Of Course You Know...This Means War

If you look carefully at this bird feeder you will notice a series of scratches on either side of the feeding hole. They were put there by a tribe of squirrels which have descended upon it of late. Since the despicable tree rats are too heavy for the spring loaded rest which is designed to prevent such theft, whenever a squirrel latches on, the holes shut tightly in their rat-like faces. At which point, the fuzzy-tailed rodents are left with gnawing on the housing of the feeder, hoping to create a new hole. Thus has the gauntlet been thrown down. This intrusion cannot stand. 

Unfortunately, my trusted Daisy 35 finally gave up the ghost last winter, but before I had a chance to replace it, my friend, Chip Hewette, came to my rescue by loaning me a far superior weapon...this much heavier and manlier death machine...

Each morning, every lunch hour that I am available, and every evening, I can be found cutting a wide path of death and destruction through the squirrel community. For the most part, my aim has been true and the resulting slaughter has been highly effective in reducing the annoyance of their relentless thievery. But, tonight as I was waiting for dinner I happened to glance out onto the deck and noticed a disturbing sight. There, splayed out spreadeagle, like a sunbather at a nudist colony was a large and grizzled veteran squirrel. All four paws stretched to their full length, tail drooped lazily across the railing of the deck, his beedy little eyes half closed as if he were about to doze off for a nap. Talk about humiliation? What have I been fighting all these weeks for if not to create a climate of fear and trembling in their midst? How, after all the hellfire that Chip’s pellet gun has belched forth, could such an elderly squirrel make such a mockery of my efforts? It was as if this arrogant punk was making a statement...You think we’re afraid of you, gun man? We laugh at your air gun!!

Of course, by the time I grabbed the gun and opened the door to the deck, old gramps had hightailed it into one of the thick oak trees and was protected from my wrath. I could practically hear the lot of them giggling with their high-pitched squirrel voices. I retreated back inside to hatch a new strategy. But, despite this little display of defiance, I will not be deterred from my mission to rid my back yard of these flea-bitten rats. I will redouble my 
efforts to protect our birds, I will steel myself for whatever it takes to protect My tomatoes and Pam’s herbs from the sniveling gray menace.

To quote one of America’s greatest revenge tacticians...Bugs Bunny...Of course you know...this means war!!

Nothing New Under The Sun

Question of the day: What was your first significant memory as a child?

Early memories are difficult for me. It’s as if I made it through the first six or seven years of my life with none of them. For someone who has the ability to remember encyclopedias full of meaningless minutiae, this has always been a frustration. Why were my formative years so uneventful? At least there weren’t bad memories, right? There’s always something  to be thankful for.

But, everyone has a first memory, and I am no exception. I was five years old. I was playing outside in the middle of the day when I was surprised to see Linda and Donnie walking up the driveway, oddly home from school early. It was November 22, 1963. President John F. Kennedy had been shot and killed in Dallas, Texas. Chesterfield County schools had decided to send everyone home for the day.

Of course, as a five year old, I didn’t comprehend much, but I did sense that whatever it was, it was important. I remember my mother running out of the house to hug them tight. I remember going inside and Mom making sandwiches for us...everyone talking in hushed tones. We had no TV, but the radio was on WRVA and even their voices sounded strange, clipped and shaky. Thats about all I can recall from that day. Something big had happened and I could feel it.

Five years later, brother Bobby would be killed in a hotel in Los Angeles. I watched it live as a ten year old, seated on the floor of my grandmother’s trailer, on a black and white television with rabbit ear antennas sprouting upwards forming a V...for violence. Earlier that same summer, Martin Luther King had been shot. I didn’t see it on television but I remember everyone talking about it. The grownups seemed worried, distraught at the direction the country was headed. There were riots, black kids throwing rocks, white kids carrying signs, angry about one thing or another. I had no profound insights about it all as a ten year old kid who’s primary passion, despite social upheaval, remained...baseball. But, I do remember feeling unsettled. The world was suddenly a strangely unpredictable place. Everyone seemed furious and fever-pitched.

Which goes to show you just how wise King Solomon actually was when he said, There is nothing new under the sun.

Something Beautiful

It was starting to get dark and I was getting stiff from the six hour drive to Columbia as we sat eating our Firehouse subs at a picnic table in Congeree National Park. It was our first time seeing the famous synchronized fireflies that our son-in-law had been so instrumental in promoting. Tonight, Jon was not a ranger. He was just my daughter’s husband in street clothes, leading his church small group on an outing at the park. But, in uniform or not, he was busy answering our questions and telling us what to expect once it got dark. Thousands of what I have always called lightening bugs were about to come together, and for reasons that are not entirely understood, start flashing their lights...all at the same time. He explained the rules...no cell phone usage, no cameras...they wouldn’t do us any good anyhow since their shutter speeds aren’t fast enough to capture the sight. 

People began to show up and stream through the entrance to the special viewing trail that Jon had devised and help cut through the low lying and heavy thickets. At the gate, people who had flashlights were given strips of red cellophane and tiny rubber bands to cover them and told to only use them pointed down at the ground, that unnatural light would throw off the synchronization. The trail itself was lit by cellophane covered lamps along the ground on either side of the trail, and cordoned off by glow in the dark rope. The early arrivals had staked out spots for themselves at the chairs and picnic tables that had been set up in random spots along the trail, most of them with huge special cameras atop tripods, waiting for the perfect shot.

