Thanks, Mr. President

You would forget your head if it wasn’t attached to your shoulders...was a common accusation hurled at me by my sainted mother. I was always dashing off to school and leaving some vital thing at the house. More often my forgetfulness centered around some chore she had ordered me to complete which I had left undone. Selective amnesia, she called it. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have a powerful enough memory. I could recite the starting lineup of the 1969 Mets in game six of the World Series, backwards...still can. You need someone to remember the name of some obscure character from Twelfth Night, or if you’re having trouble recalling the name of the winning general from the Battle of Malvern Hill, I’m your guy. In other words, when it comes to useless mind-cluttering minutia and inane trivia, I’ve got a mind like a steel trap. But if you need to remember something consequential like a password, or where you left your car keys, or that 10:30 doctor’s appointment? Not so much. Turning 60 recently hasn’t helped in the mental acuity department, since now I instinctively blame the calendar for every error I make. But, yesterday, I found encouragement from the oddest source...Abraham Lincoln. In my Memorial Day readings, I stumbled across...this:

Executive Mansion,
Washington, Nov. 21, 1864.

Dear Madam,

I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle.

I feel how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering to you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save.

I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of Freedom.

Yours, very sincerely and respectfully,
A. Lincoln.

At age 56, a mere six months prior to being assassinated, and having endured perhaps the most brutal three years of any presidency before or since, Abraham Lincoln turned out this stunningly beautiful bit of writing. In three short paragraphs, four sentences, he demonstrated for the entire nation what presidential leadership looks like. Over 150 years later, his words still stir the heart and soul. The eloquence. The epic tenderness. This is unrivaled writing. To read it, even now, is to be transported through time and space and dropped in the middle of an unparalleled tragedy, and to feel the freshness of the open wound that was the American Civil War. 

So, reading something this profoundly beautiful, written by a man under unimaginable stress, gives me great hope that whatever issues I might be dealing with can and will be overcome. 

Weddings, Funerals and Reunions

Now that Memorial Day is over, the Dunnevant family can officially be considered in full wedding-mode. There remain a mere 32 Days left before my son, Patrick Dunnevant marries the lovely and talented Sarah Upchurch in Nashville, Tennessee. Between that day and this lies a great chasm which can only be crossed through a terrifying gauntlet of caterers, event planners, photographers and incompetent hotel staff. But, cross it we will.

In the history of a family there are only a handful of things that bring everyone together in one place, and two of them are somewhat unpleasant...funerals and family reunions. Although, in recent years I have warmed to the reunion thing, generally speaking, they wouldn’t make my top ten list of fun things to do. Funerals, on the other hand, almost without exception, are dreadful things, full of sadness and weeping and featuring long lines of people waiting for a two minute opportunity to say something comforting to the bereaved, a ghastly business. But weddings? Now you’re talking! They are celebrations, an opportunity to gather together to eat and drink and shower young people with gifts and advice. The trouble with weddings is that they are a lot like sausage...nobody wants to see how they are put together. The truth is, weddings are logistical nightmares even in the best of circumstances. But, when you’re 600 miles away from the venue, it’s even worse. Thanks to the invention of texting and FaceTime we are making slow but sure progress. I say we when what I actually mean is...Pam, of course, but you already knew that.

As difficult as these things are to plan, organize and execute, once the day arrives it will be over with in a flash. We will then be left with our memories and hopefully several epic photographs. It will be worth all the effort and expense. A new daughter will be welcomed into the family and a new source of stories added to the family lore.

Then, we get to spend three weeks of rehab in Maine. Yes!!!

What’s So Great About America?

Freedom of Religion, Speech, and the Press

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof, or abridging the freedom of speech or of the press, or the right of the people peaceably to assemble and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

The Right to Bear Arms

A well-regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.

The Housing of Soldiers

No soldier shall, in time of peace, be quartered in any house without the consent of the owner, nor in time of war but in a manner to be prescribed by law.

Protection from Unreasonable Searches and Seizures

The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects against unreasonable searches and seizures shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched and the persons or things to be seized.

Protection of Rights to Life, Liberty, and Property

No person shall be held to answer for a capital or otherwise infamous crime unless on a presentment or indictment of a grand jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the militia, when in actual service in time of war or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offense to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use without just compensation.

Rights of Accused Persons in Criminal Cases

In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial by an impartial jury of the state and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor; and to have the assistance of counsel for his defense.

Rights in Civil Cases

In suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceed twenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, and no fact tried by a jury shall be otherwise reexamined in any court of the United States than according to the rules of the common law.

Excessive Bail, Fines, and Punishments Forbidden

Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

Other Rights Kept by the People

The enumeration in the Constitution of certain rights shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.

Undelegated Powers Kept by the States and the People

The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the states, are reserved to the states respectively, or to the people.

On his Memorial Day, I think it fitting that people be reminded what all the fuss is about. The reason we rightfully revere those who have paid the ultimate price is because they died defending a great and noble thing, the American Constitution. This is what makes America Great, and any attempt to make America great again must begin and end with a renewed devotion to this Bill of Rights. 

Even the most casual reader of these ten amendments will notice that the rights listed are intended to restrain government power. These rights are reserved for the people...individuals, and each of them make it more difficult for government to enact it’s will. For this reason, potential tyrants from the right and left have been frustrated by them, hamstrung in their desires to run roughshod over individual liberties, to which I say...thank God.

So, give them a thoughtful read on this day. Ponder which of them mean the most to you, and what your life might be like without these protections. Then be grateful to live in a nation with something worth dying for.

The Cure For Vanity

I had just finished up a rigorous Friday afternoon workout, an hour and a half affair of muscle-toning weight training followed by a 3.5 mile run outside in the heat. There was prodigious amounts of natural sweating produced by all of this activity, then some cheap sweat from a fifteen minute session in the steam room. Nevertheless, I was feeling quite accomplished by the time I got home, reasoning that few 60 year olds would put themselves through such a regimen. I was not allowing myself to give in to the relentless physical decline which comes with age. I was raging against the dying of the light, to butcher a little Dylan Thomas. Part of my workout routine is the result of genuine concern for my ongoing health. But, honestly...most of it springs from vanity. This is the one downside of marrying someone younger and more beautiful than you. You’ve got to keep up, man.

