Natural Born Squirrel Killer

I hate squirrels. They are a menace to life, and the scourge of my back yard. They have spent the better part of 15 years trying to discover new and more contemptible ways to gain entry into my attic. I have been on a personal mission to wipe them off the face of the earth, or at least my little corner of it, ever since. I hired a company called "Bee Bat & Bird" who assured me that they were equally adept at eliminating squirrels from my property, that I should not be concerned that the word "squirrel" was not on their business card. The fact that squirrels didn't fit with the alliterative "B" theme in no way suggested that they did not view them with equal disdain. Well, 12 months, and $300 dollars later, the Bee Bat & Bird bunch had managed to kill exactly one FLB ( furry little bastard ). That's when I took matters into my own hands. I drove over to Target and bought myself a Daisy Powerline 35 and a box of ammo.

I'll never forget my first "kill". Pam and I heard diabolical scratching noises from the attic one night. I knew it it was at least one, possibly two FLB's up there, so I grabbed the Powerline 35 and slowly cracked open the door to the stairs that led to attic. I flipped on the light and there he was hanging stupidly from the side of a 2x6 rafter not 15 feet directly above my head. With a momentary rush of adrenaline and maniacal glee I squeezed off a shot, hit the FLB in the side of the head, and he fell dead as a doornail directly at my feet. For an instant, I felt like a hardy pioneer man protecting his family from marauding Indians. Then, with a glove-protected hand I placed the beast in a gallon-sized zip lock bag, threw it in a Ukrops bag and placed it in the trash can for curb-side pickup. Just like the pioneers used to do.

After that there have been two or three other victories, the best one coming when I nailed a FLB in a mid-air jump between branches of a pine tree out back...not me, the squirrel. But lately I have been in a slow burn over the latest FLB outrage. Back in early May I sat out my little garden of a couple of squash plants, a cucumber plant and my prized Early Girl tomatoes. All summer I have lovingly tended to them, watching them grow, waiting patiently to enjoy fresh sliced tomatoes in July. This one particular grouping of tomatoes had been a thing of beauty...a cluster of eight, all getting ripe together. It was going to be a feast. Then, one morning I went out on the deck to check on them, they were only 2 or 3 days away from harvest time. Then I saw it, the sickening evidence, the three ripest, most beautiful tomatoes on the vine had a hole the size of a quarter taken out of them by FLB teeth. Deviously, under cover of darkness to hide their foul deeds, they had crept up on my deck and ravaged my prized tomatoes. Tiny black ants now were cleaning up behind them, and my rage was rekindled anew. I have spent the past few days firing off shot after shot. My backyard is what is commonly referred to in squirrel-killing circles as a "target-rich environment". Despite this fact I have as of this writing been unable to send even one FLB to his eternal reward. I have winged several, only to see them scurry off to the safety of the neighbor's yards. I am undeterred. I will not rest until every FLB in Wythe Trace learns to associate 3308 Aprilbud Place as a place of pain and death, their killing field.
With my Daisy Powerline 35 at my side, I know I will prevail!!

The Home Run Derby....Sucks

As you all know, I love baseball. I'm fully aware of the fact that most people don't share my enthusiasm. We are a football country now...I get it. We are presently at the halfway point in the season and I have just endured two things about baseball that even I loathe...the All-Star game, and the Home Run Derby.

I've never been a huge fan of the All-Star game, essentially for the same reason that I detest pre-season football...because it's an exhibition. But ever since Bud Selig came up with the stupid idea of awarding home field advantage in the World Series to whichever league wins, I have grown to despise the thing. But nothing could possibly be worse than the Home Run Derby. Good Lord, would somebody take Chris Berman out behind the production truck and just put him and us out of our misery?? What could possibly be worse than watching a bunch of guys hitting home runs off of old farts throwing 45 mph fastballs? I'll tell you what...hearing Chris Berman yell.."back,back,back,back" for the millionth time. Here are my suggestions for ways to make this dreadful spectacle more interesting:

# Put the best pitchers in the batters box and let THEM try to hit home runs...off of the best home run hitters. That's right..let the hitters pitch and the pitchers hit!!

