Forever Neighbors

 It’s funny how life works out. Whether you believe in cosmic chance or divine appointments, there are times in your life where you find yourself in the right place at the right time. Such was the case around 13 years ago when the house next door became vacant close to the time when we were about to become empty-nesters. When you live in the suburbs you don’t get to choose your neighbors so when someone moves out there’s always the possibility that the people who move in wind up being a family full of tuba-playing narcissists. So when the house went up for sale Pam and I were nervous.

We both hoped that a young family with kids would move in rather than an older couple…er, like us. I mean, I’ve got nothing against the elderly, in fact I hope to be one some day. It’s just that having children around brings life. It also brings noise, chaos and a yard full of toys, but that’s part of then grand bargain. So we prayed that God would send us a young family with kids who could help us deal with having just spent the last 25 years of our lives raising our own, then watching them grow up and move away. We got exactly what we prayed for…and last night the doorbell rang and there they all were standing on our walk telling us that they had just put a contract in on a house and would be moving a few miles away. The Mom told us that the three kids would only sign on to the move if their parents promised to have us over for dinner at least once a month! 

When they moved in they had a a toddler and Mom was pregnant. Now that toddler is damn near as tall as I am and he has two sisters. We have watched them grow up. It has been a joy and an adventure. One of them fell out of a second story window, there have been multiple broken bones and tons of noise. We went through COVID as neighbors. They looked after Lucy a thousand times for us over the years. We have filled their house with trinkets from Maine, bought every single thing the kids have sold over the years from lemonade to raffle tickets. We’ve watched each of the kids change over the years both physically and emotionally. Each of them have developed unique personalities. We’ve also watched their parents navigate the impossible job of parenthood, from wide-eyed terror to fierce confidence. The fact that they are moving is perfectly predictable and proper. They need space not just for their kids but for their friends. Mom very much wants to be that house where everybody hangs out, just like we had for years before they all grew up and disappeared.

Before I became an actual grandparent last June, I had been honing my Pop-skills with the three goofballs who lived next door. I have enjoyed every minute of it. But now they will be moving out soon and Pam and I will be bracing for whoever replaces them. But on some level nobody will ever could. 

I’ve always loved the expression used to describe when a family adopts a pet from an animal shelter. It is said that the dog or cat has found their “forever home.” Well, when The Garlands moved in 13 years ago we didn’t know it at the time but we found our “forever neighbors.” 

The address doesn’t matter…

My Encounter With a Gas Pump

 I have spoken many times in this space about my cluelessness about how much things cost. For one thing most of the buying of things required for daily life in the Dunnevant household is done by Pam. But I do my share of grocery shopping while she is away and I never notice the price of anything. I just put it in the cart and pay for it at the register. End of story.

But the other day I had a moment. I had not bought gas since returning from the Columbia trip and my dashboard was hitting me with lots of flashing red lights and pictures of near empty tanks with the words WARNING: LOW FUEL LEVELS. So I pulled in to a Shell station on Patterson Avenue. I flashed my debit card and selected regular. Then, as is my custom, I busied myself with cleaning the windshield and gathering up trash to throw away. Then I heard the familiar click informing me that the fueling was over. It was then that I removed the nozzle and put it back in place. I almost missed it, but something made me glance up at the meter where I was confronted with the picture which accompanies this post.

First of all, you will notice that I pushed this particular tank to the brink. It’s never wise to drive around with less than a half gallon of gas in your tank! But the top number grabbed my attention. $83.41…for gas. If you do the math that comes out to $4.25 per gallon. Yes, I’m aware that the price is currently inflated due to Straight of Hormuz difficulties, and could just as suddenly drop back down to previous levels when an end to hostilities can be found. But…man-o-man.

I can remember like it was yesterday the very first time I drove my 1966 VW beetle to the Gulf station across the street from the ball field at Hunton Baptist church to fill up the tank myself, with my own money. I was 16 years old or so and feeling free as a bird in the heady days of first responsibilities. My old Beetle had a 10 gallon tank and it was close to stomp empty (clearly an inbred character flaw). I filled it up to the brim, put the nozzle back in place and walked into the store, reached into my wallet and gave Mr. Higgins a fresh, clean five dollar bill. He gave me change back. It was .36 a gallon.

Before we get all nostalgic, I should point out that 1972 was the last year of the cheap gas era since 1973 would produce the Arab Oil Embargo and the rest is horrifying history. Still, if you were to adjust that .36 per gallon price for 52 years of inflation, in today’s money that would be $2.60 a gallon—which, I should point out isn’t far from where gas was priced before the current war with Iran. So…not bad.

Still, it was a bit shocking to see that $83.41 price staring back to me. I looked at that number and thought about a young couple with a kid or two just getting started and wondered how this would hit them? Then I thought about older folks less fortunate than me. What other necessities will they have to forego to fill up their tanks?