So, I get back to the house, throw on a nice pair of dress shorts and a stylish shirt and eagerly await my wife’s return from her Friday afternoon volunteer shift at Hope Thrift. It is our night to go out for dinner. Tonight would be a date with Mission Barbecue, and I wanted to look my best for her, determined to put my best face forward, so to speak.

We arrive at MB on this gorgeous evening where, as usual, the food is sensational. I ordered something new...cheese and jalapeño infused sausage, along with my usual sides of macaroni and cheese and kickin collard greens. Things were going very well. Pam looked great and I was keeping up. Then, out of nowhere, it happened. I started feeling something happening to my face. It was subtle at first, but then more noticeable. I excused myself and retreated to the bathroom on a reconnaissance mission. The mirror revealed that it was not, in fact, my imagination. Something was happening to my right eye, and that something involved swelling.

Now, at this point I suppose I could share a picture of my eye for illustration purposes, but my vanity and self respect argue against that idea. Words will have to suffice. Simply stated, it’s as if someone with a hypodermic needle decided to fill my eyelid, along with the place normally occupied by dark circles, with water. The resulting image is quite disgusting, making me look like Joe Frazier after the Thrilla in Manila. So, now instead of a semi-handsome, well preserved husband, Pam has to look across the table at a guy who is looking more and more like Elephant Man with each passing hour. This morning, it is much worse, a disturbing sight. I have taken Benadryl and administered eye drops, so far without positive result.

This isn’t the first time this has happened to me. Several times I have come down with grotesquely swollen eyes. The cause remains a mystery, and no remedy has been found. It just runs its course, taking its good old time. Meanwhile, I wear dark sunglasses and remind myself that this too shall pass. Luckily, my wife understands that beauty is more than skin deep, and in my case...way more!!

Photographs and a Birthday

One of the great and eternal privileges of parenthood is the authority it bestows upon us to embarrass our children. We are greatly assisted in this endeavor by the existence of old photographs. You parents out there know what I mean...not this new crop of digitized, perfectly framed, edited, posed and photoshopped things that people call photos today. No, I’m talking about the old 35m click and hope photos from the old days. You remember, right? One of the kids would have a birthday party and you would take an entire roll of shots, drop them off at the Kodak booth, wait a week to get them back, only to discover that half of them featured junior picking his nose.

I bring this up for two reasons. First, Pam has been tasked with gathering pictures of our son from his youth for use in a rehearsal dinner slideshow at his upcoming wedding. Secondly, today is Patrick’s birthday. I have spent a large part of this morning combing through several Creative Memories picture albums that my wife lovingly and creatively assembled back in the day. To do such a thing is risky business. Part of you is delighted by the memories and overcome by the realization of just how wonderful has been your life. But another part of you becomes plagued by longing and nostalgia for a time which is gone forever. Photo albums will do that.

But, here are a few of my favorites where my son is concerned...

It’s hard to believe that he was ever this small. 

This was from one of the Dunnevant Beach vacations. Some nights, after the kids had gotten their baths and put on their t-shirt jammies, we would take them down to the beach and turn them loose, making them promise not to get dirty. If ever there was a better feeling than watching them run on the beach, I can’t imagine what it was.

Actually, maybe it was this...a cup of hot chocolate while watching the sun set on Webb Lake in Maine.

This was one of Patrick’s Halloween costumes, probably hand made by his grandmother. He was Tigger this particular year...bouncy, trouncy, flouncy, pouncy, fun, fun, fun, fun, fun...

He is a fully grown man and I am very proud of him. But, for me, a part of him will always be the little boy in these grainy photographs.

Upon Further Review...

Earlier this afternoon, I had what can only be described as a surreal encounter during a routine commute from my house to my office. As is my custom, I had gone home for lunch, and was in the middle of my short drive back to the office in that dazed stupor into which we fall when driving familiar routes. My mind was a thousand miles from the section of Three Chopt Road just after you pass Pocahontas Middle School, heading east, when suddenly it occurred to me that there was a small backup in my lane. I tapped on the brakes and snapped out of my reverie long enough to ascertain the bizarre fact that this particular backup was being caused by the presence of a naked man standing in the middle of the road. 

Now, it’s not every day when you find yourself in this sort of situation. Looking back on the events of 1:25-1:30 this afternoon with the benefit of hindsight, perhaps I should have responded differently. Here’s how it went down...

So, I look up and see a very large, heavy set black man standing au’natural in the middle of Three Chopt Road and the first thought that pops into my head is...Is his house on fire? I know, that’s a weird thought, but I’m thinking that maybe he was in the middle of taking a shower and smelled smoke, then saw the flames and immediately ran out of the house to escape. Then I think, For someone who’s house is on fire, he sure is calm! No, this guy didn’t have a care in the world. He had a calm expression on his face, and seemed totally unaware of his nakedness, betraying not one iota of self consciousness. 

My fellow commuters slowed down cautiously as they approached him, not sure if he would suddenly bolt in front of their moving vehicles. This seemed a prudent response, since I believe it fair to question the mental stability of anyone standing buck naked in the middle of a busy street. By the time my car was pulling even with the guy, he suddenly began a leisurely stroll across three lanes of traffic, heading blissfully towards West Broad Village where perhaps they go in for this sort of thing. And just like that, I was on my way, trying to grasp what it was that I just saw, and battling mightily to erase the image of a 300 pound naked man from my memory.

When I got to my office, I reported this strange tale to my enraptured colleagues. Then I added a post on Facebook:

You can add...”I just saw a large, completely naked black man slow walking across Three Chopt Road”...to the list of things I never thought I would say.

Now, upon further review, perhaps I should have had a different response. My wife demanded to know why I didn’t call the police, since there was a giant naked man a mere two hundred yards from a Middle School. Maybe, if I hadn’t been so taken aback by the spectacle of the thing, it would have occurred to me to pull over and see if this poor man needed assistance, not to mention a decent pair of pants. 