# Instead of letting little leaguers shag balls in the outfield, lets put the 15 or so drunkest, most obnoxious loud-mouth fans out there and see how they do.

# To add more suspense, how about we fine each participant $100,000 for every ground ball he hits during the competition.

Here's a trivia contest for all of you stats geeks out there..(Ryan Roop, I'm talking to you!). No Google searched answers please... What pitcher had a lifetime ERA of 2.28, led the American League in ERA one year at 1.75, still holds the American League record for most shutouts in a season by a left handed pitcher ( a hint),  and holds the record for the longest shutout in World Series history at 14 innings?

"How's Your Dad Doing?"

Seems like I've been asked this question a hundred times since Mom passed away. It's a perfectly natural question. Dad is 87, in declining health, and alone for the first time in his life. We are very concerned about him and how he will adjust to life without a wife who did practically everything for him. However, so far, the short answer to the question is.."He's doing amazingly well!"

Last night Pam, Kaitlin and I took dinner over to him. We walked in the door around 5 o'clock. Dad was on the phone with someone, sitting in his favorite chair, a stack of yellow pads containing the hand-written life story he's been writing for fifteen years piled high all around. Dad smiled at us, eyes alive and bright. Tonight he was in the mood to talk. While Pam was preparing dinner Dad began to hold forth on a variety of subjects, telling stories I have heard at least 15 times. The early stages of Parkinson's has caused him to lose his words at times, and tonight he lost them more than usual, but it failed to stop him from talking. He would just stop mid-sentence, apologize for losing his train of thought, then quickly go on to the next topic.

When dinner was ready, Dad displayed his usual robust appetite. He joyfully devoured everything put before him. At one point Pam asked him that since she will be preparing quite a few meals for him in the future, was there anything he didn't like. Dad thought for a long time then said..."Not very fond of pasta salad..especially when it's cold" That's it...cold pasta salad is the only food on the planet that my 87 year old Dad doesn't care for!

I mentioned earlier how Dad tells stories over and over again and I have heard them all a million times. It's true. But since Mom passed, it doesn't seem to matter. I just like hearing him tell a story, any story. Parents aren't here forever, I've learned. Now, suddenly, I'm much more eager to listen.
And, sometimes just listening pays off. I learned some new details concerning an epic story from my Father's high school days. We had all heard the incredible tail about the day that Dad was asked to come out of the stands at a Buckingham baseball game and take the field to prevent a forfeit since Buckingham only had 8 players. Dad had been on the team before the war but had been in the Pacific for three years, and now was finishing up his high school studies as a veteran. This particular day he had decided to go see his old team play. So, there he sat in a suit and tie and wing-tipped dress shoes when the manager spotted him in the stands. Since Dad was, in fact, an active student of Buckingham High School, and since he had played for the team a few years ago, the manager for Appomattox agreed to let Dad play...a decision that would go down in Buckingham Central High School sports history. The part of the story I knew and that I had heard a million times was how in Dad's first at bat, with the bases loaded and on a 3-2 count, Dad had swung his left handed bat at a low inside fast ball and hit it over the right field wall, over the Agriculture building and into the parking lot where it had hit a school bus! What I didn't know until last night was that on his third at bat, he had hit another blast, this one over the center field fence with two men on base! Dad had gone 2 for 3 with two home runs and seven RBI's in a game that Buckingham won by 8 runs...all the while in wing-tipped dress shoes!

It's only been a little over a week, and Dad has many issues that need to be dealt with, but so far he has shown an amazing amount of poise, grace and dignity. He has surprised us with his ability to manage things on his own, we have marvelled at his toughness, and the sharpness of his mind. Above all, we have noticed the never failing sweetness and gentleness that Dad has demonstrated throughout it all. My Father has put on a clinic for all of us in how to handle loss like a Christian should, with bright hope and steadfast courage. Today is Sunday..and he wants to go to church. I will pick him up and drive him, then Pam and I will sit with him on his favorite pew. Mom will have an even better seat.