I was getting impatient, a frequent affliction of mine, waiting for something to happen. This was Columbia, after all...in late May. It was hot and getting more humid by the minute. I was waiting not only for the fireflies to arrive, but their distant cousins...mosquitoes... to make an appearance. As more and more people began to arrive, I felt that familiar sensation that comes over me at times like this. Whenever I am waiting for some long awaited event, or some over-hyped big thing that people have been telling me I just have to see, I become detached and cynical, sometimes to the point of becoming determined not to be impressed. It’s part of my nature, I suppose, and not a very attractive part, this contrarianism.

When we finally got in line and made our way to Jon’s suggested vantage point, it was still dusk, not quite dark. The fireflies were visible now but not an impressive number of them and not yet snyched up. I could feel the jaded cockiness coming to the surface. I remember thinking, Are you kidding me? I came all the way out here for this?

Then, around a quarter to nine, about the time that the last glow of the setting sun was disappearing from the horizon, something clicked. Suddenly their numbers swelled, and the darkening woods began to pulse with white light. These were not the lightening bugs of my youth, which blinked slowly and whose color was more a greenish yellow. These fireflies were bright white, almost like LED lights and their flash was like Quicksilver. I was mesmerized. And then I noticed it...the silence.

There aren’t many places in this world anymore that involve large numbers of human beings...and silence. Even in churches, where people used to gather to be quiet, there is always some sort of buzz. Libraries are still quiet I guess, but who goes to libraries anymore? But, here I was, in the middle of the woods...in a swamp, surrounded by hundreds of strangers in tight quarters in now total darkness...and suddenly everyone was hushed by the moment. Suddenly, no one felt it appropriate to speak above a whisper. Why? No one had warned us that loud noises would make the fireflies go away or get out of synch. Still, everyone seemed to somehow know that silence was the proper response for this moment.

After a time of gawking, we decided to move along the trail. By that time it was pitch black, the almost complete lack of man-made light had cast a black blanket over the world. We inched along, holding on to one another, glancing down only to find the cellophane covered trail lights and the dim red glow that assured us that we weren’t wandering into the swamp. The fireflies were on both sides of us now, blinking, blinking, blinking. The only disturbance was some girl who tried to take a picture with her cellphone. The flash of it exploded like a bolt of lightening and a murmur of disapproval rippled through the crowd. It never happened again. There’s always at least one idiot.

As we stumbled along in the darkness, carried along by each other and trust in what we could not see, it occurred to me that the assembled crowd had absolutely nothing in common except our humility in the presence of this mysterious beauty. There were Christians, non-Christians, several different races, democrats and republicans, meat-eaters and vegetarians...all of us brought down from our high horses for a while, humbled and silenced by something that no one can quite explain...synchronized fireflies. If you believe in God, it was if he was saying to us...Here, slow down for a minute. Rest with me for a while. Let me show you something beautiful.

Getting Ready

Back to work. After a week away, it’s time to find out all I’ve missed at Dunnevant Financial. Thanks to my intrepid assistant, I already know plenty...enough to know that I’ve got a lot to do over these next two weeks. Pam and I will be (finally) celebrating our 35th wedding anniversary from the 12th thru the 16th of June down on Isle of Palms. Then it will be back for two more weeks of work, then my reward for spending 36 years in this business—I take the month of July off—first, a week on Hatteras Island with my large, unruly family, then MAINE.

Speaking of Maine, yesterday, the owner of Loon Landing (who I am shamelessly ingratiating myself with for the purposes of convincing her to eventually sell me the place) sent me a photo of the dock they had just put back in the water...with the enticing tag line..getting ready. They always open the place on Memorial Day weekend. I drooled over this picture the rest of the day...

In no time at all, I will be a semi-permanent fixture on the end of that dock, interrupted only by the occasional kayak trip to my favorite fishing spot or a jaunt into Camden for pancakes and shopping.

Counting the days...

A 30 Year Old Son

Today is my boy’s 30th birthday. He is, of course, no longer a boy, having become a man years ago without my permission or consent. This is the way of the world, the current of life, ever forward, always grasping around the bend for the next thing, making what came before harder and harder to remember, eventually even to comprehend. This is altogether proper. The excitement of life is always in what is to come, never what was before. And yet...when it comes to my kids, no matter how far they progress or how much they accomplish, my heart’s image of them remains frozen in time. In Patrick’s case it’s this...

All those years ago he depended on us for everything. He had very little choice when it came to what he wore or what he ate. His plans for the day were what we said they were...and he was, for the most part, cooperative and compliant. Now, he wears what he wants, eats what he wants and makes his own plans. More importantly, he’s doing it all by his own devices and with his own money. I am overwhelmingly proud of him.

But, am I the only parent out there who secretly wishes he could go back in time for just one day? Am I the only one who wishes he could sit with him on that bench in Maine watching him drink his hot cocoa one more time? Am I the only one who wishes he could lift him up to put the angel on the tree again, or watch him racing his sister on the beach in Nags Head at sunset one last time? Of course, there are many things about the old days that I’m glad are dead and gone...the constant financial pressures, the relentless anxiety about their developement, the nagging fear that we were doing it all wrong and that they would grow up to be worthless, ungrateful brats. That pit in your stomach every time you watched them walk up the sidewalk into school...

So, today, I celebrate my son, and the amazing man he has become with great pride and no regrets...

...but I would give anything to be able to hold him in that Tigger suit one more time.

Columbia. Day 2

Second day in Columbia was a triumph. I slept in until just before 7 am, by which time my daughter was long gone, Jon soon to follow, leaving Pam and I alone in their house for the rest of the day. Before she left, Kaitlin thought to send us a text with a list of things we might want to do to busy ourself while...”missing our delightful company.” The first thing on her list was the Riverbanks Zoo.