Ok, for one thing, white people have had a bad few weeks lately when it comes to calling the police on black people. The last thing in this world I need right now is to get involved in anything that opens me up to accusations of racism...You only called the police because he was black!!! But, the more I think about this strange afternoon, the dumber that explanation sounds. Of the four descriptive adjectives I used in my Facebook post to describe the subject, the only one which adds nothing of interest to the narrative was black. I’m pretty sure that a naked white man would have been equally bizarre. A naked woman might have made it even crazier. 

Looking back, I do wonder about the guy. I hope he’s ok. He’s probably some poor man with mental problems who is off his meds. I saw nothing on the local news about him, so maybe he wandered back home and didn’t get hurt. I hope so, at least.

So, the moral of the story is that people sometimes don’t do their best thinking when confronted with public nudity...the bottom line, as it were.

Hats Off To The Park Service

Regular readers of this space are well aware of my negative opinion where government spending is concerned, specifically, that much of it is either tragically stupid or eaten through with malfeasance. So when someone like me stumbles upon an example of government spending which is at once wise and beneficial, fairness dictates that I give credit where it is due.

The last couple of days found Pam and me celebrating our anniversary at a delightful Inn just outside of Lexington, Virginia called House Mountain. We had discovered this place 12 years ago when it had just opened, and this time, we hardly recognized the place. The years have been good to this family owned luxury destination. 

So, when I was researching things to do while we were here I noticed that Natural Bridge was only thirty minutes away. It is a profound embarrassment for me to have to admit that despite being a Virginian by birth and a lifelong resident of the Commonwealth, I have never visited the place about which Thomas Jefferson said... “Natural bridge, the most sublime of Nature’s works ... so beautiful an arch, so elevated, so light, and springing as it were up to heaven, the rapture of the spectator is really indescribable!” Although once surveyed by a young George Washington and later bought by Thomas Jefferson, the site is currently a State Park, efficiently administered and impeccably maintained by the State of Virginia. A labyrinth of hiking trails ribbon through the park, each meticulously groomed to accommodate everyone from toddlers to octogenarians. There’s a living history exhibit of a Monocan Indian village, manned by ancestors of that tribe. The visitor’s center and all other structures of the park are beautiful, white columned structures in the Federal style. The staff are friendly and helpful, the facilities, everything from the bathrooms to the gift shop are first rate. For one twenty dollar ticket, I got access to the park and a tour of the caverns, a half a mile up the road. The Natural Bridge caverns, while not as stunning or famous as the caverns up the road at Luray, were an amazing site to see, especially since our tour guide was a delightfully smart and hilarious young woman who combined meticulous knowledge of her subject with a stream of one liners that had us all laughing out loud.

Most things in this world are done better in the private sector. This is an opinion forged from a lifetime of bitter experience. But, as we made our way through this gorgeous property, I couldn’t help thinking what an incredible job the park service has done here, and how horrible it would be if the rights to this natural wonder had fallen into the hands of, say...Amazon or Google. I spent several hours here and nobody tried to sell me anything. I was left alone to marvel at the beauty and majesty of creation on artfully constructed trails. Every so often along the way, signposts were there to provide explanation or background. This place belongs to all Virginians, and the park system sees to it that it stays that way. There will be no development here, no future hotels or casinos, no time shares or other ghastly commercial projects. Thank God in Heaven.

I may not always approve of the things that my taxes finance. But, when it comes to places like this...I’m happy to pay and very proud of the results. 

Actually, Division of Labor IS Romantic!

Over the years people have often asked me to explain my successful marriage to them. What’s the secret to staying with someone happily for so long, they will ask. I’ve never been good at supplying an answer, partly because I don’t want to jinx the thing, but mostly because it’s not just one thing. There is no silver bullet, and if there were, I would have misplaced it along with my car keys years ago! The other thing is, I’m not even sure I completely understand why Pam and I have gotten along so well for these 34 years. Maybe it’s all just dumb, blind luck. But, I suppose if I had to come up with a working theory, I would have to say that the same thing that makes a prosperous economy work is exactly what makes us work...the equitable and efficient division of labor. I know what you’re thinking...how romantic!! Hold on, hear me out...

If you wished to construct a number 2 Pencil, as has been famously illustrated, you would need several laborers all doing specialized tasks. To ask one single person to construct a pencil would be next to impossible. In a marriage there are two laborers, (except during childbirth when there is only one person doing any laboring). I believe that in order to have a happy marriage, each couple has to discover who is good at what and divide the labor accordingly. In the early years this is very much a trial and error proposition, but after awhile individual strengths and weaknesses become more clear. After 34 years, for example, I would never make the mistake of asking Pam to muck about under the house to change the crawl space lightbulb. She, on the other hand, knows better than to ask me to plan an English Tea bridal shower for our future daughter-in-law. That’s just crazy talk. 

So, what follows is a break down of how the jobs are split up around here. Now, lest anyone get the wrong impression, this list of job assignments, while very reliable, is not fool-proof. Just because I’m supposed to be the one who takes out the trash doesn’t mean that I don’t sometimes forget. But, most of the time what follows is accurate. If it isn’t, I’m sure that Pam will vigorously object. If there is a dispute, the tie always goes to the wife...

My Jobs

In 34 years, Pam has never once mowed the lawn. Essentially, everything that happens outside the house involving living things is my domain. I mulch, cut the grass, trim the hedges, get up the leaves, de-poopify the yard when needed...which is all the time, organize and execute the wholesale murder of squirrels, and clean up after storms.

I plan vacations. I’m in charge of working out the details of all of our Maine trips, and also planning getaway weekends for just the two of us. It’s not that Pam wouldn’t be entirely capable of doing this, I just prefer to do it myself because I think it’s fun. Also, I think it’s my job to take the lead in planning adventures.

Generally speaking, I do most of the vacuuming. This isn’t an absolute, sometimes I catch her doing it, but I’m better at it and actually kinda enjoy vacuuming for some odd reason.

I clean up the dishes and load up the dishwasher after dinner. Again, this isn’t absolute either, but probably 90% of the time, I do it. True, often Pam will come behind me and rearrange dishes I have placed into the dishwasher incorrectly, but basically, I clean up the kitchen after dinner. 

I empty the dishwasher first thing every morning while waiting for my coffee to brew.