While the cost of things might be an irritant to me, it’s make or break for a lot of other folks. We all need to keep that in mind as we go about our daily routines. Keep your eyes open for people who might be struggling. If you are in a position to help, do so with wisdom and discretion.

A Rough Ten Days

 The last ten days have been a lot.

Last week Pam and I went down to spend a week with our grandson and his parents. While we were there we had to take him to the Pediatrician three times. He began breaking out with what first looked like a rash, then perhaps chicken pox, mostly on his back and the top of his head. While none of this is life threatening, it is still a helpless feeling when one so small and innocent has any kind of health concern. Since this is the first time it has happened to him and me, it kind of breaks my heart.

To add insult to injury, towards the end of the week three of the four adults in the house came down with strep throat. For cosmic reasons that defy all notions of fairness, I somehow dodged the bullet. We drove back home last Saturday and “rested” for 48 hours, then Pam headed back down on Monday to keep him at home this week until he turns the corner and these rashes get under control. I am here in Short Pump, holding down the fort preparing for the arrival of Patrick and Sarah from Tennessee this Saturday for one night, hand off their sweet pup Frisco and then fly to London for an long-planned vacation. Pam hopes to arrive back home before they arrive.

The only good thing about Silas’ situation is that so far these rashes have not changed his behavior and outlook on life. The boy has been his adorable, laughing, adventurous, playful self through it all, gobbling up everything on his plate, crawling everywhere, and babbling on like nothing whatsoever is wrong. Still, I can hardly stand to look at the photographs of the rash on his back. I want to take them away. I want them to be on my back and not his.

It’s the exact same feeling I used to get whenever Kaitlin or Patrick got sick when they were little. I always feel like it is monstrously unfair when children get sick. They don’t understand what’s happening and you can’t explain it to them. You just have to die inside a bit while giving them their medicine…and you do a lot of praying.

I have been a Christian for over 50 years and in all that time I have always struggled praying for myself. Asking God for help with personal issues always felt too much like whining, especially since what I was praying about was usually the result of my own stupidity or hubris. But whenever one of my kids got sick I had no problem storming heaven’s gate. With Silas it’s at a totally different level. Let’s just say that over the last 48 hours or so, God and I have been on a first name basis.

Update From Columbia

 Update from Columbia:

Pam and I have survived the first two full days of Silas-Care without major incident, although I just took my first muscle-relaxer of the week. A bad back does not mix well with a 21 pound child who has mastered crawling. Other than that it has been a wonderful couple of days. Among the highlights was our first appointment with the Pediatrician.

When we first arrived on Monday afternoon we were informed that Silas had a minor but worrisome issue that Kaitlin wanted the doctor to take a look at. The appointment had been set for Tuesday at 10 am and neither parent could make it—so next man up. The little man was as good as gold until the nurse whipped out a thermometer. Ever since his recent bout with hand, foot, and mouth,—DON”T ASK—he has turned on anything that resembles a thermometer or syringe. He let the nurse know about it in no uncertain terms. But other than that, the boy was a prince.

Today we took him to Chick-Fil-A for lunch. As usual he loved being around crowds of people. He smiled at everyone and chowed down on nuggets and waffle fries like it was his job.

But the best moment of the week so far has been me introducing Silas to the concept of rough-housing. The guest bedroom has a bed which comes festooned with far too many decorative pillows, a common affliction among Dunnevant women. But for once all of that unnecessary softness came in handy. I began tossing the little guy into the middle of all those pillows and he would giggle his head off, to the point where he eventually figured out how to throw himself into the pillows with admirable recklessness. By the end of our first session his face was red from the exertion and his Pops was out of breath. Later on in the evening I demonstrated this new skill to his mother and she laughed nervously as she watched her son flying through the air and landing in a pile of pillows. She seemed to feel better when I reminded her that this was one of her favorite activities when she was his age.

Pam and I have both noticed how much harder it is to take care of a crawler than it was taking care of a baby. Definitely takes two and even then, you get distracted for thirty seconds and the next thing you know he’s ripping the first page out of Ralph Waldo Emerson. Makes me respect single mothers and single fathers who do this every day.

On the Road Again

 If our retirement had a sound track it would be dominated by the Willie Nelson classic, On the Road Again. We leave this morning for Columbia, SC to spend a week taking care of our grandson and his hard working parents. This will be the sixth or seventh time we have done so since he was born nearly 11 months ago. Including one stop for gas and lunch it is a six hour drive, one of the shorter ones we make these days. Going to see Patrick and Sarah takes nine hours. Maine requires 14 hours and a hotel reservation. So, six hours is a piece of cake.

If your adult children choose to move to other states, as parents you have to become road warriors assuming that A. Your kids still want you to visit and B. You still love spending time with them. I consider it the finest achievement of our lives that both A and B are still true. In fact, two weeks from now, Patrick and Sarah will arrive to hand off their dog Frisco with us while they head off to London for a week together. Pam will then head back down to Columbia to assist our daughter while husband Jon navigates the almost 24/7 demands of Firefly Season at Congeree National Park, leaving me here to take care of Frisco, one of the most adorable and sweet Golden Retrievers of all time. The rest of the month of May features birthdays, planning early June birthdays, our wedding anniversary and several other events that have slipped my mind.