The Washington Nationals ?????

It's July the 6th. We have reached the half way point of the season and the Washington Nationals are in first place, 16 games over .500. Meanwhile, over in the NL Central, the Pittsburg Pirates are in first place. To quote Slim Pickens' Taggart.."What in the wide wide world of sports is a'goin' on here?"

As far as the Pirates are concerned...I have no earthly idea. I haven't watched a single one of their games all year. All I know is they have a ton of young players nobody has ever heard of and some decent pitchers. But they are the Pirates for goodness sake. They are a franchise that has compiled 19 straight losing seasons, an all-time record for a professional team of any sport in North America. I can name one player on their roster ( Andrew McCutchen ), which is saying something since I can name practically every position player on the Kansas City Royals. I know, I know..that's actually pretty pathetic. There is life outside of baseball, I'm told!

But the Washington Nationals are another story all together. Ever since the team moved to Washington, all of their games have been pumped into my living room via MASN. I confess to having watched their ineptitude  for quite awhile now. About halfway through last season, the front office fired the manager Jim Riggleman, and replaced him with 110 year old Davey Johnson. That's right, a very old man with a child's name..Davey. LOVE IT!! Since then, the team has responded to the old man in ways difficult to imagine. After all, The Washington Nationals franchise is the only one in the entire league that has never even competed in a world series. It's tag-line used to be..Washington..first in our hearts, last in the National League. Well, that was before they called up a 19 year old kid named Bryce Harper, and signed the flame-thrower Stephen Strasburg. Now, they are fun to watch. Harper runs the bases like his hair is on fire, the middle infielders, Ian Desmond and Danny Espinosa vacuum up everything hit their way, and their bullpen is lights out...even though their closer is the goofiest, skinniest freak you've ever seen, made freakier by the fact that he wears glasses. Just last night, the boys racked up their 19th walk-off victory over the past two seasons, leading all of baseball. They have done all of this as their best player, Ryan Zimmerman, has been in a season long hitting slump, and their 126 million dollar free agent has-been, Jayson Werth languishes on the 60 day DL.

At this point, I feel obliged to point out that in my prediction's blog of March 17, 2012, I boldly predicted that the Nationals would indeed make the playoffs.

Lessons From Death

I promise that I will not turn this space into an "all-bereavement, all the time" blog. First of all, you would tire of it quickly, second, if I don't snap out of it soon, my mother will visit me Jacob Marley-like and "tan my hide" as she used to warn me that she would. But a person doesn't go through this sort of death without learning a few things about life. The lessons have come fast and furiously.


1. The day after the funeral, I had to run by Mom and Dad's bank to deposit some money. I used the drive thru, since I don't bank at Suntrust myself. When the teller, a black girl in her twenties saw the checks she cheerfully inquired about how my parents were doing. When I told her that Mom had passed away, she instantly burst into tears. She then gathered two other tellers around and they all told me how sorry they all were for my loss and what a wonderful woman she was. As far as I know, Mom's only connection with these women was her once or twice a month trip to the bank. That they would be so moved at her passing floored me. Who WAS my mother?

2. The funeral home and cemetery business are about the creepiest industries imaginable. Although, they were both very helpful and performed with the highest degree of professionalism, I was floored by the cost, but even more by the level of soft salesmanship involved. The funeral home guy appealed to every vulnerable emotion raging in me with practised skill. I found myself questioning just how much I truly loved my mother if I was not willing to place her in their top of the line sealed 20 gauge steel casket, and titanium-lined crypt. At the cemetery I discovered that even in death we humans still hold on to our pride of place and status. There were different neighborhoods in the cemetery, the estate section featured lovely walking trails, and a fine gazebo. Other sections were essentially the bad parts of town...too close to the road, no lovely statues of middle eastern men or over sized open bibles to be seen. Of course, just like in life, to obtain an upscale address required a significant "investment". This bombardment, all in one bizarre, surreal day turned me into a puddle of weakness and guilt. What kind of son was I if I wasn't willing, regardless of cost, to provide my mother the very best? An ugly, brutal business, a monument to human pride and vanity.