I clean the bathrooms. Sometimes, when all that is needed is a touch up, she will do it, but most of the time when a full elbow-grease fueled effort is required, I clean the bathrooms. 

I take care of all the car maintenance. I’m no car guy, but my wife wouldn’t know an alternator from a gas cap, so I’m in charge of seeing to it that the cars are properly inspected, the oil gets changed, they are full of gas, and are clean inside and out.

I make 95% of the money that gets made. The first five years of our marriage, Pam was a full time teacher in the Henrico County Schools and all of our benefits were provided by her employer. But once Patrick was born she became a full time, unpaid mother of two, leaving all economic support up to me. 

I pay all the bills.

Pam’s Jobs

Literally, everything else.

She plans the menus, buys the groceries and cooks all of our meals, with the exception of Wednesday night dinner when she may as well have cooked it herself, after laying out step by step instructions for me to follow...her cooking for dummies tutorials are epic!

She is responsible for all the interior decorating that gets done around here.

She makes herself available to both of our grown children at all hours for whatever thing they happen to need, whenever the heck they happen to need it.

She has done literally every single load of laundry that has ever been done in our home for 34 years. It is actually quite embarrassing for me to admit that I am a 60 year old human being who has never done his own laundry...never even once. Although, I should add that I do iron my own clothes.

Anything that needs meticulous planning and cunning persistence falls to Pam. Whether it be keeping up with doctor’s appointments, overseeing home improvement projects or planning family celebrations and dinners, without Pam’s eye for detail, this household would be adrift. She sweats all the details, especially the ones I’m not even aware of.

Pam does 90% of the Christmas shopping/planning. Ditto, birthdays, etc.

Ok, so there you have it. Keep in mind that this is just one theory of what makes for a good marriage. Obviously, there’s a lot more to it, like knowing when to keep your mouth shut, and when you do speak, using kind words. But, the division of labor is a big deal. If all or even most of the work falls on only one person, nothing good happens. 

34 Years

Watching the Royal Wedding with my wife. It’s nice enough. Sunny day. Pretty people. Thirty four years ago on this day, Pam and I got married. It was not royal. There were some pretty people, and it was also a sunny day. Of course, we didn’t have a gospel choir in the back of the church, or celebrities lining the aisles. Our getaway car wasn’t exactly a spotlessly buffed Ascot Landous carriage...more like a three year old 1981 VW Scirocco. But, there wasn’t a single gaudy hat in the entire crowd. 

Still, the single best decision I have ever made, marrying this woman.

Thank God For Spell Check

Hardly a day goes by when I’m not made aware of my limitations as a writer. I enjoy writing about as much as anything in this world. I do a lot of it, not only on this rather prolific blog, but also the occasional story that pops into my head. But no matter what it is that I’m writing, I bump up against my shortcomings.

In terms of this blog, it’s my poor punctuation and grammar skills. What punctuation and grammar problems, you ask? Well, the reason you don’t notice that many is because my wife corrects all of them for me. It usually goes like this...

Pam: On this morning’s blog...don’t use a comma here, a semi colon works better. And, this particular phrase sounds clunky. Oh...and this participle is dangling.

Me: (after corrections are made)...How’s this?

Pam: Better.

The problem goes back to high school and my abysmal academic record. Whenever it was time for my English teacher to cover grammar, I would zone out. My body might have been in class, but my mind was a million miles away, God knows where. The only subjects that could hold my attention in school were history and literature. Everything else was a blur. Pam thinks that grammar was particularly difficult for me because at my core I rebelled against the very concept... I hate rules and having to follow them. Whatever the reason, I obviously didn’t learn anything. 

When it comes to writing stories, my problems are more complicated. An idea for a story will pop into my head out of nowhere. I will sit down and start typing, almost continuously for an hour or two, sentences tumbling out fully formed, organizing themselves into paragraphs right before my eyes. This will go on for days and takes very little effort or organization on my part. It just happens. Before I know it, there are 10,000 words and five or six chapters in the document, a precise, discernible and consistent plot containing a half dozen characters. Then, I think..where did that come from?? But then, suddenly, everything stops. Whatever river of imagination that produced this universe of characters and plots dries up, and they sit there flat on the page, waiting for me to tell them what to do. It’s like the literary version of suspended animation. Days go by, then weeks...nothing. Sometimes I will re-read the thing from the beginning hoping to find the spark. Nothing. Then, I’ll be in the middle of cutting the grass or a set of sit-ups at the gym when the flash of an idea will come...and it all starts up again. This ridiculous writing style has produced one complete novel, two half baked ones and a trove of short stories along with a couple dozen aborted attempts. It is also the reason I don’t write for a living. 

So, I’ll publish this blog and wait for Pam to alert me to some grammatical infraction or another, and thank my lucky stars for spell check.

Complaining About The Weather?

It is 6am in the city of my birth and the humidity sits at 98%. My handy WWBT weather app informs me that for the next three days I can expect a 90% chance of thunder storms with locally heavy downpours. The first sunshine emoji I see in the ten day forecast is next Wednesday, and even that one is half covered with emoji clouds. It would be quite easy to fall into despair at such a prediction. The prospect of unrelenting rain and thick humidity isn’t the sort of thing that puts a bounce in your step. However, upon further reflection...things could be a lot worse.

Suppose the forecast for the next ten days called for blistering sunshine and highs in the upper 90’s? How about if the temperatures were forecasted to be in the upper 50’s, a record breaking cold snap for the month of May? We could be mired in a ten day tornado watch, or bracing for the earliest hurricane to ever threaten landfall on the Mid-Atlantic States.

The thing about weather is that it always is pissing somebody off. As much as I hate the current forecast, people with gardens love it. As much as I hate upper 90’s, there’s some heat worshipper out there who is thrilled to death. 

The cool thing about Virginia though...we get it all. Every kind of forecast you can imagine eventually becomes operational. Blistering heat? We got that. Stifling humidity? Check. Sub-zero freezing cold? We’ll have a few of those this winter. You want snow? Wait for January and February. Want delightful cool temperatures and fall colors? Yep. Want a few weeks of verdant green, soft breezes and pastel colored sunsets? That would be April. 