My last zoo experience was many, many years ago and not altogether pleasant. My limited and quite dated experience with zoos is that they always made me feel sad. The animals all look so depressed and unnatural. But this zoo was a million miles from any zoo I have ever visited. It was beautifully designed and maintained. Great care was taken in creating the environment. The animals looked equal parts comfortable and menacing. 

Although it was warm and humid out, the place was designed with an abundance of natural shade, and just enough air conditioned displays to escape the heat. The prescence of a steady breeze also helped. The three plus hours we spent there flew by.

We got back to the house around 2 or so, just in time for a power nap. Jon left work early for the first time in three weeks (which is also the amount of consecutive days he has worked without a day off—firefly season ). I sent him to his room for a shower and a nap! Then...we waited, and waited, and waited some more, for my firstborn and only daughter to return from work. It is at this point when I began to get riled up, agitated, pissed off, and all up in the pictures. Kaitlin had left the house somewhere around 6 to 6:30 in the morning. It was now 6:00 in the evening and she still wasn’t home. What does she do for a living, you ask? Is she an important government official? Is she the CEO of a large corporation with far flung responsibilities and 10,000 employees? Is she a highly compensated celebrity whose day is packed with public appearances? Is she the only person in South Carolina who knows how to keep everyone’s air conditioning working? Oh no...she is a Middle School English Teacher, with only two weeks of classes left and final grades due this Friday, who was being kept late at school doing some asshat busy work which had absolutely nothing to do with her students or their grades! And this was the second straight day that this time-killing, soul crushing outrage had been foisted on her. And yet, when she finally opened the door to the wild delight of Jackson, she looked fresh, relaxed and had a beautiful smile on her face. I was astonished. I would have thought after two 12 hour days back to back she would at least have been...bemused. Instead, she was like...Whatever, this is my life. I’m starved. Let’s eat!!

I will resist the caustic lecture from a private sector business owner who would never in a million years tolerate the jackassery that teachers endure on a daily basis. I will simply say that my daughter is a hard working genius who, if paid by the hour, would be making less than the minimum wage...in the Sudan. This is an outrage, and the State of South Carolina is very fortunate that Kaitlin’s lunatic father lives safely 6 hours away...grrrrrrr.

Then, the kids treated us to a magnificent dinner at a lovely Italian restaurant for our 35th anniversary. Afterwards, we met their best friends at a local ice cream spot down town...

These wonderful people are Matthew and Bailey Wolfer and their son, Milo. They are the answers to every parent’s prayers when their kids move away to a new city...Lord, please help them find some new friends who will love and care for them like we would if we were there. Unfortunately, these are also the people who will make it hard for Kaitlin and Jon to ever leave this place to move closer to home. They are the sort of people who are frankly, irreplaceable. Love them to pieces.

Our Road Dog

Usually, the 24 hours before Pam and I leave for a trip are quite...tense. My wife is a meticulous planner and packs like a fiend. She remembers...everything. Me, on the other hand, tend to throw stuff in a suitcase at the last minute and often forget crucial stuff...like medications. My lackadaisical approach to packing causes much eye-rolling and heavy sighs from my wife. But this trip has been different. She has been as cool as a cucumber, flitting around the house without the usual manic drive. Last night it hit us...there is a reason for this newfound chill, and it comes from a surprising place...Lucy is coming with us.

Most of the time, Lucy stays home, which means that our super star dog-whispering house sitter, Becca, moves in. This is great for Lucy, who loves Becca. But, it requires a whole other level of preparation. The house must be cleaned, beds made, food must be in the fridge. But, if Lucy is coming with us, we can leave the house in a shambles and no one will know the difference!! The discovery hopefully has been a revelation for my wife, and as we decide whether or not to bring Lucy to Maine this year, I hope she will remember the relative tranquility of the last 24 hours.

Meanwhile, Lucy knows that we are getting ready to leave and has been quite lovey-dovey, hoping that this time we will take her along. After dinner the past couple of nights she has hopped up on the sofa and made a big production of snuggling up to Pam, the one she always needs to convince. It has been quite shameless...

So, this morning when I pack the car, I will be sure to cover all of the scary bags with a blanket so they won’t frighten Lucy. I will carve out a sleeping spot for her along one side of the car. As soon as she realizes that she is coming with us, she will jump in, walk around in a circle three times, then lay down and sleep like a baby the entire trip to Columbia...the best traveling dog of all time!

Fireflies and The Dogs

This week, Pam and I intend to correct a major parenting mistake. It embarrasses me to even write about it. For some inexcusable reason we haven’t visited Kaitlin and Jon in Columbia in over two years! When we realized this fact, we could hardly believe it. How on earth could this be? Over that same period of time, we have visited Patrick and Sarah three times...and although nobody is keeping score...what am I saying, of course they’re keeping score! My children are famous for their competitiveness. Nevertheless, this week we will begin to correct this imbalance. We leave tomorrow and will come back Friday. The excuse for this particular visit is to see, in person, the annual...Synchronized Fireflies at Congeree National Park where Jon is a Ranger. We will gather at the park one night along with a couple thousand others around nightfall and watch an amazing spectacle that happens in only two places in the United States...thousands of fireflies all pulsing light together at the same time.

I’ve been told that it is an amazing sight to see, magical and hypnotic. No one really knows why fireflies synchronize in so few places, or why they bother to synchronize at all. The best scientific explanation is that the whole lighting up thing is how fireflies go about selecting a mate...call it flash-flirting. If this is true, then the occasion of a display of thousands of them lighting up at the exact same moment would be the human equivalent of karaoke night at a singles bar. So what we have here is one of nature’s most glorious displays turning out to be all about sex!! Isn’t that always the way? Be that as it may, I can’t wait to see it in person.