3. As I watched the over 300 people stream through Bliley's the afternoon of the viewing, I realized that I have a lot to learn about being a friend. I like to think that I'm a good friend, but I saw people in that line who made me ask a difficult question of myself..."If their mother had passed, would you have gone to her viewing?". One thing that I noticed throughout the weekend was that the people who came through the most for us were invariably the ones who had themselves lost someone dear recently. They had spent lots of time on the road that we had just begun to walk, and it showed in their amazing sensitivity, and acts of kindness. Before, I always hesitated to go to viewings because I had no idea what to say. I now know that it doesn't matter what you say or if you say anything at all. Just seeing the face of a friend means so much, and warms your heart when all around seems so cold.

4. I have often made flippant and unflattering comments in this space about my church. I take NONE of them back. As a member for 25 years, and as a Dunnevant, I have earned the right to criticize. However, with criticism comes the responsibility of praise when  it is due. My church family was truly amazing. They showed up with hot meals, cards, phone calls. Mark Becton and Chuck Ward were everything that Godly men should be but often aren't...wise, tender-hearted, and professional. The reception put on for us after the service was a feast of mostly made from scratch dishes, by caring, hard-working people who went above and beyond the call of mere duty. The reason people shouldn't church-hop has never been made clearer than it was this past weekend...after 25 years, your church transforms itself into something more than a place of worship...it becomes a beautiful extension of your family.

Betty Dunnevant 1930-2012

I was ten years old when I discovered that my mother was crazy. We had just moved back to Virginia after three years in New Orleans. Dad had become the Pastor of Winns Baptist Church in Hanover County. It was a blazing hot Saturday around lunch time and someone was ringing the doorbell. I was half way down the steps when Mom opened the door. There stood the scariest, dirtiest man I had ever seen. Instead of slamming the door and calling 911, Mom imprudently invited the man inside. He smelled worse than he looked, a mixture of kerosene and cigarettes. As a ten year old boy I remember being afraid. Dad wasn’t home, Donnie wasn’t home, so by default I was the man of the house. I made my way down the stairs, looked out the front door and saw an old rusted-out station wagon, belching smoke out of the tailpipe with a woman and several equally dirty kids in the back seat. The man began telling his story. He and his family were on their way from New York to Florida. They were almost out of gas and totally out of money. He had seen the church next door and was hoping we could spare him some money for gas. That’s when my mother was transformed before my eyes into a cross between Billy Graham and Paula Deen.

“Why, bless your heart!” Mom smiled..”What good is money for gas going to do without something to eat? Bring your wife and kids in here right now and let me fix you some lunch!”

He protested, but Mom wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.

　

　
Soon there were five exhausted, scared and hungry people sitting around our dining room table where Mom had miraculously whipped up a serving plate full of sandwiches, a bowl of potato salad and a tray of water melon. There was iced tea and peach cobbler and they all ate like they hadn’t had a meal in days. All the while Mom was telling them about the good news of the Gospel. For my Mother, the words..”Do you know Jesus Christ as your lord and savior” were not words you had to take an evangelism class to learn how to say. For Mom they were conversation starters with total strangers. After the meal, Mom encouraged them all to wash up in the bathroom while she packed the rest of the sandwiches along with some apples and oranges into a grocery bag. Then she disappeared into her bedroom and soon emerged with a wad of money. I don’t know how much or even where it had come from but I was pretty sure it was all she had. Soon there were big hugs all around and Mom leading her new friends in a prayer. We stood there in the yard waving as their smoky car disappeared down the road.