You people out in San Diego have year round delightfulness and all, but after a while don’t you just get tired of the monotonous sunny skies? You guys in the Arizona desert, does fall even happen to you? And my poor Maine brothers and sisters, what must it be like to endure six months of winter, then three months of Garden of Eden perfection separated by three months of...mud?

So, no...I will not be complaining about my weather forecast. This is Virginia, the land of free range weather, and the blessing of endless variety. That’s worth celebrating if you ask me.

Chapter 9

DeeRay Deloplane had spent the better part of the last twenty years repairing his life from a series of unforced errors that had come close to killing him. The primary means of this rehabilitation had been putting as much distance between himself and his troublesome past as possible. Since his rebirth had involved abandoning a wife and three kids, some might have suggested that his reinvention was built on a shaky moral foundation, but DeeRay had long ago made peace with his past, and had learned to live with very few regrets. He had a reasonably profitable car mechanic’s business that he ran out of what used to be a 7/11 store, on the outskirts of Worcester, Massachusetts, which was as far as his bus fare would take him two decades earlier when he had fled his wife, Starla, in the dead of night after a particularly ferocious fight that had left each of them exhausted and bleeding profusely. The fight had been about money, most fights with Starla were, primarily the fact that DeeRay wasn’t making enough of it fast enough to please her. With three young mouths to feed and her insistence on being a stay at home Mom, she often had a point in their frequent money fights, especially considering DeeRay’s fondness for beer and vintage Corvettes, neither of which he could afford. It had always been DeeRay’s contention that he and Starla might have been ok if they had only had one kid. They might have been able to survive with twins even…but having triplets had been a bridge too far for two people who were both basically kids themselves. 

If DeeRay had been a more religious man, or religious at all, maybe he would have carried around a more respectable level of guilt for abandoning three kids before they were even five years old. But, he had to admit that he hardly ever gave them much thought. Truth be told, the only time they ever entered his mind was whenever he was forced to write a support check to Starla. Just like death and taxes, Starla Deloplane, who had a nose for money like a coon dog has a nose for escaped convicts, eventually tracked him down with the help of a relentless Richmond lawyer.  After six months of threats and counter threats, the lawyer was able to extract a series of monthly checks out of DeeRay,  written on Deloplane Auto-Repair’s extra wide and fancy looking checks, most of them written in the dainty handwriting of his bookkeeper and wife number two, Priscilla, who never complained about money, since her Daddy had boatloads of it and showered his only daughter with all of her heart’s desires. DeeRay would sometimes stare across the table during Sunday dinner at his father-in-law and think that since leaving Virginia he had become the luckiest man in the world. Instead of being burdened with three unruly children and an argumentative, money-grubbing wife, he had managed to meet and marry a woman who not only woke up every morning of her life, horny, but also had a filthy rich old man who could be talked into loaning his new son-in-law money to buy the old 7/11 and turn it into a garage.

Eventually the monthly support checks ended, and the Deloplane’s of Massachusetts were in high cotton. DeeRay’s communications with Starla had dwindled to the rare phone call to inform him of Robert’s latest run-in with the law. Of the three, Robert was always the one getting in the most serious trouble, and it had been this way since the day all three of them had been born. DeeRay’s communications with his kids had been largely limited to the even more rare phone call…usually every other Christmas and the occasional birthday. The last time he had laid eyes on any of them had been on the day of their high school graduation, which the triplets were grudgingly allowed to participate in only with assurances from all parties that each Deloplane would complete two summer school classes still required to actually receive their diploma. To assuage the rare rumblings of guilt, DeeRay would fold a fifty dollar bill into an envelope from the garage and send it to each kid with a perfunctory note: 

Don’t spend it all in one place,

Dad Deloplane 

But, DeeRay Deloplane had always known that eventually he would pay the price for abandoning his children. Although, it would have appeared to most observers that he had gotten away with it, his gutless flight from responsibility, every passing year brought with it a strange and disturbing feeling that his comeuppance was closer at hand. Along with this gnawing fear, there was also a longing, the haunting thought that his choices had robbed him of something. After the triplets, there would be no more children. For a women so enamored with sexual intercourse, Priscilla had let it be known early and often that she had no interest in motherhood, which was fine, except when the holidays rolled around, or their birthdays. That’s when the longings would come, heavier each year.

Then he had gotten the call back in September from Starla, informing him that his son had died a murderer. The details horrified DeeRay, and immediately the guilt became unbearable. Priscilla, who possessed all the empathy of a Teamster foreman, scolded her husband for blaming himself and threatened to leave him if he agreed to travel to Virginia for the small funeral service that Starla had arranged for her unmourned son at the local Baptist Church the family seldom attended. DeeRay made the drive anyway, standing off by himself at the graveside, afraid of how his remaining two children would react upon seeing their father for the first time in seven years. The small crowd paying their respects all looked like thugs to DeeRay, with their shaggy hair, tattoos and ripped jeans, dressed more for fighting than mourning, DeeRay thought. These were the sort of friends a boy without a proper Dad falls in with, DeeRay thought. The tears that came weren’t for his son, they were an admission of the hash he had made of his life. He was reaping what he had sown, skipping out on his family like a whimpering coward.

Starla had been cold towards him when he had shown up at the funeral home the previous day. She had recognized him standing beside his Corvette in the parking lot, too afraid to come inside. As she approached him, she noticed that he looked much better than she would have thought after so much time. His hands were rough and red from a mechanic’s abuse, but the rest of him hadn’t aged as much as she had. This was one more thing she had to resent about him.

I suppose I should thank you for coming, was all she felt was appropriate to say, although at any other location and occasion, she could have come up with a hundred things to yell at him. DeeRay could hardly look at her, the guilt and remorse practically oozing out of every pore. 

Finally he managed, How are you holding up? You need anything? How are Rich and Bertie dealing with everything?

Do I need anything? You mean like money? No, I’m good DeeRay. I had insurance on him, so we’re all good. Starla’s eyes filled with tears.