The rest of the time, we will just be hanging out with the kids...and the dogs. Yes, we are finally taking Lucy along on one of our trips...and she is stoked about it. She truly loves going bye-bye in the car, and for the most part enjoys hanging out with Jackson...

...right up to the moment where she has had enough of Jackson’s smothering affections, whereupon she jumps up on our bed and guards her safe place from all intruders, foreign and domestic. The Alfa Dog and the Queen Bee.

The Fever Swamp That Is My Imagination...

I was relaxing in my LazyBoy the other night, watching a Nats game on my MLB app...when suddenly an image popped into my head. This sort of thing happens to me quite often. It’s hard to explain. Sometimes an idea for a story will materialize in my melon, unprovoked, dang near fully formed. It’s the strangest feeling. It paralyzes me. Temporarily, I can think of nothing else. This particular story idea was a multifaceted, convoluted mess. I will now attempt to summarize the outline that’s living inside my head, rent free.

It starts with a man laying unconscious on an empty beach. The man begins to come out of it, opens his eyes, and the first thing he sees is a sand crab, popping up out of his hole...

They stare at each other for a minute. The man is disoriented, confused and increasingly panicked. He lifts himself up, looks up and down the beach, seeing no one. He has no idea where he is or how he got there. It occurs to him that he can’t remember...anything. He checks himself. He’s not injured. He’s dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. He’s wearing tennis shoes. He’s covered in sand. He recognizes nothing. He reaches for his wallet. There’s twenty dollars in cash, a picture of a women he doesn’t know and a driver’s license he also doesn’t recognize. He stands up, looks up and down the beach. No houses anywhere. Then, off in the distance he notices someone walking a dog, heading his way.
The next scene if of a woman driving an expensive car. There are a couple of suitcases in the back seat. She is headed for her beach house on Hatteras Island. She has country music playing loudly on the radio. She feels alive and vital...a thrill of expectation running through her veins. She is headed for a rendezvous with the man she has been having a torrid affair with for the past three months. This will be their first time out of town together, away from the prying eyes of friends and enemies. She thinks briefly of her husband, who is out of town on business. She feels a pang of guilt. She instantly suppresses  it. Although he’s a good man and doesn’t deserve her unfaithfulness, her lover takes her places she hasn’t been in years. She feels powerless to resist.

Her husband finishes up his business earlier than expected, and decides to surprise her by driving to the beach house. She had told him she was going down for a few days by herself to work on her tan. As he gets close to the house, a storm starts to form. The winds pick up and it begins to rain. Lightning streaks across the sky. he pulls into the driveway and sees two cars. He walks up the front steps then around the wrap-around porch towards the back entrance...the one he prefers to use. As he walks past the window to their bedroom he sees them in his bed, his wife and his best friend. They are fully engaged in their treachery, oblivious to the man standing at the window.  Filled with rage and aflamed by the betrayal he begins to enter through the back door but stops short, paralyzed by fear and grief. Instead he runs down the deck steps and out onto the beach while the rain gets heavier and the lightening flashes wildly all around him.

When the man with the dog arrives, he asks, You ok, mister? I hardly ever see anyone on my morning walk? The dog is busy sniffing all around the ground where he had been laying, then suddenly lets out a soft growl.

Excuse me, but...where am I?

Why...this is Hatteras Island.

But where are all the houses?

Well, there’s only three or four on this stretch. They are still where they’ve always been, as far as I know. You sure you’re ok?

You sure this is Hatteras?

As sure as I am of anything. I moved here after the war in ‘46 and have been here ever since...16 years of beach living!

Wait...what did you say?

I said I’ve been here 16 years. Moved here in 1946.

The man reached again for his wallet, pulled out his driver’s license, glanced at the picture, then saw it...his date of birth...June 10, 1962.

Ok...thats all I got. All of this came to me in maybe five minutes. Nothing since. The question is...should I write this story, or is it just too weird?

All My Fault

What follows is a short and incomplete list of Things That Piss Me Off, in inverse order...

5. People who cut in line.

4. People who don’t silence their cell phones in church.

3. People who talk during movies.

2. People who get distracted by their cell phones while waiting at a red light.

1. Making a stupid bank error.

You will notice that the first four things on my list involve other people. The reason the bank error thing is number one on my list is because it’s all me. It’s all me making a boneheaded mistake, and there isn’t another living soul who I can blame it on. All me. Take this morning at 5:41 am, for example...

The 15th of the month is one of two bill-paying days on my calendar. I set aside an hour or so, usually in the morning to get it done. In the Dunnevant household, there are three checking accounts. One of them belongs to Pam ( who this never seems to happen to ). The second one is our joint checking account, out of which we move and have our being (JK!!!), and the third is my corporate account, out of which I pay all bills associated with my chosen profession. Since the majority of my income is deposited into our joint checking account,(since, for reasons that escape me, it can’t be paid to an entity, only an individual), bill paying always involve making a transfer of funds from one account not another. With the miracle of online banking, this is as easy as pushing a button on my laptop, and it works like a charm....except on those rare occasions when it doesn’t. The thing that makes this so painful is that when it doesn’t work...it is always my fault. Something happens. I get distracted. One minute, I am focused like a laser on the task at hand, humming along like a well oiled machine. Then, the phone rings, a client shows up unannounced, an irresistible opportunity for an office prank presents itself, somebody brings donuts, and before you know it, I have forgotten to press send on that $8762 transfer from the joint account to the corporate account, even though I am convinced that I have. The next morning I open my bank app and am notified that there is a negative balance of -$1032 in said account. This has resulted in a $35 overdraft fee. I will have to go by the bank and plead my pathetic case to Clarice, my irritating but patient banker, who will roll her eyes and grant me some sort of dispensation for my stupidity. She will say...Doug, why don’t you delay your bill paying date until the day after you do these transfers? That way if you forget to press send you’ll have time to catch it. We’ve gone over this before!

