cafe to listen to grownups read them children’s books for an hour. I’m excited about it, but I am hoping that Jennifer doesn’t ask me to read any of those dreadful Bernstein Bear books. They are the absolute worst!!</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">- Pam has us both on a Mediterranean food kick since the first of the year. It isn’t a diet, its just eating food cooked and prepared in the Mediterranean style. She has found a bunch of new recipes and we have been <i style="font-weight: bold;">loving </i>it. The food is delicious and as a side benefit, we have both lost a little weight. The only problem is the cleanup after dinner. You wouldn’t believe how many measuring spoons, bowls, utensils and various and sundry kitchen tools required to make healthy meals. Emptying the dishwasher the next morning takes forever and I don’t know where half the stuff goes. But I’m not complaining. The meals have been amazing.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">- This week has brought another list of new aches and pains of unknown origin which have been visited upon my 65 year old body. Out of nowhere both insteps are now painful to the touch, mysterious bruises have appeared on my left forearm without provocation, and I have sprouted new hair growth out of my left earlobe. Sweet.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">- As we near the end of January I am well on my way to achieving my goal of 5000 sit-ups and pushups in 2024. Last year I had the same goal and only made it to 3800.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">- My garage door opener broke this week for just the second time in 27 years. Called a guy to come fix it and he showed up on time and did the job in less than two hours. The bill came to $891. Nice work if you can get it. Just another reminder that everything in and around us is in a state of decay. Our job is to manage that decay with as little embarrassment and angst as possible. So far, so good.</font></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272120342505007987.post-86737643662353751052024-01-24T21:48:00.001-05:002024-01-24T22:01:33.493-05:00 What Kind of Writer Do I Want to Be?<font size="4">Preparing my book for publication has been quite the experience. Throughout the editing and proofreading process I have been forced to examine the work in more detail than I thought possible. I have discovered that it is one thing to write something, it is entirely another to examine what you have written honestly. Over the past two months I have probably read back through the thing a half dozen times and each time I find something else I don’t like. I still love the story and still feel fondness for the characters, but close and painstaking examination of my work has revealed a few writer ticks I didn’t even know I had. There are expressions I use too often, unnecessary phrases that pop up here and there that add nothing except annoyance. There are numbers I use too often—how many times can anything last “30 minutes”? </font><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">But the big question that I have been forced to address is this—<i>what kind of writer do I want to be? </i>Back in the day there was that great rivalry and debate between Faulkner and Hemingway, Faulkner with his big fancy words and flowery descriptions, and Hemingway with his short, tight sentences and unadorned style. I preferred Hemingway then and now. Today both styles are on display in just about everything written by Cormac McCarthy. While I will freely admit that Mr. McCarthy is ten times the writer I will ever be, do I really want to use 500 words to describe the proper technique for scalping a head? I challenge any of you to read Blood Meridian and come out the other side a better person. I think I have a firm enough grasp on the extent of human depravity without needing one of Cormac’s 200,000 word novels to remind me of the depths to which we are capable of falling.</font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">As a writer I don’t feel angry. I am not depressed or apocalyptic in outlook. I don’t feel oppressed or very much like an oppressor. I believe that human beings are capable of both creating beauty and destroying it. We are as equally adept at grand ideas and noble thoughts as we are treachery and deceit. I think that the best stories are the ones where characters display both extremes of our nature, grapple with them, then stumble upon a way forward. I want to tell stories that at least attempt to suggest that the better angels of our character have a fighting chance, that it is possible to overcome darkness, especially the darkness that lives inside the human heart. </font></div><div><font size="4"><br></font></div><div><font size="4">I love all types of writing. A good crime novel is great fun. Historical fiction is amazing. An occasional escapist romp is fun to read at the beach. So far, the novels I have written center around the relational conflict between friends, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, the old and the young. I write stories about how delicate a thing friendship is, how fragile love can be and how easily it can be destroyed. But I also examine whether it is possible for broken relationships to be restored. I suppose my underlying conviction as a writer is that if the restoration of broken relationships isn’t possible, then we are all doomed. And if the redemption of the human heart <i style="font-weight: bold;">is </i>possible, most likely it will be miraculous.</font></div><div><br></div>Doug Dunnevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12296041517190584690noreply@blogger.com0