After the last rose had been thrown onto the casket, DeeRay’s kids turned to leave the graveside, seeing their father for the first time. To his profound horror, they both ran to him and held him tight, tears flowing, the air filled with cries of Oh, daddy…daddy…a greeting that DeeRay knew he didn’t deserve, and one that had him weeping at the spectacle of such a ghastly reunion, every Deloplane crying and hugging each other as if they had been separated by the ravages of war, or biblical famine or some other cosmic pestilence instead of his own petty selfishness. When Starla joined in on the ill-timed group hug, DeeRay found himself fighting a new urge to make a break for the Corvette and leave them all in the lurch for a second time. 

By the time they all settled in at the house for the covered dish supper, everyone seemed to have recovered from the awkward outpouring of emotion graveside, and had now moved on to sad indifference, a much more familiar playing field. Strangers kept interrupting attempts at conversation, passing along their condolences, and confusing DeeRay with Starla’s two more recent husbands, neither of whom, DeeRay noticed, were in attendance. The fact that he was the only former husband of Starla Deloplane to attend their son’s funeral provided DeeRay with the smallest fig leaf of comfort that could possibly have been hoped for under such circumstances. Truthfully, DeeRay had always been grateful to Starla for running off two other husbands over the years, since it provided him with the reassurance that maybe it wasn’t all his fault.

As he walked to his car to leave, Starla had followed him. They both leaned against the Corvette, searching for words that fit the moment. As usual, Starla went first.

Nice car. You always had a thing for Vette’s, didn’t you?

Yeah. This one was a mess when I bought it. I spent a year working on it at the shop. I could probably make some money if I sold it, but I don’t want to. 

Uncomfortable silence. A cigarette was lit. More silence.

I knew he was going to end up killing somebody, DeeRay. It wasn’t just the drugs, it was him…he had a dark heart. I used to blame it on you. I thought that if you hadn’t left like you did, maybe he would have turned out different…but the truth is, he was just a bad seed.

Well, if he was, it was my seed. You can blame me all you want. Actually, it would make me feel better if you did.

Why would that make you feel better?

Because that’s what I deserve.

What’s done is done, DeeRay. We can’t  go back and have a do-over. 

Another long silence fell over them as the sun slipped behind the Blue Ridge mountains in the distance.

You sure you don’t need anything? I’ve got plenty enough money to help you out with the funeral if you’re like.

Relax, DeeRay. I’m not broke anymore either. You know I’ve got the best divorce lawyer in Richmond on my Christmas card list. I’ve taken practically every nickel from the two after you, thanks to him. It’s been kind of like a cottage industry for me.

They both laughed together, at the same time, about the same joke for probably the first time in twenty five years. 

So, you heading back to Massachusetts in the morning?

Yeah. I need to be getting back. Priscilla swore she would leave me if I came down here, so I better get that patched up.

Starla put her arms around her first husband, the father of her children and gave him a long, tender hug, saying nothing. Thank you for coming DeeRay…I mean it. After he got in the car, he rolled the window down, searching for something to say. Starla, who could never let silence hang too long began talking to no one in particular, DeeRay thought later…

…the thing is, even though I knew Robert would end up killing someone, I always imagined it would be one of his drug buddies, or one of his dealers. Why couldn’t it have been one of them? Why did he have to kill that Rigsby woman? I mean, of all the people in the world, why did it have to be such a fine and  beautiful woman like her? You know, I’ve read up on her and her family. They were from Richmond. She had a couple of grown kids, and a rich, successful husband who owned a big business somewhere. They were driving an Escalade. I saw a picture of her on the Internet. Such a lovely woman. The funny thing is DeeRay, my son ended up killing exactly the kind of woman I always wanted to be.

It’s a terrible thing, Starla…but like a great woman I knew once said, what’s done is done. There’s nothing you can do to fix it. 

I suppose so.

Starla watched him back out of the driveway, then followed his tail lights until they disappeared.

Life Changer

Had a fascinating conversation with a younger friend of mine the other day. He’s in his mid-forties and on the cusp of a sizable promotion at work. He was trying to decide whether it would be worth it to uproot his family and move away in pursuit of this new position which offered both much more money and greater respect and prestige in his profession. The opportunity to build greater wealth had a lot of appeal for him, since it might allow him to retire earlier than he had thought possible. Still, the upheaval it would bring to his family dynamic and quality of life was a concern. 

As I listened to him it occurred to me that when I was in my mid-forties, something happened to me that forever changed my perspective on the entire money/prestige thing. Emergency open heart surgery will do that to a person, I suppose.

I never had some dramatic, Hollywood-style epiphany. In the weeks of recovery afterwards I was too busy trying to put one foot in front of the other to bother myself with deep existential thoughts about the universe and my place in it. But once I returned to work, something had changed. My business is an intensely competitive enterprise which runs on the twin engines of money and growth. One thing always suggests the other. You are either getting bigger and wealthier or you are shrinking and dying...or so says the conventional wisdom. However, I discovered that there is nothing quite so clarifying of thought than the prospect of eminent death. Suddenly, I started examining everything in business through the prism of, is this really as critical as I think it is? It didn’t take long for me to realize that when it came to the old paradigm of growth and more and more...my heart just wasn’t in it anymore. 

So, I started making changes. I replaced income goals with vacation goals. My primary driver would no longer be exponential growth, but sustainable, manageable growth. I would trade in an increasingly more complex future for a much slower pace. Each year on January 1, the question became, how much time off will I take this year? And since I work for myself and there is no such thing as vacation pay, that meant that I had to be willing to accept less money. In the fifteen years that have gone by since I lay in that cold room counting backwards for the nice Asian anesthesiologist, I suppose I have forfeited quite a bit of money. On the other hand, I’ve never missed a single moment that mattered with my family. I’ve had time to read a thousand books, write a million words...and I have taken some incredible vacations! 

Owning your own business makes all of this possible. I am grateful to be where I am. I’m aware that for people who work for someone else, these decisions can’t be made as easily. My work has placed me in the enviable position of having a measure of control over my schedule and my income. The freedom that comes from such ownership is the single greatest benefit of my life’s work. But, getting off the big, bigger, biggest treadmill was the best decision I ever made, which means that having open heart surgery at age 45 was one of the best things that ever happened to me. 

How weird is that?