I blush and nod my head obediently...Yes, Clarice...that is an excellent suggestion. I will take that under advisement. I guess I got distracted...but I could have sworn I hit send.

Naw...you didn’t.

I then will thank her for her forebearance, and slink out of the bank feeling like I used to feel whenever Mrs. Winston made me stand with my nose pressed against the blackboard for throwing paper airplanes back in 4th grade. Rage and temporary self-loathing.

Beto’s Do-Over

Beto O’Rourke. I’m told he’s Kennedy-esk. He’s running for President and having a rough go of it. Still, everybody keeps saying he’s Kennedy-esk.

But, there he was yesterday, hat in hand, on The View, attempting a do-over. Beto regrets many things about the way he introduced himself to the Country. One of the things he regrets is this Vanity Fair cover. When Joy Behar, a celebrity with a 12 million dollar net worth asked Beto if he thought that perhaps the photo came across as elitist, he agreed. But when I look at Beto on the cover of Vanity Fair I don’t think Kennedy-esk. I think of Ronald Reagan...

Only, Reagan was smart enough not to put his dog in the shot. I’m thinking that Beto’s dog needs some love.

So, Beto regrets lots of things. He regrets being white. He’s very sorry about his privilege. He really wishes he wasn’t a wealthy man. He would have so much less to overcome as a candidate if he were say...poor, or Latino. Better yet...a poor Latino. Of course, the perfect storm would be if he were poor, Latino, disabled, and gay...but you have to play the cards you’re dealt. All of which brings me back to this Kennedy-esk business.

I’m here to tell you guys that there is nothing Kennedy-esk about Beto except maybe this look...

Aside from the striking physical similarities, there is nothing remotely Kennedy-esk about Beto. The Kennedy boys were all exceedingly proud of their upbringing. They worshiped the ground their old man walked on and were grateful as hell for their ginormous trust funds, since the financial security it provided allowed them to pursue public service. It would never have occurred to any of them to feel remorse for their whiteness or their privilege. Were they elitist? You bet they were. If they were eaten up with guilt about it, they had a funny way of showing it, inviting the press onto the grounds at Hyannis Port to showcase their privilege the way they did...

So, although Beto is no Kennedy, maybe he can retool his flagging campaign somehow by doing this apology tour. I suppose next up will be Oprah...

If he can manage some tears his numbers will bump up to double digits overnight.

There Goes The Neighborhood

I have walked through this door for over 21 years now. Just had it painted for the second or third time...I can’t remember. We’re the only people to ever live here. When we first moved in, the street out front hadn’t been paved yet. The place is almost paid for. Time flies.

I’ve watched a thousand sunrises through the Palladian window upstairs. Sure hope the Anderson’s don’t think I’ve been stalking them...

We’ve hosted many large family gatherings around these tables, with dogs walking beneath them, pestering everyone for a treat.

I have slaved like a beast to keep my lawn looking like this...

The inside of the house has always been Pam’s domain. The decor, the paint, the flair and warmth...all her.

And although most of the time we would rather be on a lake in Maine, this is the place we can’t wait to come home to.

Our neighborhood has changed a lot over the years. As our house has gotten older, our neighbors have gotten younger. There are kids everywhere, dogs too. While I may not be able to tell you the first name of everyone who lives on our culdesac, I’m on a first name basis with every dog in the subdivision. I think that means I’m a terrible neighbor. 

This particular corner of Short Pump is a melting pot. It didn’t feel that way as much when we first moved in, but now the place is much more diverse. There are Asian families, Russian families, African-Americans and Indians. Although, the changing ethnic balance in America at large has been associated with tension and acrimony, for me it’s been kinda fun. The fun comes with the kids. When I see all of them at play in the streets when I come home from work on warm summer days, I wonder why older people are so anxious to move to upscale retirement communities. Why would anyone want to surround themselves with a bunch of old farts? I would much rather live in a community which features an occasional appearance of a pickup truck full of princesses...

This is not to say that life in a suburban neighborhood is all moonlight and magnolias. The downside of unleashed pups is the appearance of dog poop in your yard. Having a peaceful dinner, alfresco, on a beautiful evening more often than not gets ruined by someone deciding to cut their grass across the way. And those beautiful kids? They can get quite noisy at times. Pam and I recently had dinner with some friends who had just built a house out in Goochland on five acres of farmland. As we sat on their back deck admiring the gorgeous view we couldn’t believe how...quiet it was...beautiful, beguiling quiet. But, if they get a hankering for ice cream at 10 o’clock at night, it’s a twenty minute drive. Life is about trade offs, I suppose.

At some point we may decide to downsize. Thats a big thing now, I hear. We might need a place with a first floor master bedroom, I’m told. Pam may get to the place where she wants the land, the wide open spaces and the quiet more than she wants a full service grocery store three minutes from her front door. Once I get grandkids of my own, I might not be so accommodating of other people’s kids. But for now...this is the place...

Two Great Monkey Jokes

Yesterday I posted a hilarious (to me, at least) video of this crazy attack monkey. A friend of mine, who knows hilarious videos when he sees one, sent it to me. As soon as I managed to stop laughing, I shared it with the world on Facebook. Funny thing is, until my buddy sent me that video, I hadn’t given monkeys a second thought in a very long time. Good thing, though...since it has sparked a memory of two of my all time favorite jokes, one a pun, the other a monkey walks into a bar joke. First, the pun:

Why did the monkey stop playing poker in the jungle?