That scene would be repeated over and over again for the rest of her life. Mom viewed her life as a series of divine appointments. She believed that she was placed on this earth , as she used to say, “for such a time as this”. My Mother’s life was filled with great irony. Although possessed with profound generosity, she never had much money. She created her famous “Give-Away Fund” one year at Christmas when right at the top of her Christmas list she wrote…”Money to give away”. Thus began her career as a small town Andrew Carnegie. She would patiently collect contributions, often from anonymous sources ,then sit back and wait for a glorious opportunity… to give it all away. You know…money laundering. When she passed away Friday morning, there was nothing left in the account.

Another major irony of Mom’s life was that despite the fact that she had only a high school education, there never existed a better Bible teacher than my mother. Every Sunday School class she was ever given to teach immediately became the biggest class in the church. Many of those classes may have started out as women’s classes, but before long they were couple’s classes, and bigger rooms were needed. For ten years I was lucky enough to teach a Sunday School class of my own…high school boys. Many times while preparing my lessons I would call Mom to ask a question…”Mom, I can’t find the verse about when King David wanted to pay for the threshing floor but the guy didn’t want to take his money… where IS that?” Without a moments hesitation, and with that special lilt she would get in her voice when quoting scripture, Mom would blurt out..” I will not take for the Lord what is yours, or sacrifice a burnt offering that costs me nothing…1 Chronicles 21: 24. I would always marvel…how does she DO that?! Before the internet and before BibleGateway.com…my mother was my concordance.

The final irony of Mom’s life was that she never got to travel the world. When she was a little girl her favorite song was..”Those Faraway Places With Strange sounding names” Unfortunately, during her active years she lacked the money to travel, ( perhaps because she was always giving it away!!) and during her retirement years, she lacked the health. Instead she read mountains of books about the world. She poured over every book she could get her hands on about Africa, India, South America, and China. The reason we have asked that in lieu of flowers today, gifts be made to the International Mission Board, is because since she never got a chance to go, Mom was committed to doing whatever she could to make it possible for others to go. The quickest route to a robust Sunday dinner argument in my house growing up was to say anything negative about the Cooperative Program. Sometimes I would needle her just to get her going. “Mom, the Cooperative Program is over-rated!” Then I’d just sit back and watch the show!! Mom had zero tolerance for anything that diverted funding from missions, even , and especially television ministries. I mention this to honor my Mom’s conviction that every worship service should make us uncomfortable at least once. Once, when I was a kid, I asked her why Dad said such hard things from the pulpit. She answered that it was every Christian’s job to comfort the afflicted,…and afflict the comfortable.

My Mother was never shy about offering anyone who would listen her rather strong opinions on a variety of topics. Theology, politics, the proper type of church music…and the appropriate decimal level for it’s performance. In this and many other ways, Mom was a woman born before her time. With her cooking skills she could have been Paula Deen, with her preaching skills she could have been Billy Graham. Even though the stage upon which she performed was smaller…my Mother was Lottie Moon without China, she was Amelia Earhart without the wings. But today, she is with her savior. All her pain is gone, there are no more tears, and she finally has wings like eagles. To those of us who remain, her legacy lifts us and our memories of her great life are more than enough to sustain us until we meet again.

A Rough Three Days

My mother died in her sleep Friday morning. For the past 72 hours, life has been a fevered rush of emotions, a rapid series of quick decisions, and family togetherness. Today it culminates in a funeral service. There will be music, memories, tears, and a eulogy that I have written and rewritten a hundred times over the past few days. I worry that I won't be able to get through it. But even more, I worry about my Dad and how he will cope with the loss of someone who had been his best friend for nearly 65 years. I haven't dreaded anything as much as I have dreaded this day in a long time. What gives me comfort is the incredible outpouring of love and support my family has received from hundreds of friends. The phone calls, visits, facebook posts, and food that has been showered upon us has been like cool water to a man stranded in a desert. Once the dust has settled I will share some of the stories on this blog. For now, I hope you all know how much your love, care, and friendship have meant to us.