Making The Trains Run On Time

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. Ever since my Mom passed away, it’s been the occasion of many fond memories, but also a bit of sadness. I suppose that this is a natural thing and as it should be and will be for the remainder of my life. At present there are but two mothers in my life, my mother-in-law and my wife. My mother-in-law’s claim to fame will forever be bringing my wife into this world and raising her so well. My wife, on the other hand, has been and continues to be a legendary mother. A few examples...

To say that the two of us had different parenting styles would be a world class understatement. But, it’s one of the things I believe helped produce two pretty amazing kids. We had different jobs. While their mother was busy demonstrating the cardinal virtues in word and deed in front of our children, I was busy teaching them how to field grounders and break up a double play. While Pam labored to instill a love of books and reading in them, I was upstairs giving them their baths and teaching them how to execute a proper armpit fart. Pam spent countless hours cultivating an appreciation of the arts in our kids, teaching them about what it is to love and cherish fine things. I spent countless hours perfecting the tickle-monster bedtime routine, complete with ethnic diversity twists like the dreaded Chinese tickle-monster....don’t ask. But, it’s not like I taught them nothing of lasting value...the wrestling skills they retain to this day? All me!

But, in our house it was always Mom who made the trains run on time. She’s the one who packed their lunches every day for 12 years, never failing to include a hand written note of encouragement, or an occasional corny joke. It was Mom who always filled out the endless paperwork of childhood, the bureaucratic paper trail of American adolescence. It was Mom who made sure their teeth were straight, their clothes were clean and that everything matched. Mom was the one who scheduled their doctor’s appointments, made sure they showed up everywhere on time. It was Mom who always was there when they returned from school, with a snack, demanding a full report on the day’s adventures. It was Mom who would not tolerate a bad attitude or an uncharitable remark. It was Mom who taught them the crucial importance of manners, an old school term which essentially means...respect. And it was always Mom who did all the worrying. While I always reminded her that...the kids will be fine...she put in a lifetime of 18 hour days making sure they would be. 

Watching my wife with our kids all these years has convinced me that motherhood is more art than science. There is nothing accidental about it. Being a mother, it seems to me, is an eternal commitment to the hard details of life. It is a relentless pursuit, a tireless advocacy campaign, whereby anything or anyone who gets between your children and their best interests is in for an existential fight to the finish. If you were dumb enough to pose a threat to our kids, there would be hell to pay. But, having said all of this, what made Pam so incredible as a mother was the fact that she steadfastly resisted the urge to hover over them. She wasn’t one of those insufferable helicopter moms who think it their job to insure that junior never skins a knee. Pam made sure our kids were prepared for everything, but success or failure was their job. Pam was willing to allow them to fail. 

I had my moments as a dad. Even though I was responsible for financing my family’s adventures, I never became one of those guys who was always too busy making money to show up at the game or the concert. My kids always knew that Dad would be there..at everything. But it is not a case of false modesty to say that in our house there was always only one indispensable person...Mom. The kids knew it. I knew it. Even Mom knew it, and she never buckled under the weight of the job.

What a woman...

                              

31 Years of Parenthood

Thirty-one years ago today, I became a parent for the first time when my daughter, Kaitlin Elizabeth Dunnevant was born. Like all first time parents, I was woefully unprepared for the job, having not been endowed by nature with any of the requisite skills required for successful parenting. I was neither patient, long suffering, or particularly handy with diapers, having changed exactly zero of them ever in my life. I brought no remarkable wisdom to the parenting table, no natural inborn love of children. In fact, it would have been more accurate to say that I didn’t much care for other people’s babies. They were smelly, demanding, and the interminable crying drove me nuts. But, despite being as ill-equipped as humanly possible for such a responsibility...there she was.

Fortunately for us, she was a dream baby. She hardly ever cried, and never for no good reason. Within a couple of weeks she was sleeping five or six hours straight...at night, like human beings are supposed to. Pam and I couldn’t help stumbling onto the vain idea that we were, in fact, great parents, a conceit that would crash to the ground in tatters when our son was born two years later, introducing us to that most crucial virtue...humility. It turned out that it wasn’t so much that we had been great parents with Kaitlin, but rather, that she was a great baby. And so, the pattern of her life was laid out early...my daughter is simply...a great person.

This morning, I woke up thinking about her. It’s weird how that happens sometimes...you wake up with one of your kids on your mind. So, I found myself shuffling through a thousand pictures I have of the two of us through the years. Since it’s her birthday, here are a few of my favorites...

One of her favorite traditions, the annual carving of the pumpkins. Patrick always asked for a scary face, Kaitlin always, always wanted a happy, smiling face. 

College dorm room after a day of slave labor, Kaitlin secure in the knowledge that she had me wrapped around her little finger.

Somewhere in Maine, our forever happy-place.

Michie Tavern for lunch...

Myrtle Beach, where she proved her love for me by not being ashamed to be seen in public with me wearing that shirt.

So, as my little girl celebrates her birthday today, I celebrate her, and thank God for bringing her into my life.

Fashion and Faith...sigh

So, apparently there was a Met Gala last night in New York City which featured a Christian/Catholic theme. All of the beautiful people were there trying to out-do each other on the weirdly camouflage carpet. As a Christian, I am supposed to be appalled and distraught by this blasphemous display. The event has provided me with a huge opportunity to have my feelings hurt. The above photograph, I am assured was the most offensive of the lot, featuring Rihanna dressed like some sort of Pope/Prostitute. The whataboutism brigades were out in force this morning wailing about how when some teenager in Utah dares attend a prom in a traditional Chinese dress, charges of cultural appropiation fly around all over the place, but a bunch of Hollywood liberals can denigrate Christian traditions with impunity. The more sarcastic Tweets observed that they will eagerly await next year’s Islam-themed gala where the likes of Kim Khardasian and Rihanna will come dressed in provocative skin tight burkas, images of the Prophet plastered onto their ample bosoms.

What to think of all this?

Well, for starters, most of the loudest critics of this event were Catholics, and I am not a Catholic so I can’t speak for them. Maybe if I were all of this would feel more offensive. I’m told that the local Cardinal in New York actually provided Rihanna with her head gear, and that the theme of the event had something to do with a collection of Catholic art and artifacts at one of the Met’s sister museums. Be that as it may, it should come as no surprise to anyone who hasn’t been held captive in a cave for the last fifty years that given the opportunity, Hollywood celebrities will always make fools of themselves where fashion is involved. Throw religion into the mix and you’ve got a recipe for..well, for...this...