He couldn’t find an honest game...too many...cheetahs.

A monkey walks into a bar, sits at a table and orders a martini. The bartender can’t believe it...a monkey in his bar!? But, he decides to play along, so he makes the martini and carefully sets it down in front of the monkey. The monkey takes the drink and gracefully begins sipping it like a pro. Then he hands the bartender a fresh twenty dollar bill. The bartender is astounded. He goes back to the register and watches the monkey sipping his martini like he’s been doing it all of his life! Then, the bartender decides to try something to see if the monkey notices...he walks back over to the monkey’s table and hands him one dollar in change. The monkey makes no response, just sits there sipping that martini. After a few minutes, the bartender just can’t stand it anymore...You know, he says, we don’t get too many monkeys in here.

The monkey looks up at him and says...Well, at nineteen dollars a drink, I’m not surprised.

Hope Thrift...a Volunteer’s Story

My church runs a thrift store called, unimaginatively...Hope Thrift. It is a sprawling place filled with everything from soup to nuts. It is run by a handful of full time employees, and an army of volunteers. As fate would have it, Pam and I ended up in a small group with Renee Norton, the top dog at the place. Naturally, Renee roped us into joining the ranks of volunteers. 

My first day of work was the first time in my life I had ever entered a thrift store. I have generally made it a habit to avoid such places. They give off the same, creepy vibe as yard sales, and you guys know how I feel about that miserable franchise! But, Renee was not to be denied, so off I went that first day nearly a year ago. As a first timer, I was shuffled to the back room, which I was told was the nerve center of the entire enterprise. In fact, it was actually the most chaotic part of the experience, the place where a nonstop procession of people would appear at the back door, eager to drop off all of their reject possessions in exchange for an orange receipt for their taxes. Once they did, it was my job to sort through it and determine what was fit to sell and what would get thrown in the giant dumpster out back. To my great surprise, I found that there was something...fun...about it. For one thing, the group of veteran Hope Thrifters I was working with were all great fun. There seemed to be a cheerful camaraderie among them, and their patience with me was appreciated. By the second or third shift, I was promoted to books, which meant...organizing the gargantuan mountain of mostly worthless and unreadable paperbacks, encyclopedias published before I was born, and coffee table books with provocative titles like...The 100 Deadliest Snakes of the Brazilian Rain Forest. (Why in the name of all that is holy would anyone get rid of that?)

But soon, my reputation for having no particular skill set for retail, combined with my tendency towards doing physical chores quickly got me promoted to the coveted position of DMLA...dumb manual labor associate. I now am free to roam around the floor looking for things to lift, clean, straighten up, etc. I still get book duty, and I must say that the selection of books on display has vastly improved since my insistence that we stick to works published in the last half century. Oh...one more thing...the single greatest part of the Hope Thrift gig is dumpster duty. Thats when Renee or Brenda or Jennifer, (one of the incredible women in charge) asks me to roll the reject cart out to the dumpster and throw everything in. I can’t tell you how much fun it is...especially when the dumpster is empty. The sound of breaking glass, the sight of hideous knickknackery busting into a hundred pieces at the bottom of a filthy metal dumpster is quite a thrill!!

My wife, on the other hand, has a much more responsible and respected position at Hope Thrift. She is...a cashier. There are many reasons for this...her cheerful smile, perky demeanor, pretty face and gift with numbers. She also works much more often than I do, especially once her school year if over. I only work the second Saturday afternoon of each month. The team of Pam and Lynn Hewette are quite the pair behind the register. One blond, one brunette, two perky smiles...stacking Benjamins all day long!

So, tomorrow is my day to work. Can’t wait, actually. It’s a wonderful place to serve. Many of the people who come there are in desperate need of things that most of us take for granted. To see them find incredible deals on essential items is a great feeling. To have a chance to share the love of Christ with them is a bonus. If you’re reading this and have never been to Hope Thrift, tomorrow after 1 o’clock would be a great time to visit. I’ll be available to help you load your treasures into your car. If you happen to be a member at Hope and have never volunteered at the store...get off your backside and sign up already, you slug! (This is probably why I never get asked to be a cashier like that silver-tongued Tom Allen)

The Month of May

 May is my favorite month. It’s the month of new beginnings, that month that punctuates my life with reminders of the best things that have ever happened to me. In order, they are...

May 11...my daughter Kaitlin’s birthday.

May 19...my wedding anniversary

May 25...my son Patrick’s birthday

In more recent years, the end of May also brings to a close the busy season of my work. I have intentionally front loaded my calendar with appointments and reviews with clients, so that I can free up the summer months for Maine and other pursuits. This would have been impossible not that very long ago, but after 36 years on the job, perseverance has rewarded me a measure of freedom. God bless America!

However, the three great milestones of my life mentioned above are far more important than my job. They are what give meaning to my work. Those three dates on the calendar are the ones highlighted bright green in my planner.

This girl was born on May 11th. She made me a parent for the first time. She is irreplaceable, impossible to duplicate. It’s as if she grabbed every good and decent trait from both of her parents and never let go of them. Somehow, she was able to pass on our baser qualities, with the possible exception of her father’s ultra-competitiveness and her mother’s perfectionist streak. She is impossibly bright, a supremely gifted teacher, a loyal and devoted friend, and knows how to pick a husband. If I had fewer fingers, I could count her failings on one hand. At the moment I can only think of a couple...her inability to promptly reply to my texts, and her lack of appropriate enthusiasm for baseball.