Retirement is not for the faint of heart.

For the Record…

I have a terrible memory when it comes to my health history. If you don’t believe me just ask Pam. She claims that I had shingles once and for the life of me I don’t remember it. It is a constant source of frustration for her, these giant lapses of memory when it comes to my health. She thinks I have selective amnesia. Maybe. I prefer to think that I forget specifics about my various past illnesses and medical issues as a defense mechanism. If I forget about stuff, did they really happen? I’m told by my wife and all the other smart people in my life that this is foolishness. Whatever…

So, after yesterday’s procedure, I thought it might be wise to chronicle the highlights in this space so the next time I am asked to submit to the thing (in 3-5 years) I will have a record of exactly what happened. I will include no gory details, just the basics.

I should begin with the worst part. It is truly an amazing time to be alive. We just sent four really cool people to the moon and back. Technological advances exist that make our lives infinitely easier than at any time in the history of this planet. And yet—to prepare for my colonoscopy, (there! I said it!!), I had to drink 16 8 ounce glasses of a clear liquid that tasted like salt water with a hint of lemon. I had to accomplish this feat in four hours, which required me to drink a glass every fifteen minutes. Whoever came up with this hellish plan must have realized that no human being could accomplish such a vile thing without a break so they split it into two shifts, the first from 6 pm to 8 pm and the second from 4 am to 6 am. That’s right, I had to set my alarm for 3:50 in the freaking morning the day of the procedure for a two hour torture-fest after having endured a night of…well, you know. Diabolical.

Once sufficiently cleansed, I became aware of just how hungry I was. By the time I arrived at the medical facility I hadn’t had any solid food for nearly 40 hours and I was beyond hangry and already fanaticizing about my post procedure meal. I make no apologies that I chose Waffle House.   

I should say that the actual procedure was a breeze. The nurses and doctors performed brilliantly and the chemicals injected into my bloodstream were golden. The last words I heard were, “Give me five deep breaths.” Then in what seemed like ten seconds later I was back in the holding room where a cheerful nurse was informing me that it was over and I hadn’t given them any trouble.. Next thing I know they are wheeling me outside where Pam was waiting to drive me to Waffle House.

The only residual effect from yesterday’s events are my newly strained relationship with the Tervis Tumbler I got the one and only time I played Pebble Beach 15 years ago—where I shot 89, I’ll have you know. This was the vessel I chose for the 16 8 ounce glasses of salt water agony. Now, although it has been through the dishwasher, it will be a while before I chose it for any further use. PTSD is real.

Just Asking Questions

 I am in a contemplative mood today. Some days you just wake up with questions. I will freely admit that most days I fly through from dawn until dusk without a serious thought ever passing through my mind. I am driven solely by instinct and the genetic code bequeathed to me by my ancestors. But other days, everything is open to challenge and I question all of it. I have no idea why this is. Might be something I ate. Who knows?

This is a day that has been circled on my calendar for quite some time for all the wrong reasons. It’s “prep day” for a certain procedure which people of a certain age have to endure once a decade. Its a lovely experience that involves the two words that no human being likes to hear…liquid diet.Yes, all day I will be subsisting on Fresca, black coffee, water, jello, Italian ice, and —the highlight of my day—chicken broth. The show-stopper of this day will come in the evening when I will be tasked with drinking an entire gallon of what might be fairly described as Kool-aid with an ulterior motive. It’s the sort of day where active physical activity is to be avoided, you spend the entire day trying to pretend you’re not starving, and you begin to ask questions. Lots of questions.

Like…who was the first person to look at a lobster and think, “I bet this might be good to eat.”

We’re almost 25 games into the baseball season and I am chock full of questions. 

Like…my Nationals are first in the big league in errors and last in pitching. How is it possible that they have actually won 10 games?

Like…the Cincinnati Reds have won 15 games despite hitting just .203 as a team.

And another thing: How is it that nobody washes their hands with regular old soap anymore? When I was growing up if you wished to wash up before dinner you went to the bathroom and there was a bar of soap. It was usually Ivory or sometimes, when my father was in a certain mood, it would be something called Lava, which was kind of like washing your hands with a live porcupine. But now, no matter where I go in my house to wash my hands I am presented with these pump bottles filled with cleaning foam with bizarre names like “Honeycrisp Hayride.” Ok, I know what a honeycrisp apple tastes like and I know vaguely what a hayride smells like, but neither of them have any relationship to this product. But there are plenty others around here to choose from. I can go with “balsam breeze” or “lavender sunrise.” But do I really want my hands to smell like anything? Back in the day if we were going through a “Lava” phase I was lucky to even have hands! I suppose this is what passes for progress these days.