To which I say...who cares?

Here’s the thing people, I’m exhausted. Enjoy a couple of tacos anymore and you get accused of culturally appropriating Mexicans. You can’t swing a dead cat without either offending someone or being offended by something. I just can’t keep up with it all anymore. I suppose I should look at a photograph of some starlet in a low cut gown festooned with a crucifix and feel spiritually violated, but I just can’t summon up anything approaching indignation. You know why? Because I really don’t care. These people don’t offend me. Why should they? Why should I expect people outside of my faith to be sensitive to my tender feelings? How they choose to dress is their business. There are far more calamitous things going on in this world for Christians to be concerned with than some silly fashion gala in New York City. Sure, the Christian faith is a much more inviting target than Islam would be, but the reason for that is a compliment to my faith since the concepts of freedom of expression and tolerance found the tender soil required to survive and grow in the soil of the Judeo Christian ethic in the first place. So, of course Christian traditions come in for more mockery than Islamic ones in the West...people who regularly mock Muslim traditions in Muslim countries mostly wind up dead.

So, save yourselves the aggravation and stop letting everything hurt your feelings. Just smile and move on. Save your passion and energy for something that really matters. The world has enough snowflakes.

A Question For All of You...

Here’s a question to ponder. If money were no object, and you could travel anywhere in the world to celebrate, say...a 35th wedding anniversary, and you could allot two weeks for such an adventure, where would you go?

This is the question which has been bouncing around in the fever swamps of my addled brain for the past few weeks. The anniversary in question isn’t until 2019, and our plate is currently full with wedding machinations. Still, it’s never too early to begin planning such a momentous occasion, since half the fun is in the dreaming. In order to have a memorable trip, one first has to be able to imagine it.

So, if you could go anywhere for two weeks with the love of your life...where? 

First of all, it has to be a place that would be enchanting to both of us. Sure, a two week jaunt to the Baseball Hall of Fame would be amazing, especially if we could spend a couple of days touring the beef jerky outlets while we were there. But, something tells me that Pam would be underwhelmed. No, it has to be somewhere neither of us has ever been or wouldn’t ordinarily go. That eliminates the following otherwise excellent choices:

The Cayman Islands

Hawaii

The Virgin Islands

England

Switzerland 

Mexico

Bahamas 

Puerto Rico

Jamaica 

Maine

California 

Key West

It needs to be somewhere exotic, or full of historical significance. It also needs to have amazing food. Popular use of the English language would be nice but is not a requirement. Air conditioning is a non-negotiable if I expect my wife to agree to come along.

Ok then...the question has been put to you. Please respond with your thoughtful suggestions.

On Becoming Presbyterian...

Quite the eventful weekend. Spent some time with both my kids. Had a successful suit shopping experience. Became a Presbyterian.

But first...an observation. If the Babylon Bee didn’t already exist, I would have to create it. These guys have performed a crucial public service for me these past couple of years as they adroitly and hilariously rip to shreds the blatant hypocrisy and double standards of modern Christianity for me so I don’t have to...so much. Yes, I am quite often jealous of them, sometimes disturbingly so, and I am always envious of their wit, but a few second tier sins seem a small price to pay for such an uproarious good time. Consider the following headlines, a short list of my personal favorites...

Joel Osteen Googles “What is a Trinity?”

Treasure in Heaven Revealed To Be Bitcoin

Holy Spirit Empowers Man To Make It Through Christian Movie

Calvinist Dog Corrects Owner: “No One Is A Good Boy”

Nation’s Evangelicals Warn They’ll Only Give Trump 1 or 2 Hundred More Mulligans

Evil Christians Oppress Secular New Yorkers With Delicious Chicken Sandwiches 

Hershey’s Replaces “Kisses” With More Pure “Sidehugs” For Christian Market

Elevation Church Debuts Water Slide Baptismal

So, on their second anniversary as a thing..kudos!!

Yeah, so the kids made it here safe and sound for the weekend. The wedding shower was a smashing success, by all accounts, and lots of those disgusting tea party sandwiches were consumed. Everyone in attendance raved about how yummy the cucumber and dill things were, along with all the crudités and Earl Grey...when what they all secretly wanted were bacon cheese burgers and milkshakes.

But, the real victory of The Weekend was the successful purchase of the mystical perfect blue suit for Patrick and his groomsmen. Up until this point, the exact color that Patrick was looking for seemed unattainable on planet Earth. If the color was spotted somewhere, invariably the cut of the suit was all wrong...not slim enough; or if it was the right cut, the price tag was out of the question. When we walked out of Express For Men after a mere two hours in possession of four perfectly blue, sufficiently slim wedding suits, it felt like winning the lottery.

Once all the kids had left for their homes in South Carolina and Tennessee late Sunday afternoon, it was time for Pam and me to head over to Hope for their 5:00 service where we, along with twenty or so others, were presented as new members. Ironically, on the same day that our old church celebrated their 150th year of existence, we ended our combined 96 years of being...Baptists. Although our new church doesn’t make a big deal of the fact that they are, in fact, Presbyterian, the fact that they are is still...a thing, I suppose. A lot of people have asked me if I have noticed any theological differences between Baptists and Presbyterians, and I always answer vaguely. That’s because, aside from the infant baptism thing, there don’t seem to be very many differences. What is different is the points of emphasis, and the style of preaching...and the fact that this particular Presbyterian Church has a ton of money and isn’t afraid to spend it. But, nobody can accuse them of building gigantic, vain cathedrals. Their building looks like it was designed for an upscale office park for startups. It could easily house a distribution center for sustainable dog toys, or perhaps a micro brewery. But, there are differences though. I hear things from this pulpit which I would never hear from a Baptist one...I’m putting myself through Divinity school by tending bar...But, Pam and I are so very grateful to have found this amazing fellowship of believers. At this time in our lives it has been something close to a miracle. Every Sunday we wake up thinking...We get to go to church today!!...a wonderful thing.