This boy was born on May 25th. He was and is the son I had always wanted. Every time I get into a debate with him about politics, it occurs to me that he is, indeed, my boy. When he makes a better case than I do, I’m so proud of him I can hardly stand it. He has the sensitive, discerning heart of an artist, a natural musical gift that cannot be taught, and a blistering, sarcastic wit...my one lasting contribution to his DNA. His mother would probably say that his only fault is the fact that the lenses of his glasses are always filthy. I would probably add that he is also a world class mess, although his lovely wife is slowly breaking him of that affliction. 

Look at these two kids. Good Lord, how did anyone allow these babies to get married 35 years ago? I look like the guy who realizes that he just pulled off the greatest heist in history. Pam looks angelic, blissfully unaware of what she has gotten herself in to. Poor thing. Neither of us knew what we were doing. We had no clue how hard it would be, understood nothing of what being an adult meant. But, we were in love, my friend...and that was enough. The fact that we still are is the single greatest blessing of our lives. So, we will celebrate 35 years. Of course, the celebration will have to wait until some time in June because thats what our life is like these days!

May is the greatest month.

TRUMP 2020 Slogans...

By my count it has been over six weeks since I have had anything to say about politics here at The Tempest. The last time was when I wrote about the Jussie Smollett affair back in March. It’s not that there hasn’t been lots of political news out there, its just that I haven’t been able to rouse myself to offer an opinion. For one thing, other things have been more interesting to me lately, but honestly after the last two years or so...politics has just worn me out. I think this is probably true for most people. No matter your opinion about Trump, or whether you are Democrat or Republican, conservative or liberal...its been an exhausting time. Every day brings a fresh story that in normal times would have gotten a three inch, screaming, above the fold headline. But now, you stumble upon it on page 16 right across from the soybean prices in section C. Look at me...using newspaper metaphors. How quaint!

I have come to believe that there is an evil genius quality to Donald Trump. One way to overcome bad news is to change the subject, and nobody in the history of the White House has done a better job of changing the subject. He has a knack of flooding the zone with one outrageous Tweet after another so furiously that before you can even respond to one provocation, he has raced on to the next one, leaving his detractors in the dust of their outrage. There has been nothing like it in my lifetime. The pure volume of his comments is staggering. And if you don’t like something he says, hang on for a few hours and he’s likely to contradict himself by the end of the day. I have come to think that its all...intentional. It’s hard to hit a moving target, harder still to hit one that moves as erratically as one of those lottery ping pong balls.

Another thing about Trump that I have come to understand is that among his supporters, nothing he says or does seems to bother them. Their support for him is as unwavering as the tides...

Trump Stabs Visiting Diplomat With White House Letter Opener...

Approval Rating Holds at 50%...highest support found among evangelicals

So, one consequence of his unique style is that guys like me, who used to spend half of our time staring at the latest headline, mouth ajar, thinking, What the hell??...now just shrug our shoulders and mumble, Meh, it must be Tuesday. Donald Trump has managed to turn    the vice of unstable narcissism into a virtue. “Eccentric” and “volatile” are no longer character flaws in a President. A good friend of mine who is a big Trump supporter told me that he enjoys it when Trump “tells fibs” because it shows that he knows how to keep his enemies guessing. You just never know what the man is gonna say or do, my friend says, meaning it as high praise. This is usually followed with...He doesn’t take any s**t from anybody, also intended as a compliment. When unpredictability, telling “fibs”, and refusing to take s**t from people are desirable traits, then its hard to imagine Trump doing anything which might cost him my friend’s support. Multiply my friend by 45 million, and you have the most solid base of support in the history of American politics.

Maybe the man gets impeached. Maybe he gets re-elected. Hard to tell...you just never know what the man is gonna say or do. Come to think of it, that might be the perfect slogan for his re-election campaign...TRUMP 2020...No Clue What He Might Say or Do. Or maybe this...TRUMP 2020...Like My First Term?...Hold My Diet Coke.

God Bless Good Friends

The Dunnevants had a very social week. We hosted two groups of friends for dinner, and babysat my grand niece for a day. The house has been eerily clean all week. The dishwasher has been taxed heavily. Our local grocery store now has us on their Christmas card list. But now, with the arrival of the weekend it’s all over. We have nothing on our social calendar for the next couple of weeks...and it feels good. But all of this socializing has me waxing philosophical about the need we humans have for good friends.

If someone were to ask me what the key ingredients are for a good life, I would probably say things like...family, faith, good health, and a job you enjoy. Don’t misunderstand...all of these things are important. But what about good friends? How crucial are they?

Every human being develops over time a personal guidance system which helps them identify dangers and avoid them. This guidance system is built slowly over your lifetime. All kinds of things contribute to the construction of this GS...your genetics, your environment, education and experience are big contributors. But, this GS doesn’t just help you identify the dangers in life, it also helps you spot the opportunities and equips you to discern an opportunity from a scam. The trouble is, nobody’s GS is foolproof...because we are all susceptible to error. That’s where good friends with good judgement come in.

If you are lucky enough to have a large and supportive family, you’ve got at least half of life licked. For me, this is particularly true. I have a wise and thoughtful wife, smart and discerning siblings. When my parents were alive, they were towers of common sense. Now, my two grown kids have turned out to be surprising sources of sharp insight. So, I am extraordinarily fortunate in this regard. But, even I need wise council from outside my family from time to time.

Now, every friend, even every close friend, isn’t always a reliable advisor...

ME: I think I’m going to take a second mortgage out on my house and buy that Bentley I’ve had my eye on.

FRIEND #1: Go for it, man! You only live once. Seize the day is what I say!

FRIEND #2: Wait..what? Are you freaking nuts?!

In this example, friend #1 is probably a lot more fun to hang with. He’s also the guy most likely to call you in the middle of the night to ask if he can crash at your place since his wife just threw him out of the house. Friend #2 however, has probably earned the right to get in your grill about this hair brain Bentley scheme, because he’s known you long enough to understand your weaknesses. He remembers the time you almost quit your job to pursue becoming a full-time poet. He was the one who slapped you across the face and reminded you that the last time an American made a decent living writing poetry it was Walt Whitman...but poor old Walt never made beans until he had been dead fifty years.

Sure, these are extreme examples, but you get it, don’t you? Each of us have friends like #1 and #2 above. And, thank God for both of them.

So, on a week where we have been surrounded by them, a tribute to dear friends seems in order. They are the people that enrich our lives by their existence. They are the people who laugh with us, celebrate with us, pray with us and cry with us in equal measure. They are the ones who are happy for us when we succeed, not resentful. They are the ones who are crushed by the things that crush us. They are the ones who in the midst of the worse times in life can be counted on to be there with their sleeves rolled up doing what needs to be done, without even asking...because they didn’t need to ask...they just knew.

God Bless good friends.

Lucy and Evelyn

Lucy has a new best buddy.

Yesterday, Pam kept Evelyn for the day. For those of you who haven’t met Evelyn, she is the beautiful little red-headed daughter of my niece, Christina Garland. Chrissy had some sort of daycare issue this week so the family helped fill in the gaps for her. Yesterday was Pam’s turn. Of course, Pam being Pam, the day was filled with learning activities and fun projects. Essentially, like a day at one of those expensive private pre-schools only this one was actually great fun. What nobody counted on was Lucy and Evelyn becoming...a thing.

It was surprising because Lucy hasn’t spent a lot of time around children. Our previous Golden, Molly (The World’s Greatest Dog)...grew up around kids, hundreds of them. Our house was constantly being overrun with teenagers during Molly’s time so she developed a love of them quite early. It resulted in a level of patience that seemed supernatural, and caused her to be willing to suffer practically any humiliation as long as it made everyone happy...

Lucy, on the other hand has lived a more isolated life. But yesterday, from the beginning—after the introductory excitement wore off—Lucy and Evelyn hit it off tremendously...

When I got home from work, I went upstairs to my dependable recliner, only to find that my reclining room had been commandeered and repurposed...

In other words, my house had magically been transported back in time, looking exactly as it did 25 years ago when my own kids would sprawl out on the floor with all manner of toys, lost in their make believe world. Of course that meant that the house always looked like a bomb had just gone off...but it was a glorious mess. Good Lord in heaven, I cannot wait for a grandchild...

My Daughter’s Moment

I must begin this post by stating the fact that I am generally not favorably inclined to the concept of going on strike for something. The entire concept flies in the face of one of my bedrock beliefs...ie, that you don’t get ahead in life...by demand...you get ahead in life ...by performance. But, life is all about the exceptions, isn’t it? Very few hard and fast rules hold up in every case, there are always exceptions. In my 40 year association, by proxy, with this nation’s public education system—being married to, sibling of and father of public school teachers, I have come to the conclusion that no tool, no matter how blunt, should be denied anyone unlucky enough to be employed as a teacher. Especially, if you are employed in South Carolina.

I will not regale you with all of the details of the issue. Suffice it to say that when your state ranks at or near the bottom of practically every measurable educational outcome that exists, there are truckloads of blame to go around. South Carolina education is a hot mess. So much so that a couple of weeks ago, my daughter shared with me about a decision she was trying to make with regards to a planned teacher walkout planned for today, May the 1st. Her conundrum was that while she too was fed up with the incompetence of leadership and the ignorance of politicians, not to mention the deplorable conditions under which she is asked to teach...she also dearly loved her students and had a great admiration and respect for her Principal. The thought of abandoning her students bothered her. The terrible inconvenience  and disruption this walkout would cause made her feel badly for her Principal...since nonbe of her problems were his fault. 

To make a long story short, my daughter sent him an amazing e-mail, explaining her decision to participate in the walkout. It was full of respect for him, gratitude for his support, and offered her help in fashioning a solution to what would be the distruptions of the day. In other words, it was the perfect way to have a disagreement with a superior. Be part of the solution, not part of the problem. His reply to her was equally gracious and respectful. An amazing corrrespondance that had me shaking my head...Why can’t our elected politicians disagree like this? 

So, today is the big day. Kaitlin, along with scores of other teachers from around the state are marching on the state capital. Let me allow my daughter to explain. This, from her Facebook post of this morning...

My school adopted a character education curriculum recently. This month, we’ve asked students to identify their core values, to assess how well their actions align with those values, and to live a life of courageous integrity. The morning News Show today ended with these words of wisdom: “If you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for everything.”

Today, I told each of my classes that I’d be marching to the State House tomorrow to stand up for what I believe in . . . and what I believe in is THEM. 

They — my students — deserve smaller class sizes; access to more mental health professionals and programs; safe, calm learning environments; and the freedom to LEARN, uninterrupted by excessive testing. My students deserve teachers who are fairly compensated, supported, and treated with respect: teachers who want to stick around. My students deserve to live in a culture that views education as an honorable and competitive profession.

What do I stand for? I stand for my 12 and 13-year-olds, who deserve infinitely more than a “minimally adequate” education.

#alloutmay1 #scfored ❤️💪🏻

This, from a teacher who has won every award for outstanding performance it is possible to win as a school teacher. This, from someone who loves teaching, loves learning, and loves her students. But what she doesn’t love are gutless and incompetent politicians and administrators who pile one ridiculous demand after another on top of her each and every year with no regard for how any of it will affect her students, or her own ability to do her job. 

So...she is walking out today. 

Kaitlin Elizabeth Manchester is a hero.